time for a poem again

Climbing Everest
by Fred Seidel

The young keep getting younger, but the old keep getting younger.
But this young woman is young. We kiss.
It's almost incest when it gets to this.
This is the consensual, national, metrosexual hunger-for-younger.

I'm getting young.
I'm totally strapping on the belt of dynamite
Which will turn me into light.
God is great! I suck Her tongue.

I mean - my sunbursts, and there are cloudbursts.
My dynamite penis
Is totally into Venus.
My penis in Venus hungers and thirsts,

It burns and drowns.
My dynamite penis
Is into Venus.
The Atlantic off Sagaponack is freezing black today and frowns.

I enter the jellyfish folds
Of floating fire.
The mania in her labia can inspire
Extraordinary phenomena and really does cure colds.

It holds the Tower of Pisa above the freezing black waves.
The mania is why
I mention I am easily old enough to die,
And actually it's the mania that saves

The Tower from falling over.
Climbing Everest is the miracle - which leaves the descent
And reporting to the world from an oxygen tent
In a soft pasture of cows and clover.

Happening girls parade around my hospice bed.
The tented canopy means I am in the rue de Seine in Paris.
It will embarrass
Me in Paris to be dead.

It's Polonius embarrassed behind the arras,
And the arras turning red.
Hamlet has outed Polonius and Sir Edmund Hillary will wed
Ophelia in Paris.

Give me Everest or give me death.
Give me altitude with attitude.
But I am naked and nude.
I am constantly out of breath.

A naked woman my age is just a total nightmare,
But right now one is coming through the door
With a mop, to mop up the cow flops on the floor.
She kisses the train wreck in the tent and combs his white hair.

from Ooga-Booga

pause

I smell a lack of an ombituary

On the dry

Darkened tea. Stationary fans. An inability to read. No overture for any dancer. Unlike the result of expeditionary conquests, cognac does not procure you space. A borrowed steam iron becomes my navigational calculator, while looking down, unearthing threads, of new and old shirts. The city, drowned, reconfigures the urban as what transfigures nature to urge, and not what get's transfigured by nature's urges.

"Nai, tjiai efkalan tjiai fwthkies, fwthkies"

Not fare well, but fare forward

J. PHILIPPOU †

'Awww!'

40 years from Jack's hemorhage I recollect the June parket of pages freshly cut, the photos of fear in white Ytong rooms, the dust on paperbacks, highlighted paragraphs, coffee in February, crashed Colt tins, frozen curls.
Not much else.

Anathema to them M&S button-downs!

Photo via falies