My Tokyo

like the Lord Buddha
almost sitting in this city
I am now being conceived of October's tedium

my dear girlfriend who walks about nude
in a New York loft
hysterically vivaciously
you will again snake around Masuo's neck
and beg for kisses
I want to tear that skinny coquettish white nakedness
off from the frame and touch it
it will be very white chalk-white
a sea of desolate solids or
it must be a waterfall of plaster dirt
that when you touch it falls in flakes
the fat pants of the Italian who puts you in a laundry bag and carries it
on his shoulder to the washing place
are visible
the cans of the cheap beer he treats you to
roll empty in the street-floor bar and like rats
they squeal crying
this is America America's hungry

my closemouthed October
this concrete sullenness
prowls my Tokyo
the bothersome phony tears and brownnosing of phony mankind
that runs around aimlessly overflow
from the jukebox and then
turn into giant shoals of sardines emit evil smells
and flow toward artistic poetic thoughts usual
academic autumn
to all
that saying bye-bye
I enter as I haven't done for a long time
my interior canal
or infiltrate my interior city
at this city's entrance at the end of summer
I met a single individual
Amenhotep (king of ancient Egypt)
he's a nameless youth a modern bus conductor
a butcher racer poet revolutionary other
he's all the rains what is not all or ancient five thousand years ago
its king the eagle that is its amulet the intestines of newly born
crocodiles that become its food
infants' brains
unguents for rituals pliant dress of hatred time
what are the parts of these and their whole
I held hands with a moment of him Amenhotep
who becomes visible and invisible in this chaos
and plunged into a season of personal performances
about that time
there was the noise of a subway running at the bottom of my city
the womb again on the stage
drums and bass sounding Sandra started her dance
Sandra who's all black isn't Salome
a beautiful lesbian black middle class
a sweet lascivious housewife a go-go dancer
a black Santa Maria who turned her husband
into a pale shark a castrated Don Juan

my starting to take the subway
that was my first encounter with Henry Miller
the chamber pot newspapers old letters chairs milk
in every piece of furniture and food I saw
his drinking water- cell- rag-like
I'm still a regular user of the subway
I love the subway almost as long as
coitus my subway
is no longer iron a soft flesh shape
a ghost of civilization a cradle of thought now
in this city the subway is
the innermost stomach of meditation
on its ulcer mankind that settled in the city
was clinging somewhat half-asleep half-awake incessantly
spitting out foam from its mouth not words
not roars not pleadings neither smiles
nor words of love nor satisfaction nor battles
but foam

at the Club "so what"
one o'clock at night Max Roach beats his drums
why is he handsome
why do his drums appeal to me lyrically
again awfully fierce rain of sounds at a technical extreme
there the people became numb and the small cosmos
of his music that was played squashed flat
people's lazy spawning

My Tokyo
this city almost
our womb
I stood at its gate
with Amenhotep and we kissed
then the rain began and then
almost through the duration of linkage we died or had coitus
dying for five thousand years and being born for five thousand years
yawning for five thousand years and continuing to laugh for five
thousand years that will be more than love

everything frogs eggs jam a piece of
blue sky writing paper records flies too
(Let's dive between the sheets)
that's the password in our city
someone in solitude dove with a dead cat
someone too handsome a man
shattered the mirror grabbed with all his strength the penis of
himself that was on the other side and fainted
and somebody else incessantly afraid
of his delicate brain and body eating catnip
wailing cowered on the sheets
two young leopards these men
quietly embrace each other in the deep woods of their yearning
those beautiful monkey women in each other's secret rooms
were casting rainbows of caresses like the glow of morning
about that time
my personal performances continued rapidly sullenly
from October to December during which time
I was in the spider's web of aphasia acute ecstasy idiotic
where my many selves became the food of the spider
uttered sloppy cries and were captured
one of my selves
escaped took the subway and still
tried to do some music
this may not be love it may merely be
the greetings of the season

something was musicked
my own self smeared
on the already new melody and I hear
myself slapping my tail with the fierceness of a crocodile of hatred
but who is it getting thrashed by this tail
who is this soul being called into this music

at the terminal I see Joe who's turned into a ghost
he's been already crushed beneath the sexual roller
and has become gray and a shadow
given up even by the last drop of the storage of life
is he reddish brown iron sand chased into a lazy desert
tangled by a viper roller
the limbs of his will gradually taken by the spider
and rusting on the side of delayed time he's now
about to lower the last curtain

when I too
am stirring my hot will in the ashes
to clearly give a burial to my city

through many layers of fogs of premonitions
I faintly heard God's pain
it suddenly became a fiery pain
now for the first time
I see God entire fall in a thunderbolt and in a roar
becoming hot right next to me
almost like eternity it's momentary
half ill and wounded lying this
in the form of a feeble traveler

my city is
now far in the distance
already a stranger's face
its concrete head drooping
and sleeping an aimless sleep

by Kazuko Shiraishi

Other poems of SHIRAISHI (8)

Comments (1)

I felt I was on tour -globally, nice write read my recent poem on Lord Buddha days are not same and the other go on learning thank you