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Wrulf Gunkl-Vonglashaus Poem
(for The Beloved and in honor of Arthur Rimbaud)
… the magnolias are far away – still, I sing, begging
them for bridges to
brood with stanzas of butterflies
in the suffocation around and
heat mocking the sea where once we walked the shore
beneath the cruel commas of hawks
showering seraphimic curses,
pink roses upon storms
flung upward from spotted, inverted baskets, northern Iranian
mountains
aching
praying
wandering
the cavern between the olive-minuet of your eyes and
mine absconding their color from above and knitted by
anguished waves stumbling, floundering
into lunar mercury,
the slant of scouring rain
throwing blue into our faces
in cadences
dribbling from
lemons and leaves of tea, strong with riots
of black peppers hurting our tongues
along the central street
of our knowing, speaking
silence
without riddles
yet wrapped about our shoulders
with brazen mysteries hovering above
the staring magnolias
which now have crowded in...
… though I still sing
and always will...
… of you...
Copyright © Wrulf Gunkl-Vonglashaus | Year Posted 2010
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Wrulf Gunkl-Vonglashaus Poem
for The Beloved, a night at Nedjima Bar (Ankara, Turkey)
… hypnosis shattered by atomic jiggling, salivation of song on your brow,
channeled chaos of body, spastic sound, tantrum of dark delight, unbuttoned vibrations and stuttering thunder of slap-happy bass thumping the roots of “sweet home chicago”,
you and I beard-to-beard, the pomegranate purple of your breath singeing my whiskers with
notes insanely bent in the blush of your voodoo blood
and throbbing with “go, johnny, go”,
johnny be bad in prickly heat needling a conflagration consuming my pores,
revival of beat-howling preacher on knees of confession in harmonica valley,
drumsticks masturbating the crazy, crazed hymen of rhythm ravishing
sin and redemption in our eyes testing the high-wire between us, fluttering,
fanning the flame, tongue-flailing the invocation:
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, do you have your dancing shoes,
are you ready for some blues flames, some rock ‘n roll rantin’,
Do you like dogs?
You see, the boys in the band are going to let the dogs out,
all the dogs, all the way out and it’s going to get scorching hot in here because
hallelujah, amen and great balls of fire!”
here is your raving medicine-man
screaming joy through the microphone,
alley-catwallering yowl uprooting our chakras
along the silken storm of strings
strutting, spitting, rattling snake-eyes of resonance along “route sixty-six” curving
around our shoulders in the “t-bone shuffle” of your right shoe, my left one,
black, red, “blue suede shoes” and “well, it’s one for the money, two for the show”
neural earthquake, volcanic sermon shakin’, blessin’ and cursin’
down on “mustang sally”
“uh-huh, uh-huh
guess you better slow your Mustang down ’cause you been runnin’ all over town”
lawd, “guess I have to put your flat feet on the groun’,”
uh-huh, uh-huh
“mustang sally” docidoing with “caledonia” mocking yo’ momma, teasing yo’ daddy
and tell ‘em I’m comin’ ’cause your name’s caledonia dripping with “sweet alabama”,
sulphuric scripture, reprobate weeping sugar, third eye of beer and limbo games under my scarf
shouting, laughing, you at one end, me tracing the vale of “sad, so, sad”
’cause “I got a woman way over town”
got a, got a woman way over, way over town,
(continued in Part 2)
Copyright © Wrulf Gunkl-Vonglashaus | Year Posted 2011
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Wrulf Gunkl-Vonglashaus Poem
Heat waves cavort around your face
transforming it before my eyes
watching in fertile silence...
... through faceless days of scorching torture reeling
into darkness, ballet of countless veils - subtle need, vibrant with passion of
the soil,
and not waiting for dawn
a rooster is a muezzin crowing wordless prayer,
With their humming, plainsong tires, taxis thread the night
and leaves are strumming, plucking off-pitch wails
from air-guitars of searing depths unknown
while you are transformed - within me - though I know not
how,
nor do you, nor do the taxis, leaves, the rooster, the guitars...
... the musky breath of living pirouettes darkly through your hair...
Copyright © Wrulf Gunkl-Vonglashaus | Year Posted 2011
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Wrulf Gunkl-Vonglashaus Poem
(Manifesto)
VIII … stop! - Skid! - Shift knobs, slide gears, vomit numbness, fondle!… the music of
guillotines!…
VII … unmannered retching! since everything is a percentage of death in motel prayer-nights
separated from unholy echoes and junkyard dogs yapping the insanity by disdain mating
hysterical drools with refried rectitude, masticating giggling shame: “That dog, there, lifting a
leg, there, back-alley sodomy of wetness in air – Hush, mentioned for headstones only”
strewn among graveyards, sweet-jeezus jukeboxes purple-trumpeting along the borders of
Their juice: “Yes, Holy! Holy! Holy!” screaming down the Holy Ghost and Fire in prayer-
gutters backbiting along time of choicely chosen madonnas weeping children dear-jeezus-
glittering through open legs into angst, screaming tilted jigsaw puzzle pizza-glitzy jive for
crumbling bridges back and forth between us and wrinkles of self-righteously disgusted
divinity…
VI … bloodcurse-running!
V … in dark rain! Red Sea deluges of body burning with love or shame-delight while
lightnings flash through babies’ mouths giggling thunder rattling screaming jigsaw puzzle
dripping into gelled pots of leftover Judgement “Not here, not there, not any nor every when
or now!” “Jilt the proper puke! Go with pyromania! Torch the Dogma State! – the pimps of
puppy pimple-love!” who juggle governed durges of rote, “Save the children!” - lapdogs
yipping the absurd reprobation of cloned devotion drowning unwashed questions, non-visa
versa versus vice: “Dead business liturgy!…
IV … confessing in whimpers while love returns unwashed by tears of joy with eyes unwept
and blank - chameleon colors change with choice of sins - the tilt, undropped shoe, The Word
beyond all words waiting in the hush of The Timeless Whisper, the sighing , yet, of a stinging
sweetness: blushing dawn draped like a Bridal Veil! Hear it, touch the deep Hymnal-Wraith
when the darkness yawns and Gypsy-Sun slips mirthy skyward with giggle of wind in birth -
stallions chasing mares, babies playing the alleys of apple-cider autumn, Soon, amethyst-
glittter of dusk and Gypsy-Sun kiosk-safe beyond; moon, then, perhaps, and lovers’
juxtaposition before rooster-purple dawn with All contained in all,
III … and the why of how, when and where, the where of how, when and why… all we, here,
in roads, fields, cradles, in streets…
II … the rain! - the dark rain!…
I … ascending silence like cathedral-chills of tomb up spine…
O… oh sweet, snorting jeezus…
Copyright © Wrulf Gunkl-Vonglashaus | Year Posted 2010
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Wrulf Gunkl-Vonglashaus Poem
(There's a thirteenth 'zodiacal' constellation, Ophiucus, The Serpent Wrestler/Holder, or the "Twelth Symbol," as here used. In some ancient cultures, serpents were revered as feminine symbols of rebirth/healing, and bees as symbols of wisdom, while Roman catholicism considered coffee to be the "wine of infidels" until the 15th. century. Historically, Ophiucus may never have been used in astrology, though it is the house between Scorpio and Sagittarius in a astrological system purportedly developed in the mid-1900's, making Sagittarius the thirteenth sign in such a system - thus in this poem, "the Twelth Symbol" was "usurped by what used to be the thirteenth". Of course, "Good Ol' Triple Six" and other numerical variations thereof in this work refer to 666, the mythological number of the Anti-christ.)
___
I want a jeezus, unsweetened, decaffeinated, no additives -
- certainly no booze or needle tracks -
because I want a trim, uptight jeezus, totally pure and constipated
to pimp for the face-down with the Great-to-the-nth Numeral-Triplet,
because the descendant number of my measureless time
is a Trinity of the fourth primes-of-eighteen (no xeroxing
needed!)...
... my godpappy, William Blake, gone loony out of his goddam mind
over visions of seraphim and angels,
slapping the jaggedly unholy rhythm of a bawdy tune on my new-born
butt
while in drag he baptizes y'hweh in drag...
... and I want you to know
that my razor isn't my father's
road-hog...
... smoothin' along, instead of Jacko Kerowacko in my briefs, just
the road of excess still somewhere on the map,
while the bottom line is
that it's all as cheap as a Walmart `ho, though why not plumb the
sacred profanity
of All Animalism in the ditch just along that road
instead of blasphemating in a line way too long at The Mart?
"Can't wait, dude, gotta' get my *jive, here and now, `cause the
marquee says", `Drive-by Lyrics Smack-Down Between Marilyn Manson
And Good Ol' Triple-Six' '', farting rhythms and rhymes
from all orifices of His five-and-a-half shooter off His uncouth
butt -
(continued in Part 2)
Copyright © Wrulf Gunkl-Vonglashaus | Year Posted 2011
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Wrulf Gunkl-Vonglashaus Poem
Haiku Licentioso
('They who quaff this cup shall see god
and The Magdalen')
with the *powder
that goes in the tea
comes the instructions:
''dump into the brew
mix salaciously
drink licentiously
and feel like a libertine''
''caution's for the birds
toss the birds back into the leaves
grab a broom
aim for and dip on the dance floor,
docido,
and mix salaciously
drink licentiously
feel like a libertine''
''noon's for stealing shade
afternoons for sawing logs
nights for stealing even deeper
and dawn for burning rubber
out of jail mate hell (or heaven),
so mix salaciously
drink licentiously
and cuss on your knees
like a libertine''
''love's for the blind
hatred for the weak
and bravery for the mad,
mix salaciously
drink licentiously
and ask for rebates on living
like a libertine''
''file for Chapter 11 on your intellect
strip-tease for bees
perjure yourself to bears
read pornography in leaves of the tea
and yellow journalism in your pee,
mix salaciously
drink licentiously
and celebrate like a libertine''
''acknowledge god in the tax code
the 1-800 goddess in the phone book
chase your mother-in-law down the street
catch yourself tripping over your dreams
plagiarize your nightmares,
and mix salaciously
drink licentiously
and hiccup like a libertine -
- for missing the bus
is half the fun
unless it's a disease you catch
your dog lies down with fleas
arises with a bladder-full
while divorce doesn't quite pay the bills,
so mix salaciously
drink licentiously
and go the way of all flesh and blood
like a libertine Ph. D.''
* (hibiscus-flavored rose hip tea added to regular tea)
Copyright © Wrulf Gunkl-Vonglashaus | Year Posted 2011
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Wrulf Gunkl-Vonglashaus Poem
written in memory of Jack Kerouac in a caffeine frenzy
...pipes /jugs /pipes /hallucinating te deum for blessed freaks and
smoking stale, dry cigarette tobacco (wrong thing) in a pipe to
honor, certainly not 'diss' an unknown friend/jug and pipes/friend
wearing the neighbor wife's panties, having carnal knowledge of
corroded gold bricks beside rain puddles under the
bridge/gold /bricks /panties /kyrie, kyrie eleison/communication
wrapped around his ears like yo-yo strings, and the sky isn't falling
in, just moving to the thirteenth floor/send a messenger with a quasi-
neo-biblical infomercial: God and the Devil are stuck in the same
elevator on the fourteenth floor /fifteen /sixteen /seventeen and a
half from slavery of the mind/kyrie, have mercy/and the jug is only
half full, or is it half empty?/have mercy/day of the dog, cat
digging for garbage in the dumpster behind the outhouse /kyrie/where
he took off her panties/have mercy/kyrie eleison, kyrie, kyrie, and
stuffed them in a pipe and began smoking dehydrated dreams that he
found bubble-gummed to a three-dollar bill floating in from the ocean
coughing it up on a beach of laundered clouds, and she asked for them
back, full of holes/have mercy/eleison/and the messenger said, "Look,
God, your zipper's stuck," and God said, "Where?" /jugs /day of
dogs/day of cats /seahorses /snails/day of coyote digging for the
jawbone of an ass under a tombstone that says, "Here lies a thought
that is dead,"/day of repeat after me/repeat after me/kyrie, eleison,
and, man! - that pipe really sounds good about now - just fill it
with the right thing before the Devil gets his grubby hands on the
sacred purse overflowing with condoms, and please, have respect for
The Place Of Places where The Queen Of Hole-Riddled
Panties will say, "Have mercy! - give me that pipe! - the jug's at
least half empty - or is it half full? - and the elevator is running
out of grease and maybe the Devil's stuck in God's zipper or perhaps
Yahweh is spelunking in Jezebaalzebubba's vagina - who knows? - just
give me that damn pipe!"/day of weed and have mercy on that rag doll -
because here lies a thought that is, well, quite dead, and I can't
think anymore /can't /can't /kyrie /jugs /pipes /goldbricks/and
please, please have mercy, because I can't think anymore/can't
anymore/anymore... anymore...
('kyrie eleison': Greek for 'Lord have mercy')
Copyright © Wrulf Gunkl-Vonglashaus | Year Posted 2010
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Wrulf Gunkl-Vonglashaus Poem
* (Saturn is esoterically associated with the twelfth month of December)
… raining, raining! – disrobed heaven’s
chain of glittering tears
washing our earthen face, and
I raise my umbrella
thinking of you
in the shattered liquid glass
around us…
… warmth of our enveloping womb…
* * *
… let’s cross the *lyric mountains
to the sunset and beyond,
not satisfied until we reach
the dawn we
hold in each others hands…
* (for the Lerik Mountains in Azerbaijan)
* * *
… narcissists, your glorious eyes
feeding on me, boiling-ravenous
smacking lips,
glutted upon our saturnalian feast…
Copyright © Wrulf Gunkl-Vonglashaus | Year Posted 2010
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Wrulf Gunkl-Vonglashaus Poem
so love us ’cause “I’m the hoochie-coochie man”,
not way over there, but here because we gotta' get our feet groovin'
the path of the seer-serpent probing our souls believin’ our believin’ eyes in askin’,
do you be “secret agent man?”
because they’ve taken your number and given me your name I
raise in exultation of bone-bred pain screaming for a strangling
of questions “in the shadow of the city” risen from scorched, grinning alleys
strewn with hope-seeds born in the spittle of fertility, ancient
moments still watching over the sacred egg from which we came – and
shriven of barrenness I throw back my head to yell,
“you ain’t nothin’ but a houn’ dawg”
nothin’, nothin’ but a
houn’ dawg, houn’ dawg
runnin’ tongue-led along my trail joined
to your redolent thread, us sweetly inflamed with “bad, bad whiskey – and we’ve lost our home”,
bad, bad, bad, bad whiskey, highway of liquid-burning sin and yelping salvation
from heaven and hell to the beyond of the subway station confessed with “I love you”,
and the only answer I need is redemption of the night
steeped in the beautiful, bad bad whiskey
of your eyes…
… and the whispering hymn of the wind…
Copyright © Wrulf Gunkl-Vonglashaus | Year Posted 2011
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Wrulf Gunkl-Vonglashaus Poem
- and, anyway, who breaks wind over double-M, a. k. a. Manson,
Marilyn?
I'll give a ride on my razor any day to
The-Second-Prime-of-Nine-to-the-Sixth,
who was around long before CD's, DVD's, MTV, and YOU / MYtube,
spitting out the healing heat, the wound-cleansing apocalypse
of what some denounce as straight from No. One Brimstone Pl., way
before double-M, way before the Twelfth Symbol,
The Serpent-Wrestler
was kicked downstairs out of sight, usurped by what used to be the
thirteenth,
Yeah, and one plus three is four - rex mundi, mundane king
of only the world,
while One plus two equals Three - sign of sweet Goddesses, of
divinities
and The Twelfth Symbol butt-****ing Marilyn with the Serpent, man!...
... and my razor ain't my father's
road-raging interstate-hog...
... my godpappy, Billy Blake, still loony
out of his goddam mind,
drumming away for Good Ol' Triple-Six with one hand and giving
decaffeinated, unsweetened Jesus an enema of infidel wine with the
other
while howling Te Deum for
uncross-legged, staggering Jesus
failing the sobriety test,
Fallen Jesus! oh my lord, the world must be cumming to an end!
without promise of rescue by the pie-in-sky-hook of empty redemption,
least of all, from Billy Boy with foolish heaven's bees of wisdom
buzzing about his balding pate, stinging his soul even more alive
with fire,
igniting a gnostic explosion to blow the piston-heads
off my father's gas-hog of false gods,
laying a circle of holy fire down the centuries
and giving me the courage to razor-pedal with my own two feet down
that road still on the map
to the cathouses, outhouses, hovels and Isis temples
of court jesters' wisdom under the Twelfth Sign
where everyone has the hope-salvation
of failing crooked judgment's sobriety test,
where Goddesses disrobe the secret of themselves,
of Gods and Everyone to celebrate the Cosmic Dance, Copulation of
Universal Soul,
while William Blake yanks the spigot off the sacred keg
to intoxicate the Serpent
and my razor-wheels right off of me.
Yet, what does it matter I've lost the wheels of mortality?
since - believe it or not - no longer uptight, decaffeinated,
constipated or unsweetened,
a backslidden, paganly born-again Jesus is drunk as a skunk!
like me, on the pulse of Good Ol' Triple-Six rapping His uncouth butt
off in the eternal drive-by of cosmic rhythm and rhyme,
So there, Manson, take that up the ass!
* try coffee /java / a cup 'o joe, brotha, sista!
Copyright © Wrulf Gunkl-Vonglashaus | Year Posted 2011
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