by M.C. NIGHTGAME

THE TURK IS DEAD 

      after a long time & 

      |||||  I seem to recall a dark train

        ||||   coming from across the sea

                           |||

     ||| 

The Turk is under the back porch & his face is all rotten 

                  This song is my

      favorite planet 

      but now 

He has deserted his post                    |||||

      above the satellite                            ||

      & gone outside       ||| 

                  This is freaking me out so

                        I need to draw some

                        close-together lines 

The Turk is dead &

      everybody else is dead too 

                      |||||||||||||||||||||| 

A YELLOW SMELL OF THE EVER-TURNING LEAF

      Nature Poem 

I am objectifying this thing

      as a thing

            of great beauty 

Gently, so as not to disturb the sadness --

      this thing --

            hidden in our breast 

And now

      we are older

            than we have ever been

before 

CURL BOATMAN NO LONGER EXISTS 

Somebody go over by that juke box

      & make sure Curl is still a man 

On the briny flats of windsoer 

Where the red & yellow pilgrims go to bury their teeth

In a caveren-like uterus when you look back you can just see a football shaped oblong of sky

      And the sun shines right in your ear 

“THAT WOULD MEAN GOING TO A FAR-AWAY PLACE” 

I remember one time when I was small

      & I was squatting on the grass,

      & there were these blue things

                  between the trees

            like,  

reaching down

      from somewhere 

oh oh and when all the mirrors

      fell down off the wall

      at the same time 

      oh & all the lights shut off too 

      oh and I opened the closet all fast like 

THE YEAR OF DOUBLE HAPPINESS 

This scent is making me go

      back in time

            & across the oceans 

Who would ever sing anything like

      “there’s no dreams left but this dream of green triangle moons” 

      It’s like singing to dead cats or retard fog & 

      everbody knows

      there’s no such thing as garbage 

      I mean, feathers are feathers,

            but where’s all this string coming from? 

Nobody must know

      how wasteful I have been 

DREAMS, STUPID DREAMS 

Everything keeps getting different & different now

      & I have the splitting-moon ache 

I know when I see ghosts

      & many-headed dogs

      & creepings toward my left eyeball 

      that soon 

      a speckled chain will go across my eye

      A death-black chain

      that was inside my head 

All my friends learned to get like this,

      like two fat ladies meeting over my left ear 

            to embrace in the night 

I DON’T BELIEVE IN FLOWERS 

I no longer believe in steam or feathers or shovels or silence

I have the eye of death

      calling me home

      across the open yard 

Something strange

            has happened here today

      &

I don’t remember it

      any more  

PART IV: I COULD LIE DOWN IN THIS GRASS HERE 

Could you please stop drinking my fingers

      so that while up against the crescent moon

This much closer to a moment of sturdiness

Enough hair has passed by already 

      A face that’s hard

            to   Remember the very tools

                  of the skin 

A red song will come out of the western

      sky like a huge experiment 

            I don’t like to see a number like that 

A slight pain is building itself

                  I should get some money

      I never drink enough blood anymore 

      This is not as much like wearing a shirt as I’d hoped

            More like

8 computers

      flying in the pink star of commerce