AT THE OLD TAVERN

The tavern not far distant,
to what purpose?
like a sponge you are
taverns soak up
but never get drunk,
saddened by what of nighttime left
in the drunken’ s cups—brimming, kept.
Why did they forsake it?
Were they lovers, overtaken by slumber?
Strangers, exhausted of this world—
that delays death, the rest hinders?

Fondling a—chair, moth-eaten,
touching a chill—ditched by a woman,
still seeking warmth—after.
Had you arrived a moment sooner,
could’ve her desire;
hidden—kept,
in your historic—sweater,
and into her icy lungs you whisper:
“My lady, does the cold kill you?
It is half-warmth that kills me,
the half-stance; goes even further.

My lady;
prostitutes, like you, we all are,
dolor fornicates with us;
False intellect starts right after;
False religion,
silence—false,
And the poems,
and even the blood forged;
in the eulogy grey of color,
Here’s to thee; my lady.
Nothing have you sold—
but the flesh; mortal,
for the earthly greens, dry, conscious, morals;
auctioned by someone;
and defending every cause on Earth,
but his own deserted;

I will piss on him and get drunk,
Then piss on him and get drunk,
Then you’ll piss on him, and we get drunk.

The tavern with a generation—
unknown to thee is filled up;
with a language unfamiliar,
Two ladies weaving a dark tale,
And gazing at you all the eyes are
As if thee of a cave were a dweller,
out—came crawling on all four.
And you close your lids with a nod
On a time long gone; of friends—
by which the tavern full was;
Of nobility and the ethics of;
how on wine to get drunk.

More than crystal glasses
did they shone from;
when the night had stretched on.
Subside you in a corner;
Where neglect nesting up front,
Only the booze after the first cup
takes good care of you,
out of the frost warming your legs
Reviving thy nose to snuff
of a woman; at the inn’s far end—
what of her dress shattered;
a fragrance charming—more than her thighs; graceful.

Behind the dress,
You sense a hiss; white cymbals,
begin to hallucinate; your trousers!
You strain to remember—
Where had you met the first of breasts;
a pair; pride—full?!
Where were you mannered in drinking—
and had thy first cup?!

Thence began composing;
The jurisprudence—of—the breast,
thy interpretations free spun; unhindered,
hoping that a woman takes your head;
of what—of buzzing, ringing, it suffers.
A tear in her dress; at the thighs,
to the hip seeks out,
to mend it; Ah, she bends over,
unfolding before thee comes the universe,
and you see the violet between the breasts,
where apples had labored,
Pomegranates cried out,
whence bloomed the godly orchards.

Your head twaddle in your hands;
about something that hurts;
like the buzzing of silence; painful,
in delirium partake the silence;
into every bottle of life—empty;
you gaze.

The lights the waiter had put out—
several times over,
a signal: time has come to take off.
“This cup, O waiter”—
then out of the bewitched tavern
I seek departure,
onto anger you—don’t come;
drunk is the here lover.

Fill it—let it spill on the brown wood,
know you—what this painting’s for? Wine,
another for coffins,
to advertise is the other…
Let it overflow, clear—cut,
my lord!

For I leave not your grand tavern
except extinguished, drunk.
The smallest thing in creation—
a firewater; brings me out of my skull—
imagine what Man does!
Glory be to thee!

I’ve accepted everything—
but humiliation,
Except my heart—caged
in the tyrant’s house,
and my share in life; I’ve welcomed
like what the birds got.
But O lord,
even birds have homelands—
to which in time, return.
But I—flying still; aloft hung,
for the land stretches from sea to sea,
saw nothing but prisons,
and the people; jailer neighboring jailer.