IÖ RENASCO - Llorenzo Gusto
a brief personal selection , made my their fashioned & former , from the materials found within the collection : POËSIA ; consisting in choices from the first book of this elGusto iô rénasco volume … elGusto .
PART 1 : PERSONALS
Personal Philologies
Whether writing about the world
or oneself
or even the experience we call composing poetry
the common link is evidently words .
Knowing this
we might explain , for example ,
how a man is not a butterfly
even in China
even in a hot hungover garden
in an even more attractive dream ...
and the call to the cypress stands
came just then :
My father was dead
and a huge hole
had happened to the wind !
Personal Ontologies
How does anybody write the end of man ?
And is his end a part of him say like his foot ,
or just a fragment of an incompleted phrase ?
Why are all the answers made in questions ?
Indeed why do I even ask and who will tell ?
I used to think it possible I live forever !
And possibly I do but probably not as me ...
Yet are there words that work especially as poem?
Or is the order and the rhythm all there is ?
If I say blue is red in fact entirely as apt ?
Interrogations maybe are just opposite to plain
and simple statements and the human voice
depending on its entry or its exit gives about
exactly what it once has taken ... paid in cash !
My expertise in all such matters stays homemade .
I know on earth it's “eat my child and be eaten” ,
and the very body we inhabit does the same .
I have learned movement is the very soul of life !
So what are silence darkness and immobility
but a sort of anti/living in a kind of dream
where waking up itself is next to nothing death !
Personal Fortunes
If you think by working you'll get rich
you're not dead wrong but nearly living
in a motley dream let's call it slavery !
Lots of money comes from simple birth
or some great bang of ambiguous luck ;
the hardest workers HERE ... get paid the least .
To wear one's emotions like a marigold
in one's button/hole is popular and cute ...
but I love only what I have forgotten !
Life goes on in spite of all ideas ...
Personal Philosophies
How is the common public mind made up ?
And has anyone ever really heard
how the wounded she/tiger creeps home
to her lair to lick her wounds and die ?
Does anybody know that greed itself
is also a kind of wounded wild beast ,
and that last eve's enemies might be sitting
on the river/bank awaiting your own cadaver !
And now has the wind that cleft the face
of your natural father abated and the tiny
black kitten quit off its licking your cheeks ,
or the serpent entered mother like a drug ?
There are times to get back to one's hole ,
and yet time has no hold on candle/bone wings ;
like Charles Péguy told us it's not faith
astounds our fathers but the miracle of hope !
Personal Losses
When I came back from all the world wars ,
I understand we can't go home again ;
though nothing here has changed I see my house
as filled with strangers and my father's dead .
The enemies I killed won't live again ,
they are no different than our former dead ...
but then their children shall be made for wars
for the black/heart of the moon's in our house
and we come back from war to find our dead
installed like brothers in our very house ,
and once again we're back in war again .
They're in the human heart these world wars .
I used to think the heart of every house
was where we make our love and not our wars ;
but when it's time to send back home the dead
it's time that we prepare the kids for wars !
Personal Religions
Let's call it God, the Virgin Mary
or a Holy Ghost...
let's call it all together
and let's hear and see together
if a poem is needed
or if silent breath in fact's
the only necessary angel working overtime
to under/anguish and console
a lonely mind; that match/tip of existence
or the visible compelling iceberg's breast?
Personal Educations
People full of education
often have no knowledge
of the simple act of life .
And all their multi-facts
refer to strictly what has passed
and is no more of valid use .
It would be abuse to say
they're dead and gone already
but the truth is often hard on men
(of a memory of a memory)
and human birth just not amongst them
nor is death more than an abstact given .
Nouns like names confuse
while adjectives diffuse the essence
and a verb is like a kind of god .
When one says "I" it means
the not so golden horde is heading here
and not a single head thought sacred !
Though confusions, like mud
are mixtures of a dying light
and somehow retro-animated meat .
And if man is not the lily
of the garden of the least of lords
it's not the fault of atavistic waters .
PART 2 : GOING PUBLIC
Public Streets
When we get down to crossing our "i's,"
and dotting our tees... it's no surprise
if our ideas on poetry have become 'other .'
A nameless baby born, of an unknown mother,
is not an automatic candidate for fame ;
his dad was but a passing flame
and mom, a kind of lovely moth...
but both
were absolutely stranger to his modern life.
He, himself, had kids and wife,
a library card
and never worked very hard
at anything...
except to sing
like a drunken, wounded songbird
or struggle all night long to find the right word
for a poem he would never read,
to anyone, aloud, and so he wouldn't need
to even write it down .
Now he lives in town .
And doesn't like it anymore
when he goes out the door
to find himself... included in a crowd .
He's kittened, puppied, even cowed...
and, if he didn't smoke,
would never go outside to poke
his way along the work-infested sidewalk...
smelly, grey on grey, and rude with talk
from every side...
like someone's died
but no one seems to know just who ?
Of course, he's "hi-d" and, How are You ?
Of course he answers though he doesn't stop...
he's coming home, from the tobacco shop.
A home where he is not a hero yet
but calmly , warmly , puffs his cigarette
and then pretends to write a really momumental
epic-poem ... fills it up with all the fundamental
world-wrecking greatness he's incapable of producing !
Though, this , is but an idle musing ...
Gusto's pen is in ... suspension
(as for his “venus!” – let's not mention
the superfluous , the vain , the vacuum !)
and though his body's in his room
the poet's mind is probably on some extended trip ...
his blue heart beating and his ink ... drip drip drip .
Public Opinion
Not an art ,
an Act .
All of us
menaced
with extinction ;
maybe not hung
but surely
the circumcised heart ...
eventually the tongue .
Public Ignorance
No more alternate universes ...
one man equals one whole half world
& the only thing missing
is the absolute future ...
like dawn , incumbent , pristine
& yet the meaness on the planet
has in no way diminished
for the dying mass .
So – why not ? – rejoice !
Well aware we won't , really ...
& later tendancies are to more time
& … a hell of a lot less light .
Public Relations
1)
Can man confess
to being all together
all too humanly
too good for other men ?
What punishment's
a perfect fit
for human poetic
and sur ... perfections ?
2)
God is surely what we haven't got
when eyes are closed & blond hair flaming emeralds ...
when graves are dug this morning to be filled
tonight the jist of quintessential heart-dosing
moonbeams just before the gift of April grass ...
just when the ball really gets rolling
& the stone is lifted to be thrown away .
A poet follows with his eyesight only where
the last of Biblic angels fail to fly !
But only if the good we do “in toto” equals random God .
3)
They say if some man saw the truth
he would be overwhelmed or blasted into
smithereens
or fried by supersaturating lights ...
I mean a simple man is far too small
& delicate regarding to reception
of the ultimate & ultimately human blasting --
Truth .
I don't believe the question here is quantity ...
it's merely man will never be the quality required for
absorption of the all defining rightfulness of sheer
existence mixed with pure unadulterated fact .
A fact is the basic “Face of an Act”
of comprehension as if photographed yet still
in movement ... in this perspective even lies
are finally a partial total truth phenomenated
in a human life ; such life by definition false ,
& yet not even criminal philosophers misunderstand
the field of real improbabilities undressed before them .
& when one looks at things through such
a magical kaleidescope one cries like the rain
& knows with loyal ignorance a re-emerging sun is near !
4)
Adventure
“Back to nature's” … only for the over 50 crowd ...
against noOne in absolute contrarywise
indifferent to colors of the eyes , the hair ,
the skin & neutral as to forms of kneecaps ...
possibility is nature's only genuinely offered
signature & the fuel with which you burn
our neighbors' highest aspiration's found
in the very color red of one's own temporary blood ...
as far as best friends GO as far as enemies
come back as far as French Surréalisme
tried to illustrate the devil's game is no more
serious than a cadaver's prospective horizons ...
beauty hides the beautiful from the light ...
while pillars of dust upthrust from rock
whatever lack of love creates in missing girl friends
and the morning stone is poetry as petrified unMiracle ...
PART 3 : MIRRORS - POETRY
Poetry AND Truths
&
I do not make apologies for drugs
yet it would be impossible to say
that certain very accurate events
have not participated in my Search
for what we call A Piece Of Paradise !
Indeed precise particulars of hell
which have their human English names like c...
or cr... coc... or hero... when pumpe...
into my own veins and that rarely music
such as Pachebel , or Mendelsohn , Franz Lizst
and sometimes even in forgotten poems .
All of this
I once had
in my dreams ;
Love
was merely the divine wound of myself
which was to allow myself to die once
& be born aNew'd a thousand-in-one lives .
Which is not exactly how it happened ;
though … no one takes poetry for real truth !
Example : William S.
One day even william Shakespeare shall be dead ,
though in a kind of pityful justice mankind herSelf
will not have left a single living exemplaire to witness
our bard's last & most significant of breaths ...
for here the word's gone out We have no ears
to hear the poets' oft/uniquely self/made poetries ;
& all our eyes are missing from inaction & from lack
of any genuine sur/interest in the forms of female god .
Poets are the hated prophets in our own lands .
& if they call a garden slug a slug , when it's a slug
in really slimy circumstances they also name the rose
bud apt but rare & find their consolations
hidden in the bifurcating triple-cross of green girls' thighs ,
& when the christian/facists wipe out opposition
from their left & massacre the right authentic voices
making observations turn , themselves , to enemies .
The USA is not a model for the young , & all
the educational institutions in myth/weary china
& every modern woman's moral indignations
based on mother's bitter sense of self/collapse
as well as those professional opinion/makers bred
to overwhelm the children under waves of democratic
arsenic/based mouthwash ... can't put glory back
in worm/fed emancipated masses , nor make billy die .
Masks & Co.
If sadness turns to joy
in poetry
is this magician's work ,
or just a broken line
of common words
a poet uses or is used by
& with which some reader
learns another little lie ?
As long as poems remain
disguised in human language
& share our tongue
with not only survival
but exoteric religious sea/shellery ,
the babble of confusion
shall persist & finding pearls
become climaxically irrelevant !
Ten times as many rats aboard
than able/bodied master craftsmen ,
yet the destination's not shanghei but china (!)
& sorrow transforms the meat
& dead light accumulates as matter
such as the pink inspired instant of sex
of birth & of poetical initiations ...
such as mid/night … & perforated soul .
Desires
You wanted poems of love ...
instead of loving poetry ;
in place of honest suffering
you've placed a waiting self.
Your peaceFull dreams of love
have left you waking webbed in war .
Just try to love but once your hate .
Just blame your fellow man your lack ...
& back to bed to warmly sleep . Tommorrow
the dead of winter rises sheerFully in snow .
Though dont worry ... noOne's ever late !
Warnings
I have no more emotions
than a slaughtered deer
has polka-dots , or ... dreams !
Our children are the slaughtered
deer of every wooden day.
& this is not a kind
of poetry to read to them
at bedside prayer pauses.
& this is not a reference
to God at all but common hell .
For i shall live the width
of 84 large years whatever date
i have with ultimate withdrawal .
What's the impulse in my words
if not the same exact that Dylan
saw emphatically in all green trunks ?
For liberty is not a gift ,
no freedom worth its paid-for pains
can more be given than rebirth !
Though granted ... freely slavish lives .
Dawn Lines
One day all the words shall have been written
like God's name whole , & humpty-dumpty healed
& the resurrection of my kitten ,
in black fur , in white night , might be repealed
& my human soul seeped back in a shade
of a heart remade in meat , & the blue
yellow butterfly cast in cold green jade ...
& life forever old , no , never new !
One day , it shall be night , & i'll wake up
in order to fall to sleep again and pour
my wine out just to fill the golden cup
to empty it & then to wake up drunk once more .
Alternatives
Orphic , biblic , academic ...
are the cotton/crystal categories
of our trifurcating evidence
of how we make our poems .
Hermetic are the islands
caught like orfan jewels
in the orange reveries
of dawn/damned lyric verse ...
while hordes of demons caught like human hearts
in endless waves of oceanic human meat
collapsing in the multi/consciousness of men
like men collapse inside their storm/based women
have inspired prophets in their ageless prisons ...
freedom is the myth of a dream
of over/educated human visions ,
& yet their formal poems seem
to be anything but really liberated !
& if time & blood & sunlight
are the primal trio on which our lives rest ;
english language here's the common key .
Tripe !
Apparently at 50 there are two
incorporated manners to consider
life with reference there-at ;
there's definition & description too .
& if Jehovah really hid “her” ...
in Adam ; this only proves that
destiny is not a "destination to ... "
We are all are we not potential pearls ?
& if man were but that anecdotal
mustard seed or grain of sand
or just one of a billion anonymous swirls
in a turbulent & hardly local
stream or a lone flute in the myriad band
or maybe a few puffs of smoke that curls
up out of some great cosmic pipe ;
would it mean that poetry is not mere tripe ?
Or … i were Blue ... me !
For information you see : RUMY .
Holy Half/Whole Holes
If only people could know who God is !
They can't ...
simply because they don't know ,
who they are .
& the little they do ...
is invariably false ...
this is already lamentable enough
without blaming the poets
for a good half
of the whole mess ;
instead of being
off somewhere comfortable & bracing
in the oft-agreeable process
of making love to the lover
“as if” ... it were the very last Occaison !
& this – & dying ...
are something of what God IS like .
Or ... the very first !
Poetry - Selves
If i could round up words
like civil guardsmen herd the poets
to the edges of the drainage ditch
& lay “those sons'a bitches” down
in dirty mud beneath the olive sheen
i wouldn't do it now but … did “i” then ?
Yes , poetry might be a celebration ;
but it's also often messy stuff ,
that most good citizens could do
as well without i mean in fact themselves !
1000 Forms Of Poem
There are a thousand forms of art ;
melancholy is just one of them .
Though in music
there is approximately undubitable
freedom .
If freedom is forgetting but it's not .
And it rips a deep hole in your heart
just as it has torn apart the wind .
There is a way to orange stairways ...
just go & ask Garcia Lorca ,
or Paul Eluard ;
and tell them of the flea
bitten pilgrim dog you crossed
at the roadside
still dragging himself
“as far as China” .
Infant Art
Poetry once was maybe an art
for the overly elegant , the loquacious , the wordy
wit , a master of self/original rhetoric
& generally an orator at windy work .
Today , it's the act of a mind/boggled run-of-the-”thriller” .
Understanding people
know that genuine poetry
lies less in words
than in the actions , such as
Ezra GOING out his door
& though the haha-qabalists (!)
realize that – really – there are
no Doors in the original multi-verse ;
meaning man , meaning the shadow
of a meat/heart , meaning a Maker (!) ,
we do appreciate annually
our yearly dose of breathing sun/light
& the retinal digestion
of non/illusory images of our very own
creator – in (t)his case a she : Mary/mother .
A Year of 51 Tigers
Apt & eager
The lean “elan vital” of a Tiger , leaps
from bloody human limbs to limbo ...
taking what the grimmest reaper reaps ,
& throwing it in heaps – a-kimbo !
A poem is not a merely plaything
but might rip into your guts !
When the iceblue north wind sings
and every frozen 'farewell' cuts
your soul off from its bloody heart ...
i was wrong to say the soul's our meat .
It's not ... the human soul indeed's a part
of our true journey , & our bony feet
DO carry not only the body's shade ,
along with all our excess kilograms ;
but whatever soul we have or haven't made (!)
(& i don't give a howl or a good god damns
about excuses , ignorance , or … 'haven't heard !')
it IS ourselfs with luck , & loads of grace ,
who forge in questing , like the poet's true just word ,
not only their own fate ... but carve their very Face !
A “self” prepared to sculpt uniquely one's own
self ... is one foundation . Riding on the back
of a hungry tiger reduces one to blood & bone .
It's earth , man : be attacked or you , yourselfs , attack !
Beware your parents , your teachers , your priest .
The ONLY future in their mind is in your past .
Stop taking orders & instructions from the deceased .
Decide for once , for life ... yet 'hush' ... a starving tiger passed !
But think ... the young ... they need protection .
Exact ; against exactly those who care !
It's not some tiger but , that social derelection
with which their sheer existence has to bear ...
the very one we name with sweet remembrances
a child's dream : freedom ! equality ! brotherhood !
Though like garden slugs , or polka dances ...
everyone's employed in turning into food ,
mere meat prepared to feed the MOON .
After death a whiff of soul speeds up
& into that pale nocturnal mouth , like noon
at 2 o'clock! , crazy , quoi! , So ... drain the cup !
It's funny if you will ...
but life is not a joke !
Though , there, just over the next hill ...
i think i see some smoke ...
But , maybe not ? A Tiger … woke .
PART 4 : RELIGION - THE ICEBERG'S BREAST
(to arrive at the naqt al-waqt ! - nota molti béné)
….................................................................................................................................
llorenzo gusto¤ - merely frgments from the volume ... though organized with care , & missing still one section (see above) which when arrive in its due dates : vive poêsia , deep life to poets & , without real readers , "we" were as nothing , for the miggliore fabro sayed "what thou lovest well remains//the rest is dross" & "to be men// & not destroyers" , lived a hard life , died hard . & yet , the affectionate ... remains !
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