In the
end you are weary of this ancient world
-Guillaume
Apollinaire
In the world you are ancient of this weary end
Hypocrisy in the place of the church etcetera
Hypocrisy at the source of the light
And troubles where the French people laugh-
Now there are bombs exploding over the little houses
where we keep the little pictures of the bombs
And I am waving my arms over the residence of God
And little words are peeping from my throat
And now that I have in a place where I have not
Where the parent-types have made their last incision
Just above the lower thigh
In the region of the human form which is kept on transparent acetate
I can see where the pictures are at
Where they keep the awful hearts
Where the several towers are standing with eyes
And a radioactive audience stares beyond a stage
And into the heart of a troubled player
Who is beating time on an old book
Where the newspapers stare back like a gristmill
And the blood itself will not spread out
Like ink across a pile of burning rags
Or like a telephone pole which has ceased to look inward
Because that inward grayness has a grace
Which is unlike a fist crushing a pear
Or unlike my punchy hand winding a missive
Made of plastic, lurching hard, this long
Novitiate century of the pupil it is not twenty
Years, where mothers are gathering plates
Around a beachhead soft pulse swoon a round
Valve, which a hand surrounds
And the sand is blowing into the city
It would be murder to halt
It would be murder to halt
Those hearts which burr and hump to recite
His favorite form which is a form--favoritism
A flesh colored pot or a flash-in-the-pan
I hate you last little grain of sand
Who sent quality to continue on the deserts
I heard you whispering I wish it would end
I wish that the bargain would just seal itself
Into a vault
Hidden by time
Where the assumption of man is a nail
Teeth are gnashing far beyond the city limits
Where the driest wood splits just in two
And the arm raises stamping out a cigarette
-I dare you club a rubber mallet the smoke
Rises, clearing the sky-
And the fires are a game we could have played
With buildings which are a form of fire
You would have liked it here Apollinaire
The fire is filling up with air-
We will meet with our wet slithered canes
And our two suits we've worn the backs out of
From the hummingbird comes little America
He is mostly in the way
Paris will take a mess hall in the night
And the Parisians will make a mess of it!
Their towers buck and sway in the wind
The hard-hats are tired of setting them straight
And to say the morning bridges or in the morning the bridges
Or in the whole system of moving bridges on mornings
Unassuming the afternoon
We wake up with our silk coats drawn against the cold
With our two top hats which are springing
Like the balls in a game of four-square
"You are
getting hit by cadillacs on the oldest street"
A ribbon for your lock of hair
You will braid on the oldest street which is not in Paris
But which is still called the Champs-Elysées
And though I am only five years old
Driving in a five-year old car I made
I kind of like it here short
Dangerous-
I can make accidents driving
Down a street I named driving
Right through the center of the avant-garde
Where you can say almost anything you want
And watch the turkey-necks waggle
it is so satisfying
To hear "harrumph" echo
through my tiniest rooms
Which look exactly like the antechamber I am constantly entering-
Women you walk today Paris is blood red
There will be no more on the goodness of them
There will be no more on anyone anywhere this thing
Sears into the faces of gaping crowds
And makes a little flower in the little wound there
Which droops anxiously like a sullen head
The world is everywhere making private gasses
And the televisions are on
Except today the man with two hooks
Standing in for what ought to be his spine
Who jerks and shakes on a line
Which is light, which is moon, which is bright-
Red, as his face is-
Who comes from the dullest parts of the swamp
where the deep bubbles are bursting into song
While the dragonflies shake shimmering
out of their skins
He who violently,
Gently
Smiles and
takes pictures-
That person is me
And though he is funny
He is dead
Because the people of France are dead
"On the stage of most gracious pirating-
For they have lost a King
And thus fail to entertain-"
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