martes, mayo 13, 2008

Three Poems From AJ Kaufmann


the far-eastern bridge of oil in orange
flows into the western bridge of sanity
blue-spotted gentle
crossing madly
the delirious bridge of yesteryear's passions
street specimens
delicate voices of amber
frozen in benevolent ashes
praying over restless bridges of amaranth
filled w/ jumpers & trombone masters
dildoed whores panicked
of the frequently damaged
White Corners
where poetry's jazz and jazz's poetry
and anyone chooses trumpets of fervor...
bridges are
what bridges see
& what can we make of 'em
with diamond-hands
and hair of gasoline
fanatic circles of flat notes
have I just heard the Blue Kantata
or was it just a vacant point
in the sweet time-ravaged
Hollywoods of glory...
it's all so jimdandy
dear Gina of honour...
and now
we're hitting
La Paz


Oh the sweet art of debasement:
to breathe the very same air
cockroaches inhale
& to sleep w/ their
decadence debris
under roaring

to lie under Eiffel Tower
& any parisian sidewalk I'll find
to radiate
with Madame Bleu
and her boys of reddening twilights:
the pursuer of noir city magic...

to throw my guts into the coin-box
spiting out verses at random
faceless landscapes throwing moons and
and everyrays
for her harvest moon pleasure
where words are but ornaments
penetrating spirits

to crystallize the draperies of nite
wailing dead dramatists hoaxes
post meridian...

or to hear once again
the marked young man's confessions

sending you up and sending me down
shade-toxic bluntness:
must learn the fine art of debasement
to become
not meat&bone&gut bags
or madmen dancing w/ fireworks
with eyes wild on
panic buttons...

to find an escape
from escaping...

Ghosts of the miners

we, the Solar System renegades
we, the underpaid dogs of shark's fin soup
we, the in-crowd connoisseurs of awareness
we, the undemanding notes on chimney tops
writing in smoke
and water only
for fire is too hot to witness
and smoke can resist them all...
we, who come on patchy wings
of hyenas
piranha sailors on dead feet
like sculptures...
living on air and cat food promises
in the morning
we, the holders of hollow fibre ghosts
we, the white Indian partisans
of rhythm...
we, the narcissistic haters of
nihilistic manners
ambassadors of well-mannered old-fashioned
martini drinkers
book-swallowers, sword-shapers
albino deconstructors
we, the sunlight over Monte Alban
in a greener kind of blue
ever by human imagined...
ghosts of the miners on turntable
black velvet verandas
the day watch of deadly compromises...
we, the syllabic punch bowls
empty taxis at 3am
we, the drinker inside

AJ Kaufmann was born in June, 1985 in Poznan, Poland – the capital of Wielkopolska. After graduating from local high school in 2004, he traveled to Berlin in search of inspiration, then studied Polish and English philology at Poznan's universities before dropping out to start various bands. Mr Kaufmann draws his current inspiration from primal poetry, magic, free-verse, Sartre, ghost poetry, surrealism and shamanism. He writes in English.

lunes, mayo 12, 2008

Robert Rauschenberg

22 October 1925 - 12 May 2008