November 3, 2012

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  Mother Marymilk

   

  His middle is heaving-sick Mother Marymilk

  Listening to this hantle-pack on hill G8

  As fourteen faces ashes-splashed

  Swim at him in this spinning abyss

   

  Hear their brassy baby minus his brass

  So the slants won't know him out there Mother Marymilk

  Hear him spit logistics and they all nod and make some sounds

  They know the bit

  As this fuzz-face eager-to-kill-them-all kid louie

  Hawks out his azimuths with colored pins

   

  Perimeter he says

  He says it easy because he doesn't really know yet

  And they nod and make some sounds

  But down inside it hits shock-terror deep

  And burrow-burns the brain

  And slips the stomach from each one of them

   

  Perimeter he says because he really doesn't know yet

  That it's a finish-line harshed by sullen soil

  Bleeding the guts and sap of bodies slagged to it

  By the yellow grinners' dum-dums

  A finish-line to be littered later by mattress-cover coffins

   

  Help him please help him sweet Mother Marymilk

  Help him because he's blood-bawling and gut-crying deep inside

  Help him because this time the mail might muck him too

  Face-down and ripped

  And maggot-heads would stick from out of him

  And find grub-crawling tough in this dry-blood-blasted wretch

  Of Rembrandt's ox-hough quat of him dog-tagged up the teeth

  So the ghouls would know this slag-slob in his plash of blood

  When they come grubbing in the dawning

   

  And the ones who sent him here Mother Marymilk

  The ones with good-bye kiss-wish-kisses

  Can hang their satin window stars and cry

   

   

   

  But if they looked back not so long ago my Mother

  They would have found him sweating in the Frisco hooker's bed

  Not knowing not knowing not knowing why

  He drives into her driving driving

  And she just grits her rotted teeth - The mouth

  That ‘honey's’ him as silently spits out her sadness

  And pity for him oozes from her middle and juices up her sheet

  Another five-buck stain

   

  And through her dampened hair he sees the frosted god-light

  Flat-flick her desolate wall fighting the Bodega neon

   

  The god-light is losing Mother Marymilk

  His light! - Christ not she!

  Does she believe too?

   

  But why does the light suddenly shine more brightly now?

   

  Look again - and God He lithographs his smile

  You You he says - look at You my little lost son

  Drunk and trying to be big man

  You drive into my little daughter You hurt her

  Hurt her till she's raw

  Her rotted ovaries convulse with every thrust

  And when it's over go retch into her toilet bowl

  And flush Your trojaned guts down to the sea and out

  Out along the level of a sick night street

  Where shafts of sunken lights hunt the darkness

  Like gone strangers hopped on horse

  Out where the blood levels in the split of sidewalk

  Just before Your eye as you drunkenly pass out

  And die once more

   

   

   

  Is this that same child sweet Mother Marymilk

  Lying here in this bloody plash

  Who one evening came to your park

  St Mary’s Park South Bronx

  And walked up the path of your park

  To the hill in the middle of it

  And climbed the hill

  And looked out over the world's gathering darkness

  And slowly the Blue Batman descending upon it

  Drew up his cloak about it and stilled it?

   

  You know my Mother

  It came to remember a kite

  A kite cross-pieced and blowing color rose-red

  With yellow frail-tail

  Just like jungle-birds in books it wants to move

  And now how easy-freed into a sun-wind

  It snaps to the catch-breeze and up it flaps

  Like a sparrow on its maiden hop

   

  O how that kite plays the air

  Like a cutter plays the sea

  It bounces along its currents and circles about its temples

  Like a gannet in heat

   

  Cutting cutting

  It cleaves the whole sky up and slides along its edges

  Up down and over its singing orbit

  A fleet insect fret-making multi-sects a lily-pond sky

   

  Sweet Mother Marymilk

  Why couldn't it have stayed a lovely fragile kite-bird

  Loose and sailing ovate seas of heaven

  Through merry summers into innocence forever?

   

  Why did it have to burst itself aloft

  And now a wild and flaming seraphim

  It smashes down upon the kinder-quieten

  Sudden-vengeful and Barrabas-bent

  Now it grotesques the caravansary of sky

  A bloody musselin spurred on by Mumbo-Jumbos Mummers

  Now it pursues the screaming child

  Across the broken rock of Molino's mote-hill

  And o that execrated child - its omphalos slipped

  Blinded and reeling across the simmering earth

  Stumbles falls and is convulsed

  As the maddened kite-shaft stiles it through

  Stilletoing its frailty

   

   

  Sprawl crucified child stigma-stiled

  Among the maiden-hairs turned to be widow-wails

  Torn by vindictive vanity of wind

  Shrip-shripping the cross-pieced paper radiance till it is bare

  A stiller world of kite cross-formed still pulsing in the wound

  It sends its shadow slowly over the sudden-shadowed land

  An earthened greyness lowering relief torpid in its stupor

   

  Peal now spirit-bell

  Peal now soul-bell

  Passing-bell peal your mournful requiem

   

  For what if the tender dike is sprung my Mother Marymilk?

  What if the gentle rain you sob for your beloved crucified

  These tears which float it from its hilltop agony

  Ruptured in its cocoon

  Weary of its infinite memory?

   

  What if the child becomes man?

   

  Its blessedness made sound and fury

  Its grace candled to an intolerant glare

  Reborn again

  Reborn to desecrate its kinder-dream

  Reborn and furious now it is lost to itself

  Lost to you my Mother Marymilk

  Lost to the whole of God's world

  Lost and looking back

  Up through its spinning abyss

  Up through its choanoid loneliness

   

   

  And now

  Low

  Bleak

  Hollow-helled hollow-burned

  Down into its center dream it falls

  Not to the right - not to the left where it is easy

  But where napalm follies the wall-about

  And anguish rails and rails

   

  Now you say to him Mother Marymilk

  Now you say to him

  Now you must know me not easy but hard

  Love me you say to him 

  Love me not the soft and easy way most do

  But as you found me in the harlot's mouth-spit

  And the grinner-gunners' sights

  As you found me in the maggot-heads which spurt the wound

  And the sidewalk blood spilled from your eye

  So you will not find me in the easy church

  Where my transient lovers sing a little love

  And then go out into the real and cut each other's gut

  Only here you will find me

  Where fear festers in this watery-eyed swamp

  Of your anonymous brassman minus his brass

  Only here you will find me

  Perimetered within his azimuths of death

   

   

   

  Waiting now in this gouged and muddy earth-slit

  You hold him close soft Mother

  As the 105's finally open up

  And he hears the sibilant sound of shells swooshing above

   

  Trees suddenly disappear from the face of the opposite hill

  And the brassman blows his nightingale whistle

  Nightingales in Flippoland? … the crazy bastard

   

   

   

  The frightening lowlight of a seeping dawn

  Spawns lissome palms that shadow the edge of his lobelin world

  As he utters his self-taught liturgy

  Clutching the philacto around his neck

  With splinters from your Son’s Agony my Mother sewn inside

  A liturgy perhaps echoed by ghostly paracletes

  Marching across palaces of plains below

   

  As skymass deepens aureate in rainment of this radiant Lady-Eve*

  Sweet Mother Marymilk... In these next few moments...

  Please whisper to him...

  Please let him know...

   

  Will he make it my Mother Marymilk…?

  Will he make it…?

  This is your night of nights my Mother

  You must whisper to him… You must let him know…

  There’s no more time left…

  Will he make it...?

   

  O God…

  Mother… Mother…

  Mamma… Mamma… Mamma…

   

  MAMMA!!!

   

   

   

  *March 25^th - Medieval celebration of Christ’s conception

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  • 11:07 am
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