regions of desertion

ashfoot, ashfoot

under moonball capsules of starlight

take two tubes of the sea

and with hipster tone,

squeeze upon my subterranean pinnacle

handcuffed to a midnight train

brakeman with burning lantern

punched me to nothing more,

take two more boxes to burn

smoke and steam

play it cool

sinister strapped luggage fell

to which i became lashed

tunnel -bone condemnation

under white haired

fawns feet

voices from regions unknown

lifted me away

to churches with horns

and fed capsules of better things

hopping away the vision

pierced bone

i was no longer

the bum

with sorry leg

dada at dVerse poets an interesting cut up as i used Gregory Corso In the Tunnel Bone of Cambridge which is below
IN THE TUNNEL-BONE OF CAMBRIDGE
1
In spite of voices-
Cambridge and all its regions
Its horned churches with fawns’ feet
Its white-haired young
and ashfoot legions-
I decided to spend the night

But that hipster-tone of my vision agent
Decided to reconcile his sound with the sea leaving me flat
North of the Charles
So now I’m stuck here-—
a subterranean
lashed to a pinnacle

2
I don’t know the better things that people know
All I know is the deserter condemned me to black-
He said: Gregory, here’s two boxes of night one tube of moon
And twenty capsules of starlight, go an’ have a ball-
He left and the creep took all my Gerry Mulligan records with him

3
But he didn’t cut out right then
I saw him hopping
On Brattle street today-
he’s got a bum leg
on his way to the tunnel-bone
He made like he didn’t see me
He was trying to play it cool

4
Wild in the station-bone
Strapped in a luggage vision-bone
made sinister by old lessons of motion
The time-tablebone said: Black

Handcuffed to a minister
Released in a padded diesel
The brakeman punched my back: Destination, black

Out the window I could see my vision agent
hopping along the platform
swinging a burning-lantern-bone like mad
All aboard, he laughed, all aboard
Far into the tunnel-bone I put my ear to the ear
of the minister–and I could hear
the steel say to the steam
and the steam to the roar: a black ahead
A black ahead a black and nothing more.

http://dversepoets.com/

Lukas Moodyson- Container

fever on the funship

grampus in my thoughts

vessel resonant to pharaoh’s dance

from a bitches brew,

no mirror

no media

in any sarcasm would find me

i would smoke

i would dance,

old hulk decks creaking

as my silk collar shines,

from cabin to hold

the merriment stretches,

i would distance myself

and not be portrayed

anonymous to all but the

lips and tongue i entwine,

whiskey manufactured in the south

smoky sweet tingle,

it was migration

or mitigation

of many ravenous appetites

bologna sausage and sweet mutton,

so vibrantly lost

room extended that i was hidden

faceless in the extreme,

music of davis found me

wanting more,

gilt frame my hair once neatly combed,

come grampus

tilt on rolling waves,

find me a place

of nonchalant obscurity,

saxophone and drum

the ariel had been lost

it was memory that

dragged me down

into the depths

that would fill my lungs

with salt water,

careful heart placement

extracted blood from veins

i was infused with a rhythm

that could only lead to one conclusion

i was intimate in my body

with all of one species,

more smoke

more mirrors,

hearing snare and guitar

long days vanished

a place found

yet i could not reveal

who i totally

am