Tropicália. Caetano Veloso (1968)


Above my head the planes
Under my feet the trucks
My nose pointing towards
The plateaus
I organize a movement
I orient the carnival
I inaugurate a monument
In the country’s Central Plateau
Long live the Bossa — ssa — ssa
Long live huts from straw — traw — traw

The monument is made from streamers & silver
The green eyes of the mulatta
The hair conceals behind the green forest
The moonlight in the sertão
The monument has no door
The entrance is through an old, narrow, crooked street
A kneeling, smiling, ugly dead child
Stretches out its hand
Long live the green land — land — land
Long live the multatta — ta — ta — ta — ta

In the inner patio there’s a swimming pool
with blue water from Amaralina
Coconut tree, Northeastern breeze and talk and lights
In the right hand a rose bush
Legitimizing an eternal spring
In the gardens vultures stroll all afternoon
Amidst sunflowers
Long live Maria — ia — ia
Long live Bahia — ia — ia — ia — ia

On the left wrist bang-bang
Little blood runs in his veins
But his heart swings to a samba and tambourine
Playing dissonant chords
From five thousand loudspeakers
Ladies and gents, he watches me with big eyes
Long live Iracema — ma — ma
Long live Ipanema — ma — ma — ma — ma

Sunday it’s “Fino da Bossa”
Monday it’s the dumps
Tuesday he goes to the backland. But
The monument’s pretty modern
He said nothing about the tailoring of my suit
To hell with everything else
My dear
Long live “A Banda” — da — da
Long live Carmen Miranda — da — da — da — da

—translated, from the Portuguese, by Odile Cisneros

Johnny takes up smoking. Luca Paci


Believe me when “I” says

I’s lost for words

Cause words don’t come

Easy and mostly dont’come

Free thesedays.

Johnny’s taking up smoking

Simply fed up of waiting

Finding an easy way to shorten his

Certain death

And he knows it’s bad for you

That’s why he does it

That’s why he rips out his

Bloody thoughts of grandeur

And crushes them under the

Pressure of his cowboy heels

He knows time’s running out

He knows that plastic lasts for

Centuries and will probably outlive

Any animal.

He cares too much

This is his problem

His sister

At the till for ten years

His brother

In a minefield of accounts

And his father lost in his

Alzheimic alchemic universe

Where people and objects have

Finally the same right of non existence

Fall of Troy. Miroslav Holub


From burning Troy we took away
these rags of ours,
teeth in a glass
and a tattooed grandpa.

A bit further on the ancient quail
were nesting again
and silver pike were milting
in the quiet sky.

Nailed to the ground by a lance
a soldier
flapped a hand at us.
The wormwood spoke no word
nor did the gentian.

Just like home, said grandpa.

The bleating of lambs
arched a roof
over our heads.
The land flowed with manna.
From the time of the primary rocks
nothing had happened in fact.

And like a fingernail
grown into the flesh
our truth
was always with us.

We slept embraced,
rags wrapped about us,
teeth in a glass.
Just like home, said grandpa.

Nothing had happened in fact.
Only we understood
that Troy
perhaps
had really
fallen.

whatsup. Zgia


we can’t beat
keep
the beat
the fizzyness

be m.a.l.
borough small
puff any
magic dragon

button down
what‘s yours
trifle up
what‘s in the
mine

the beat
bell the metro
nome of
life

eat and drink
through the layers of
x = stance

stay where
flies used
to fly
dongdonging against a
window

pain

THE FINE LINE


The Fine Line Chanticleer Publication 070105

At face value
the skin over London is too tight
the face lift of success too successful
(probably rep-car replaces Bowler)
too deep yet the lines in the faces of the poor

Fragmentary, impressionistic portraits of life in London, tinged with critical social commentary, and with the sadness and loneliness of those who live on the edge. Many of the poems are untitled, and Lucapacijürgenhebrezgiabiher makes use of visual effects, including line drawings and different fonts, in the manner of early twentieth century French poets, such as Apollonaire (unfortunately not reproducible in this review). I was also reminded of Kenneth Patchen, and I would guess that Lucapacijürgenhebrezgiabiher is a reader of Blake, Eliot and Pound. He quotes Dante: “Tra la perduta gente” (Among the lost people).

The city of London in these poems is both timeless and very much of today. He answers the question WHAT’S BEAUTY?:

Eating space and tar
Following the road — scar
Wounding the city

The burning rail tracks
Sparkling into another
Dimension where things
Matter

That bleached poster
Stuck at the petrol pump
VISIT JAMAICA

Dwindling morning dream
Visit……visit Jamaica

The success of some has always come at a price for others. Lucapacijürgenhebrezgiabiher makes his point in a manner which is playful and aphoristic:

London skull
heading a Europe
skeleton
oh what a swish reaper
(probably with a Bowler hat)
a sort of royal dawdler in
Hide&Park

— from the untitled poem quoted at the start of this reivew —

There is a kind of controlled rage and sadness. From the same poem:

assets assets assets assets assets assets assets assets assets assets assets assets
worth some wars and
flesh to be rubbished away
beauty to be sold out
needs streamlined into one-way system

Some of the poems take the form of small prayers. There is a yearning for a different Albion, where not

only the fool can
make it.

At their best, the poems have a hypnotic, haunting quality. And they are all much more readable and pronounceable than the author’s name.

Not all the writing in this collection will appeal, but if the lines quoted above say something to you, it’s worthwhile getting hold of a copy of this book.
Reviewer: Ian Seed.