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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  10/31/2014 12:31:23 AM
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  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
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Expostulations Of The Child-Man, The Pope In Italian Miniatures - A Mystery

The pope in Italian
exclaims, 'Bring me! '
and the echoes bring to him
his bounded wants.

The pope in Italian
twirls his fake mustache, hides behind curtains layered
thick, plots the Blessed Virgin tied upon the tracks, his
dramatic rescue of Her, the imagined headline, Greatest Of Popes.

The pope in Italian
embraces a Statue of St. Micheal when the
guards are not looking, whispers the hour of
the deed, pleads for advancement of the plot.

The pope in Italian
blesses conspiring shadows in mirrored tiles reflecting back, the
guards pretend not to notice his continual muttering, the halting gait,
the concealed silk handkerchief purposefully dropped, they wink at each other.

The pope in Italian
drunk with authority privately erases Sacred Texts with
a child's thick pencil, pardons his large fines for overdue books,
cancels the Vatican subscription to Mystery Magazine.

The pope in Italian
questions Michelangelo 'of hammers, of stone and nakedness,
the heart of the matter, ' whistles when the Artist answers,
and looks away, fingers crossed.

The pope in Italian
wears a black beret, feels his tragedy,
'another fig in hand, ' refills his goblet,
calls for a clean ashtray, another pack of Gauloises.*

The pope in Italian
feeling frisky, ice skates, holds high
his brocaded robes revealing the boyish legs, white,
they are so white, like necks of swans.

The pope in Italian
dreams again he is a young
bomber pilot dropping heavy kisses
backed up in the bomb-bay.

The pope in Italian
hides sullen behind the Golden Chair, carves his
initials there, the fateful date in Roman numerals, and
QUID EST QUOD OMNES PEGGY LEE (Is that all there is, Peggy Lee?) .

The pope in Italian
refusing all sherry before lunch, will not walk past the tapestries,
'The unicorns hate me, ' he whispers, suspicious, bitterly so,
reminds himself, 'Stop trying so hard.'

The pope in Italian
tries too hard, resets the Grandfather Clock of Ages, counts
the coins of childhood, forgets time, the ancient schemes, and dines
outside disguised as Saint Joan of Arc in Flames.

The pope in Italian
stands very still, Romanesque in Night's central fountain,
goes unnoticed but for the corners of his mouth
bleeding verdigris, and the faint smell of smoke.

The pope in Italian
practices his hands in the dark, genuflecting, blessing,
rehearses the pertinent Charlie Chaplin scene alone, the worn
piano roll in his head unraveling before the hastily scattered Host.

The pope in Italian
spies the 'end run, ' tries his hand at cards and whiskey,
bets the entire assembled Holy Guard in full dress 'all the
Church's gold and then some' on a run of Jacks.

The pope in Italian
turns the last page in the Papal Chapel, licks chapped, broken lips too long
at prayer, the votives sputtered at long last, feels his way out backwards,
steps upon the last crack and the Madonna's back is finally broken.

**Famous French unfiltered cigarettes known for their strong tobacco flavor.

***Venus of Eryx', from Sicily, brought to Rome, she embodies 'impure' love, and is the patron goddess of prostitutes
Warren Falcon



Four Snortets, A Parody With Fondness For Thomas Stearns Eliot

'Now we come to discover that the moments of agony...are likewise permanent with such permanence as time has...Or even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination-We had the experience but missed the meaning.' - from 'The Dry Salvages' by T.S. Eliot


Burnt Snortin'

Mister, or Sir, rather, Thomas Sterns Eliot left his evening door,
late middle age, having lived into the postmodern 'new' millennium,
having again reiterated his propounded new diet whereupon
wandering on a deserted shore near mumbling twilight one might
meet a most inarticulate soft peach or unutterable yet edible Christ,
or a close match, a little kidding, upon which we may, if we dare,
reiterative quartet playing plaintive though palliatively, dine four
squarely in Piccadilly sempiternal before getting sodden after
sundown, preferably on Friday, which is a good time to do it, to eat
and drink again, remembering that it is end of the week, out of the tube

finally unethered, trousers unrolled at last, the mission to get plastered,
doing lines in the stalls, toilet seat become an altar of dissolution.
But, despite numbness of lips and tongue, of nasal passages,
do not hope that trousers shall roll up again till Monday, and do
not call it fixity. And do not call it fistula for that is to come but not
quite yet.

And who cares? or let us forget. Teach us, O Mannered One,
to care and not to care having lost muscle plasticity which a
good pair of dark socks can cover what was once pliant and
supple, now a gruesome obscenity. Have I overstated?
Shall I overstate again? Shall I? No? not now? how all things
crumble, even a souffle caves from expectation and thus we
wait with dope, we wait without hope for hope would be hope
for another line, and yet another, and we are reduced to shouting
repeatedly shouting, Muther f*cker! Muther f*cker, overwrought,
in the stall, temperatures and ovens not withstanding.

So listen, I said to myself stalling for time for the coke to take
effect, wondering why the hell I mentioned a souffle, to kick
in wait without prematurely crashing, for the night, O Friday,
is still young though I am not so young,

I grow old
I grow old
I unfold a
hundred pound
note roll it
tightly tightly
greedy for
lines and
more time
more time
for laughter
in the bloody
garden now
grown with



Wasted Coker

so I said to my soul, yes yes yes wait without eating the dish eaten
last week which gave me the infernal trots, now giving me something
else to think about, f*ck that old Edenic garden, wait without faith that
the waiter will return the dish sent back merely because one can,
because one (note how I go to the third person but f*ck that) , ONE
ONE ONE is really angry at the boss and one is in the stalls not for
coke but for yet another freshly chewed double anus demanding attention.
And all things are stalled for in the stall all is bloody and ONE,
erhebung with motion too too much, squatting, endlessly squatting
wiping squatting wiping ad infinitum of bum unto bumbling attempts

so I said in the stall,
wait, wait dumbly, tongue lagging,
for the dope to kick in, forget the late
arrival at office, f*ck Mondays! the usual scene,
one can recover here by porcelain cool

white o white as
the lines are white

which, too, porcelain, is waiting to be cleaned,
and all things shall be cleaned, but only after
midnight for I shall have left by then having forsaken
all hope and the sink where I have discreetly washed
my skivvies in order to go home again, return
uncomfortable, without support, to throw them in the
turning dryer to dry again for I do not hope to return
again until next week to probably reenact the same
scene again, (bringing another pair of skivvies with
just in case) , the patient server, harassed, must add
and re-add my check again and again because I am




pissed at the boss, at the chittering fetuses mocking, always
mocking, in the shrubbery near the well-used apothecary and
I shall go home foregoing mulberries, for I am too blitzed, having
forgotten the rejected dish, the wish for justice, for mum's steak
and kidney pie, and I have remembered all too late. Alas.

So let us go home then, which is a kind of personal Golgotha,
for which the rent is beyond my means but let us go and
make our supper remembering to take the gonorrhea pill.
No, let us purchase our meal though on a budget, and forget
even all this trivia. Let us forget all that, too, looking in,
deja vu, the bathroom mirror from the stall

(have I left or do I remain?)

Recall then that I can leave the comb unhandled
until Monday morning. It shall not cruelly beckon
again from the toilet, or it can be justifiably ignored,
to comb what is left of what is left to fall, or grow,
but that's a laugh. Come Monday, and only then,
we must find the diminishing part again, searching
ever searching,

scalp and England
all one, or soon shall
be One

scanty scanty



The Drying Assuages

'And all is vanity amongst these my ruins, '

says Sweeney, whoever he may be, tidies
up neurotically, gin on the breath for he
is bored unto death but awaits daily the
post for possible liberty which he took
once with a wealthy widow who mistook
him for someone else. The scar forever
reminds of dumb lusts and dumber luck
for loot never dreaming she was a black
belt. His teeth, now wooden, remind him
'be mindful of the good against all wants',
and so he sits, wise, chaste, chiseled,
a wastrel in ruins reading Sam Beckett
but that is another story written
in stars Centauric
qua qua qua
sisk boom ba
'tween Fuhquaad
& Apothecary
near the corner
time forgot
but o not I
when the clot
broke and people
screamed no
help at all as I
stood pale,
pale, paler still
leaning upon
a tailor's wall
he, too, no
help at all
to call the cops
It closes me in
again to recall
qua qua qua Fuhquaad
amongst the forgotten roses
where one is hungover in the
supposes he began with that
he can never finish like this,
pissed, which goes on, which
goes on, 'I can't go on but
I must because I am losing my
hair and so on' dot dot dot into
eternity (should one believe
in such but may use the idea
of such, eternity, go forward
or behind living in the blue rind
of the sky crumbling on the
nether shore where relentless
waves tease/disturb relentless
terns tracing uremic rims of foam

shall I call then eternity a
home for shells, the curve of
space? disgrace myself yet again
with belief, any one, believe
that such shores are a where
after all, a place to shelter
where each wave is somewhere
by someone or something
counted as is every hair
numbered counted still
they fall as do waves into
crescendos rainbows
should the sun so shine
for what is left to comb
of shore and hair is a
disturbance of fractions
refractions the lonely
redactions of what is
perceived, felt, spilt
upon the chillier pate?
and so I must wear a hat but let us not go then,
you and I, patiently into all that now but come the
proper time...

now then here then
remembering the chaffing bloody garters

Fibonacci Fibonacci



Little Skidmarks

O the stall, stall, stall, we all go into the stall

Nevermind, just follow the trail of yesterday's shoe,

talcum and dust mingle taciturn
undoing intention to haste
powdery traces unhidden guidance

the prayed for thunderstorm never come to wash
tell-tale treads reveal some rash is spread,
scaling crud of gory glory and more stains to wash
but what of shame? Do we not hope to turn it to other
than no more to blame? Thus we gait without soap,
panicked, for what is to come, to scrub, to un-stain,
but soon, the boss is pacing. But what is to be gained
in running knowing already what waits ahead?

Another annus. Another anus.

Nothing more.

Hidden children in the mulberries
chittering, heard but unseen.

Note to self:

Must take Thorazine before bedtime.
Goddamn wankers! !

But let us leave them for another dosage,
for another week's prelude sans qualudes,
the sullen departure to work again combing
the faces in the crowd pitching, another aphasia
I prefer to call an 'occluded interlude', yet
another distracted fit caught in a sun ray upon
seeing that the poorly stitched seam hastily done
between the shower and the tepid tea,
between the sorting through the dirty laundry,
the deepening ennui for something to wear,

o do not hope to wear it again and again evergreen

(whatever, BTW, 'ennui' is, but it is fun to say and
in this aesthetic some other language needs to be
gratuitously writ to make the poetic voice more valid
if Americans attempt to art, 'writ' is a good word, too,
let me then write it repeatedly: writ writ writ, to wit)
begins yet again, o Ariadne, obsessive compulsive
to the end,

Thorazine Thorazine Thorazine
must must must remember to wit!

...to unravel that which is still, to look on the
bright side, yet another beginning, the public,
pathetic, peripatetic tugging of shirts and blouses
over the widening rip in the thinning trouser's seat,
pant legs remembering to be gay scrolling ever upward.
And yet we still call these knobs 'ankles', forgoing gaity.

Nothing to be read here, now, in Merry Old,
but old age, varicose. the blank stare dreaming
comatose, of repressed rage, still pissed at the boss,
shamed of ankles, the chittering twats in mulberry bush
near home, following, following

No wonder these
little snots at me laugh.

Them I'll clobber
here then now then

Shall we turn the page again?
Shall we? Shall we turn over yet
another leaf? Shall we repeat it all
again forgetting the unraveling stitch?
The itch and the burn?
The Itch and the burn returning,
for one bought the store brand and not the original.
Now it hurts to sit or stand. Shall I say it again,
under fetid breath, dentures stained?

Yes. Yes!
Sit or stand.
Sit or stand!
Now goddamn it,
bloody move on!

I shall say it again because I can.
But later. But let us remember


now then, here then
hidden laughter behind
hands pointing at loose stitches,
boxers gray.

Forgot to do laundry.

Another note to self.
Another task.
Do the wash.
Most important.

Still, it is a good Friday so, sighing,
at last forgetting all Mondays past
and to come

not withstanding, for it hurts either
way to sit or stand, the late pay check,
piss poor pittance, mind, is cashed
probably on bloody Monday but
never mind. Let us presently pour
our penurious libations

Chianti Chianti

Warren Falcon



from 'Ragas For Krishna' Part 2

from 'Ragas For Krishna' Part 2

I have been encouraging Krishna (which is a funny thing to say, Krishna being a bold, blue God) to find a language coach to help him with his accent, to tone it down while keeping the wonderful music/lilt of it...he complains of tilting his head as he talks 'as all Indians do' but I insist he merely speak and let his head and hands speak, too, in their own way. If he does more public events he will need to be understood clearly when he speaks while preparing his magnificent dishes from his country, his rich feasts of stories of the chilies from his mother's garden entwined by morning glories, the morning cock already at quarrel with the world just beyond the tin reaching in to take some spices too enticing to refuse...

I always feel as if he is, or will soon be, bored with me and my humble 'ministrations' but he sweeps into my little room like a Raj, a young prince beaming, brimming full of stories to tell me, usually some food spicy hot he has prepared for me offered with a grin. Then he strips instantly down, lays upon the down pallet in easy, unabashed nakedness - it catches my breath, I do want to see! I hurriedly 'hide' my Ganesha, the prominent statue of the god I have in front of my useless fireplace; this hiding I half understand...but still, naked, he has a fresh and beautifully made tattoo of Ganesha on his shoulder, he wears a Ganesha necklace, a Ganesha bracelet, and a Ganesha waist scapular, the image of which is just below his navel. So why, I ask only myself and Ganesha, never Krishna, why must I hide my large wooden Ganesha statue? But I do hide Him in deference to Krishna's wishes and meanwhile have intercourse with the god-in-miniature, scraping a necklace trunk with an ear, a tongue, receive a scapular kiss of the image upon my forehead as I trace those wonderful hairlines of the male body on my way to other deities.

Ah! give me all the cabbages in the world in all my poverty! Am I not, too, a Raj of floors and scented pillows, this beaming god beneath me thrusting utterly to reveal his secrets, his desires, his pleasures to me who am not, when all is done, a god?

Life, dear Valdosta, over all, is good, yes? I wish it no ill. But, agreeing with the cock, I will quarrel, even fight, with life when young men still leap too soon from bridges because I have learned (and relearn it hard lesson by hard lesson at a time) visionary company insists its tracings in many forms, man to man being but one holy expression, those sons, burning mother's hands upon them demanding, insisting to life that each her sons is a rajah, a Sleepy Bee.

So please the intemperate humanity, in the face of patient deities the burning ones are leaping still and I am ill with grief, with prayer, their dead bodies gone, their now emptier hands.

And he leaves me.

I return to my poems.

The room is filled with Krishna, aromas of rose oil in his hair, pungent spices in his sweat and upon his hands and skin, and sex.

I retrieve Lord Ganesha out from his little sanctuary of hiding (it seems I am always retrieving deities) and we both laugh richly. I remember to sprinkle some cologne upon Him, to pour out some milk into His votive bowl, to rub His belly, to light another candle (the other extinguished, panting, while we were busy bees exchanging knees and sighs, diffusing male spices into bracing air, fingers upon oily chilies thickening in always morning hunger) .

I light more incense and thank Lord Ganesha in all his forms, appearing both large and small, His adornment of Secrets, though one cannot easily hide an Elephant, man-love, and more in such a small universe whose toes I seek to tickle then gather for a shoe as tides shrink and swell, grow and diminish depending upon the worshipers, those who will do so in spite of those who would kill delicate or manly infidels whose worship, forever babies breath, is all the more meaningful.

Be damned the trellises. The petals shall reach, shall extend outward.

The violin's throat is cut.

'Do not ask me to see it! '
Warren Falcon



From the Encampment Of Heart Strife, A Warrior's Journal - Fragments From an 11th Century Japanese Scroll

for Goodfew

'like unto like'
but do not say it
my forbidden simile

one is not immune
to jealous couriers
who would come
between lovers

Rice paper is thin

Tender words never
tear though ink

Wild tears fade
sure words to guesses

Distance reconciles
murmurers with desire

Duress strengthens
supple resolve

supple resolve
thickens skin

thickened skin
feels the better
when simple
loves caress

paper curtains
for ink yearn
their brush strokes
burning stories
to bear

a fly
strolls a realm
just on the other
side of light

only silhouettes
guesses too
thrills at motion so
slight framed in
window gray

in love with
small things
keep what
is seen where
hides the wind

Geese tell
of return and
so I will when the
burnt village
counts its embers
measured in hands

there are treaties


gilded boxes
are exchanged
and the
Mongol spices

no milk for her
child the nipple
droops a sad
thing while dogs
run wildly about

Hold Fast
the greatest
among us

he knows
only war which
makes him great
in one thing

I know
of waiting

what the horizon
safe keeps behind
its ear

of love, yes

your top knot my hand
your long hair my
scented bedding

wildness of laps

the vase
so very

a clutch of stamens

I dream again
of moonlight
of sewing
that work of
warriors naked
needling seams
In this dream
I know the pattern well
so near to hand
a blessing

let the dead bury

his face
sleeps upon my

I do not breathe
do not wish to disturb

Dawn just

light fingers
trace in circles
each my

what tickles
but a sigh interrupted

In your dream

a gentle
boat slowly rising
with waves

the gentler subsiding

slides up
my torso
to keel
to kiss
Never again will I go to war

I lie

the men are heavily gathering
new arrows hot for flesh
only for yours I am

From childhood our song

'Hurry awake sleepy bee
Softly sings the breeze
To sweetness we are called...'

When the sun
is high
shall be
with tears
our parting

behind the barred door wait
a lock of wound hair
silk pouch of my gated heart
it will be a hard arrow to pierce it

Small boys
muddy feet
chase behind
innocent fists
raising threat

for them
such punctuation
I regret

only this

to take a quiet supper
to hear the dipper spilling
too full
the deep well

knowing a hand of dew
brings such sweetness wet, cool

Warren Falcon
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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon