This is a story about Lemurs.

"the guitarist"

First off, I would like to honor one of my very favorite poets, Tristan Tzara (Sami Rosenstock). He was a wonderful man and was writing things back in the 1920's that is still awe-inspiring and revolutionary today.

SO, I decided I'd share a poem of Monsieur Tzara's and write one for him as well.

The Great Lament of My Obscurity III

where we live the flowers of the clocks catch fire and the plumes encircle the brightness in the distant sulphur morning the cows lick the salt lilies
my son
my son
let us always shuffle through the colour of the world
which looks bluer than the subway and astronomy
we are too thin
we have no mouth
our legs are stiff and knock together
our faces are formeless like the stars
crystal points without strength burned basilica
mad : the zigzags crack
telephone
bite the rigging liquefy
the arc
climb
astral
memory
towards the north through its double fruit
like raw flesh
hunger fire blood

• Tristan Tzara •

Mr. Tzara, I dedicate this poem to you.
It's called " Zack L. on the Waterfront ":

if I give you this stuff will you drink it?
syrup draught
a river coursing in my vein
berries and twigs
I picked with my fingers

LEAPING!
graceful and eyes widening
taking light, ernest in all pursuits
and in the fortnight
green hair in rivulets on his forehead, sprouting.

his face is the soil
ray of light through diner window
egg awaft and curled in moustache
wax
for a shoeshine
on his face
settling
particles a float in air-drink
plow to break the earth and
concede what they had written.

this is something we call antioch
oh, hold-pray
list bracken the forwards of branches weaving
luminent round fountain of
this place
floor is paved
by ancestor squares

∞ Simon Piler ∞



"sampling"