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.

Kein Betreff. Zgia


white on paper scribbling a few lines that do not show white on paper scribbling a few lines that do not show a blind finger tip might be able to follow the incision of mind into the flat surface of lukewarm snow drink up the words swallow the wicked ways of sense and serendipidy let’s clink our fore heads and kiss that bit of air left between our cups of lips when i look back onto the path i’ve beaten until i coughed up these words i can see a white line as thin as air as random as smoke a tight tether around my neck can feel the pull in my heart but yet written in my own hand white and cloudy on the blue valley of horizon that shingle of day time and again and again and a a blind finger tip might be able to follow the incision of mind into the flat surface of lukewarm snow drink up the words swallow the wicked ways of sense and serendipidy let’s clink our fore heads and kiss that bit of air left between our cups of lips when i look back onto the path i’ve beaten until i coughed up these words i can see a white line as thin as air as random as smoke a tight tether around my neck can feel the pull in my heart but yet written in my own hand white on paper scribbling a few lines that do not show a blind finger tip might be able to follow the incision of mind into the flat surface of lukewarm snow drink up the words swallow the wicked ways of sense and serendipidy let’s clink our fore heads and kiss that bit of air left between our cups of lips when i look back onto the path i’ve beaten until i coughed up these words i can see a white line as thin as air as random as smoke a tight tether around my neck can feel the pull in my heart but yet written in my own hand white and cloudy on the blue valley of horizon that shingle of day time and again and again and white and cloudy on the blue valley of horizon that shingle of day time and again and again and a

shares R us


shares R us

whaldo’u want
right-ho
what-ho
so-ho
no-go
in glish’s invading me
a per for ma (italiano!) ‘n’ CE
wolly & golly & dolly
good times R god timees
not N inch or sense
sneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer ffffffff uu want
agog for a gogo
an’ nottin’s ever to late for ttte show
gogo
gogogo…go
if i may repeat Continue reading

as if. Zgia


a heart sat down for
break
fast
hung its soul
like a head
in sorrow
slurped some coffee
to awake from
the nightly intimations
of death
munched some toast
to wicked
perspectives on the
oncoming
to day what the day
might bring
as the heavy heart
gets up
and walks out
the door