Words, by bob brown

I put into it all the unborn butterfly stuff I have

In that small space I am a conscious chrysalid

Neither crawling nor flying

Weaving motifs of the spirit into a colorful scheme

upon which psychic soul-surges play throbbing

melodies that elude me when I wake.

My fabric is a heavenly warp, a field of

daisies sparkling with little naked girls x

carrying mushroom umbrellas.

'The feel of my giant fingers in the fairy

web gives me the thrill of creation

I embroider loud laughs playing leap-frog

with sneezes, pile up a tempting red­-

ripe mountain of kisses before a pale

yellow sterile womb that looks like a

deflated balloon.

(microtext)

Music

May be as bad

As dancing

Toe to toe in patent leather pumps

Twinkle twinkle tickle tickle

With a tailless feather

Music

Maudlin blabbing

Little itching

•• ri ••••

Picking out any thread I watch it run

through the whole living web like fire,

diving with sizzling sounds into purple

ponds filled with aniline green pollywogs

which it strings as Brazilian bugs on its

golden self and hangs as a necklace over

the gleaming burnished ebony breast of

a negress who comes up from the center

of the pool with laughing lips and re-

deeming white flashing teeth

Sometimes I lie soft as down on my silken

magic carpet and press a button which

gives me a pleasant physical thrill and

puts me instantly in touch with all

humanity .

We rub hands, noses, all extremities, in-

­cluding thoughts, and float warmly

down a rich river exquisitely perfumed

with essence of life, waving to Noah's

arks of animals trooping along on the

banks, like children bound for a circus

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Flower show

Peering Peeping-Toms

Poached-egg eyes

Goggling at pansies

Flower show

Sagging pot bellies

Lifted enamel faces

What do people show

To the flowers

Flowers show?

Pouchy-eyed human parasites

Glowering at defenseless

Airy orchids

I have seen blacksmiths

Blowing and bellowing

Paper-hangers slapping on glue

Con-men running away

With policemen puffing in pursuit

But for years I have

Peered through venetian blinds

At poets

Without yet catching a glimpse of

One at work

I thought

Anthony Trollope

Had polished off the

Three volume novel

Forever

When along came

Anthony Galsworthy

In the reading-machine future

Say by 1950

All magnum opuses

Will be etched on the

Heads of pins

Not retched into

Three volume classics

By pin heads

(microtext)

STARK AS A TREE stark naked STARK AS POETRY stark mad

Sonnet

(count the lines)

She was

Bacchus's Bastard Daughter

With a

Dusty cluster of

Wooden nutmegs in her hair

One aventurine eye

A tinsley laugh ha ha !

Rings

Fashioned of green gold tooth fillings And a hollow

Decadent air

Fit mate for a

Mooing minister's

Legitimate son

(microtext)

Varlet, bring me paper

No! Not that kind

I would write in ink

As red as your hair

Of nights and beddy battles

Dedicated on the fires

Lily-white page

To all bloody

Blushing ladies unfair

With a humble bow to culture

The ship's steward

Flung back the door of the

Veneered bookcase in the

Lounge and there

Dressed in Hart Schaffner and Marx

Impeccable business suits appeared

Nine hundred and fifty-six

Reading books

Ready for any tourist, or other American

To browse hungrily among

The ship gave a lurch

The passenger ran for the rail

My God! he cried

Books in America

Frijoles in Mexico

Leaning far out over the sea

He relieved himself

The steward approached

I thought you wanted a book sir?

We have them in the

Natty sixty dollar suitings

For tired business men

There's a lot of stern-jawed

Purposeful Western books

In Stetson hats

Shown in strong silhouette

I thought you wanted to

Read one of our best

Copyright American novels

(microtext)

TIT FOR TAT

The British, God bless them

Discipliners of the world

Hard-mouthed unfeeling masters

Stern hoisters of tea

Ask them for bread

And they give you

A scone

The traveller blinked at him and

Replied sourly--

No I distinctly asked for an

Ingersoll watch

It's so refreshing just to sit and

Hear one tick

And you

Have pointed your practical finger

At Jack and his beanstalk

Called him silly

Trading cows

For coloured beans

Tell me then

You cow-traders

What do you get for

Your mooing bossies

One half so fanciful and

Soul satisfying

As coloured beans

That stalk cuto heaven

Coloured beans

That produce giants

You who know beans no better

Than to thrust them

Up your nose

(microtext)

It isn't

Baking bricks

That makes them

So hard

It's telling them

At the start

/ They can be

Nothing but bricks