breaking fingers

leper in a paper jacket
watching for rain: illinois,
transparent a perfume of hours
an epoxy of belief
the author is a codifier
choked his chicken categorically
his women, collared, black satin
lace anagrams—
all a conceptual migraine
re-establishing all my poses
no matter the fingers I break

sunday on televison
tarzan and his drums
tuesday it's village of the damned
golden child's eyes giving death
for otherwise valentines
these successes bartering
years of dying
the chamber closes
her teenage lips are wet with fancy
anyone is anyone's lover, possibly,
or enemy, at least
walpurgis is past
Marley is dead

At the time, 1980, Marley referred to Bob Marley, who died in his early thirties froma brain tumor. Looking back at this life I can see, clearly, that there is a reference to Marley, Scrooge's partner, here. I played that part on stage in the early 90s. "In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley." I did it in Boris Karloff's voice and it was uber successful. But, here, it is Bob Marley's early death that is the surface concern. The movies noted are of course Johnny Weismuller's Tarzan, and the Village of the Damned is indeed a Brit sci fi with golden haired alien children who's eyes light with with laser death. George Sanders is remarkable in this kind of cheesy movie. Later he committed suicide, leaving a note that said, essentially, "I'm bored." A good enough reason, I suppose.

I know recognize Walpurgis Night as Beltane, the great Celtic feast. That night the fires would be lit, the liquors consumed and anyone could fuck anyone in the darkness and the children born of such unions were called Merry-made. And were legitimate. This was, obviously, a way to deal with the smaller gene pools of the english countryside, after having wars had given way to mere political fighting. Without rape and pillage, the odds of genetic problems rise dramatically in small populations. But not if you whirl the gene pool once a year, allowing anybody to be with anybody. No need for that now; modern medicine can head off the kind of dark productions inbreediing brings to the race. With the exceptions of rich twits like George W. Bush, of course.

What does this poem mean? Something about figuring out how sexuality was fucking up my life and its meaning? Or creating my life and its meaning. Yes, I have many interesting fetishes. What can I say? Catholic upbringing. Wide ranging reading as a child. The Richard Burton book, the Jewel in the Lotus. Never mind.