Paradox Hotel:
Somewhere But Nowhere Else (Things Are Not What They Seem);
Umberto Eco Avenue... Year 2012.

"Like Saturn to Paris painted screaming all these rings of temptation, salvation, sensation...
greed lust desire delirium, I see you cum inside
you inside these hell eyes cut out
from pain in creation where truth bleeds to hide
the fruits, from you
the I inside
this Ego black as Id
smoking tarred cigarettes, scarred

come down
 
come down upon my open wide heart this throat
as wide as the whole world in oceans coffee stains
as eyes wide shut, dreaming
off the café counter table
off Fourth Street
off the other half deeply madly through doors conflicting other sides
of anathema & conundrums thrumming, humming
milky way rhythms
anaesthetized sideways this ways
Judas to Rent somewhere else for the Jesus Christ wound
screaming La Boheme!
we found, unbound, maybe bound
 in the Gehenna fire garden of flesh on flesh
 in blood snakes like arrows and the slings of black pearls in conscious of
The Tempest' storms where Caliban
climbed the stairs backwards to fall up the exit door out into static ice rain
like Jeff Buckley singing Hallejuhah!
bleeding in Leonard Cohen candle Roman romance dreams
laced by augmented origami Othello-cum-Ophelia madness
as dark as a Tori Amos' pink wings, her percussive piano playing to broken prisms
umbrellas broken along market square lanes
in Metro Paris subways in blacks and whites
the smell of coffee and jasmine
beneath the Mediterranean Sea with Seahorse and Starfish poems
in serenades to widows, through windows and the winds
that screams...
desperately in consequence to see it like a baby newborn
(again and again) through fate or faith
"No such thing!" someone without eyes or lungs screams...
radioactive and I am a kind of last man in this century
at the end of this world waiting at the World's End Inn
for that glass of Black Douglas scotch with
Neil's Death or Dream innamorta to indigo idioglassimo
breaking glass and spinning plates Ziggy Stardust like
and glamorous as Bella Lugosi [Dead]
off a Bauhus record recording night
with the devil's beautiful daughter I can't find the sand through
all this water down Remedy Lane
where the angels and golems sit like cormorants feasting on dead crow eyes
resting between the nightmares of zombies and little girls playing with broken Nabokov Lolita novels, dolls
because while their insides spray and splatter and shatter into shards like shark teeth, squid ink
watching the man with the birdcage head from
China's Un Lun Dun dance across a concrete lake called
Concrete Lake
Oh! for Christ’s sake is this fucking hellhole whole
life a spliced recombinant DNA molecule monster mistake!?
Oh, now, just to "Be" just because...
it's killing me these fields like the literature of Umberto Eco
 
...the echoes of narcissism
in the lake of Dali's alchemy melting out of me
have I become just another Moon Baby
amongst Moon Babies lost from Pluto or Planet X,
"Ignotus Per Ignotium" (whatever the hell that means)
listening to the midnight bell in digital vertigo oh so how you had to go
as if out of myself in absentia, in black trees
watching the moon through stars
from another time expressing expressions
I never knew I understood finding my heart finding my way
one way, and soul in an empty suitcase inside shadows of dust like voices in my head
making me spin around in circles circles
holding my breath through death so scared of this real life I cannot express
keep asking myself for more while the methadone morphine paradox clocks
turns my cells into sidewalk whores howling Ginsberg's Junkyard Generation
seeing Bethany and Anth walking through subway snowfall shadows...
across frozen tundra miseries in Dada pictures of fucked up dreams
not even Carl or Jung could explain
through forgotten sons and misplaced childhoods tucked up inside their dead brains...
So I fall in search for Delany's Dhalgren city dark, to Bellona
...

incommunicado...

"Here I am and am not I, This circle in all, this change changing in winter-less,"
and bricks that fall from nothing I cannot find myself not leaving
while leaving as leaves leave the trees in disbelief of Dis
and dis-believing falling down the blood from my eyes and hear
I do her following not behind not before maybe sideways somewhere some other
Where, not before, not after;
two lamp-lights slip into a moonless moonlit bay while birds not flying fly away
into smoke above below the rooftops we can never see
like Paris to Saturn rusted and junk and crumpling crumbling sidewalk concrete afternoons
Sundays melting away...
I could wait here all forever in this day until she comes along out of the black taxi cab fog
down Newbury Street in Boston Towne
and puts a blue bullet into my bruised heart the hard way,
Harlem over Broadway...
Miles burns down the voodoo walls, where I go I'll always be there anyway

and waiting... ...black dogs on the horizon.

I sit back in silence, "Glorious" and read Titus Groan, finally...
the halls, bent towers, strange rooms that becomes Gormenghast a city but a castle, and lost
in Viriconium at the Bistro Californium
or the Blue Metal Discovery
judged by sleeping dragons, old mountains; iron trains...
"Silence was there with a loud rhythm,"
Mervyn Peake said as Steelpike;
we are all imprisoned by the onomatopoeia to imitate sounds like Dada poetry:
“Bang!”, “click!”, "buzz...", "pop!", "hum...", "snap!",
"Sssss..."
a match-stick igniting lighting the cat barking
"woof-woof"
 the canine cannon exploding red and yellow like comic book pages
displayed all over the front porch where you stand searching for that clock
that infernal infinite paradox, to open the box...
more comic book pages splayed in the hurricane
Wolverine or Batman and gunshots in carnival rides, and
down somewhere positively not 4th Street
or Time's Square, closer to The Hotel Chelsea with Leonard Cohen, and
Bob Dylan saying "I kept hearing this,'UNTZ..UNTZ..UNTZ..UNTZ.."
feeling like Edgar Allan Poe in a Beatle's song...
a walrus become Dylan Thomas
"Tiger tiger!"
this is nowhere to go...
Fear of a blank radio...
side by side, impossible...
dead girl words in para ethos...
such resident evil...
echoes of Narcissus in rings from a pebble dropped in a small
lake
that is the Universe the Milky Way this Nova Swing
speaks back to him are you beautiful along these hissing hills?
leaving shadows and traces of the moon in love with the ocean so close, so far away...
as the ground beneath her feet where Orpheus plays for Eurdyce
every other season and every other season does weep with the tears that

Float
Autumnal
Lovers
Leaving...

From his severed head (call it déjà vu).
A cautionary tale,
a cruel twist of fate,
a lover's reflective alchemy in blood, sweat and tissue mythology:
"I am real, I am not real" to Demeter's daughter Persephone,
this mist of a madman alchemist we see we are all just flocks of simple sheep
wounded waiting wondering wandering... and the music plays surreal...
*"Harmlessly passing your time in the grassland away;
Only dimly aware of a certain unease in the air..."

We slip into the Valley of Steel...
wearing bitterness for shields,
the music hardens:
*"Now things are really what they seem!"
We are all of us lamb chops, lamb cutlets, lamp-lights...
as if it be the Lord's will, *"Bleating and babbling," as the aged singer sings
voice crawling across the Yarra River beneath a full moon
we see ourselves,
we in the crowd like so many sheep just a Bleating and babbling and bleeding; breathing breeding
like babies from Babylon growing up in a
Paradox Hotel
on a Black Mirror Street.

[and the music howls...]
*"Get out of the road if you want to grow old,”
the poet-singer sang...
~end.

*[Borrowed lyrics by Roger Waters]

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