Three Poems From AJ Kaufmann

Bridges

the far-eastern bridge of oil in orange
god-like
flows into the western bridge of sanity
blue-spotted gentle
crossing madly
the delirious bridge of yesteryear's passions
flavours
ornaments
street specimens
delicate voices of amber
death-angels
frozen in benevolent ashes
praying over restless bridges of amaranth
echoes
filled w/ jumpers & trombone masters
dildoed whores panicked
of the frequently damaged
White Corners
where poetry's jazz and jazz's poetry
neitherway
and anyone chooses trumpets of fervor...

blow!

bridges are
what bridges see
& what can we make of 'em
with diamond-hands
and hair of gasoline
burning
fanatic circles of flat notes
perfect

have I just heard the Blue Kantata
orchestrated
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

Debasement

Oh the sweet art of debasement:

to breathe the very same air

cockroaches inhale

& to sleep w/ their

decadence debris

under roaring

refrigerator's

heaven...

to lie under Eiffel Tower

& any parisian sidewalk I'll find

effective

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

sunrays

and everyrays

between

for her harvest moon pleasure

where words are but ornaments

for

penetrating spirits

to crystallize the draperies of nite

saxes

wailing dead dramatists hoaxes

post meridian...

or to hear once again

the marked young man's confessions

send-up

sending you up and sending me down

shade-toxic bluntness:

must learn the fine art of debasement

to become

angels

not meat&bone&gut bags

or madmen dancing w/ fireworks

straw-men

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
word-riddlers
martini drinkers
book-swallowers, sword-shapers
albino deconstructors

we, the sunlight over Monte Alban
in a greener kind of blue
than
ever by human imagined...
ghosts of the miners on turntable
patios
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.