Planet of the Arts Volume 7 Issue5 page 12 POETREE At the preview for Naked Lunch Groin deep in flashing Beverly Hills cinema lights waiting to see Borrough’s first baby’s hybrid; in the queue more goatees than | can shake an espresso at; hairspray girls giggle past with Beat irrelevancy carrying lipstick rimmed styrofoam cappuccinos one wears a post-modern-death-black City Lights t-shirt and allows no expression to break her. face; tattoos and sideburns and pretty conversations about poetry—people swearing in the moonlight that verse is eternal, ignorant of poetry's malignancy, so bloody and gaudy and fabricated; As the movie starts Bill speaks with Allen and Jack: an afternoon diner argument (coffee and cigarettes); the floodpants in the dark mutter: “yeah, man, that’s what Beat is all about...” Andrew Robulack “Holidays must end, as you know.” -Natalie Merchant gilded scorpions sift into the sand of new dreams, change into hand-embroidered red threads on a raw cotton shirt; | am awake to grey rain and black mornings as Mexico sinks into memory like a sunset peeling off beyond my eyes; brambles claw my dry throat, pleading for what has been, the sand scars on my belly and tan lines | could kiss: it all slowly fades into this pale fog bluer than a clear sky, day becomes night and night becomes day. Andrew Robulack Half a Hundred Degrees Eating meat under the high sun of a Casablanca whitewash knowing what it means to be local in bottom-of-the-bowl revelations in bones | do not know Some hours later bent doubled over a hole in some back room missing with every violent burst of gut Soon there is nothing more than the grinding fault line twisted in my entrails a dull ache biting into half a hundred degrees celsius Marrakesh express through the skeletal valleys of sand pale withered third class peasantry staring into my dull eyes with their dull eyes licking sweat and dust and flies Arrival, the Atlas, cloven vacuum winds suck at my lungs lifting me through serpentine alleys of the medina under the sun the sun that tattoos on my head a staccato stack of delirium The Place of the Dead rhythms around me as | float looking for you and not knowing The heat is hot as | drop down through the veins of pipers calling me inward: rolling red carpets of passage through this dump of fools leading me to the blue pool where | sink deep where the scene is the shifting Saharan not us Half a hundred degrees by day frosted camels under starlight and everything in between Andrew Bryan SUMMER GRASS | remember lying in the tall summer grass, the sleepy bed of secret friends, listening to the buzz and crackle of insects, the rusty chuckle of wind in the leaves, lost in a fortress of dreams. Clayton Giles our shining days are coming this sunlit early morning lurks hazily in through the slats of my bamboo blind, carries the yellow and golden shadows of late autumn’s falling leaves to shimmer and travel over the black veins of the Mexico map: roads thumb-tacked to the wall Andrew Robulack January 06 1992 Rich Kaye OK John, limericks are in. “Tangential References II Though it be a mess and is hard to express some things’ inexpressible read hear or touch expressions as such be form still reprehensible To know the means of your attempt it seems too seriously take we a cause if jist is lost at a literal cost no hope by which we pause How then might | give you the why ‘low which be there a passion? to break the bond fly far beyond must | subscribe to fashion? And sometimes eye in secret cry on tangents do we see in love | trust but by coporeal lust my heart is all but free if all | know is all | show a life be as the plain by dint of wili crest | a hill ‘neath horrors | do feign And as | climb small steps are mine | know not where | go but progess’ stair and effort’s heir may raise on high the ‘low At the preview for Naked Lunch Groin deep in flashing Beverly Hil cinema lights wating to see Borough's first baby’s hybrid; inthe queue more goatees than | can shake an espresso at; hairspray gis Giggle past with Beat irrelevancy Carrying lipstick rimmed styrofoam cappuccinos ‘one wears post-modern. death-black iy Lights tshirt and allows no expression to breakher face; tattoos and sideburns and pretty conversations about poetry—people sweating in the moonlight that verses etal, ignorant ‘of poetry's malignancy, so bloody and gaudy and fabricated; ‘As the movie tats Bil speaks with Allen and Jack: an afternoon diner argument (coffe and cigarettes); the loodpant inthe dark mutter: “yeah, man, that’s what Beat isl about.” Andrew Robulack “Holidays must end, as you know.” -Natalie Merchant gilded scorpions sit into the sand of new dreams, change into hand-embroidered red threads ‘ona raw cotton shirt lam awake to rey rain and black morrings as Mexico sinks into memory ike a sunset peeling off beyond my eyes ‘brambles daw my dey throat, pleading for what has been, the sand scars on my belly and tanlines | could kis ital oy fades int this pale fog ‘blue than a clear sky, cay becomes night and night becomes day. Andrew Robulack OETREE Half a Hundred Degrees Eating meat under the high sun of Casablanca whitewash knowing what it means tobe local in bottom ofthe-bow revelations in bones! donot know Some hours ater bent doubled over a hole im some back room sissing with every violent bust of gut Soon teres nothing more than the grinding felt ine twisted in my enrais a dul ache biting into hala hundred degrees celsius Marrakesh express through the skeletal valleys of and pale withered third class peasantry staring into my dull eyes with their dull eyes licking sweat and dust and tes ‘Artal the Alas, cloven vacuum winds suck at my lungs ling me through serpentine alleys ‘of the medina under the sun the sun that tattoos on my head a staccato stack of delim The Place ofthe Dead rhythms around me 2 oat looking for you and not knowing ‘The heat is hot as drop down. through the veins of pipers cling me inward roling red carpets of pasage through tis dump of fools, leading me tothe bive pool where | snk deep where the scene isthe shifting Saharan notus Half a hundred degrees by day frosted camels under starlight and everything in between Andrew Bryan SUMMER GRASS | remember lying in the tall summer grass, the sleepy bed of secret friends, listening to the buzz and crackle of insects, the rusty chuckle of wind in the leaves, lost in a fortress of dreams. Clayton Giles Planet ofthe As Volume 7 IssveS page 12 ‘ur shining days are coming this suit erly morning furs hail in through the sats of my bamboo bind, caries the yellow and golden shadows of fate autumn’ faling leaves to immer and travel over the Dlack veins ofthe Meco map: ‘ads thurb-tacked to the wall Andrew Robulack January 06 1992 Rich Kaye OK John, limericks are in. “Tangential References II ‘Though it be a mess and is hard to express som things inexpressible ead hear or touch expressions as such be form stil reprehensible To know the means ‘of your attempt seems 100 seriously take we a cause ifjsis lost ataliteral cost rio hope by which we pause How then might ive you the why “low which be there a pasion? to break the bond fy far beyond ‘must | subscribe to fashion? ‘nd sometimes eye in secretcry ‘on tangents do we see inlove lust but by copocal ust iy heart sal but free Hall know isall| show a life be as the plain by dint of wi crest a ill ‘neath horrors do feign ‘and as climb smal steps are mine know not wher go but progessstar and effon’s ei may rise on high the tow