auerhahn press


It’s absurd I can’t bring my soul to the eye of odoriferous fire

my soul whose teeth never leave their cadavers
my soul twisted on rocks of mental freeways
my soul that hates music
I would rather not see the Rose in my thoughts take on illusionary
it is enough to have eaten bourgeois testicles
it is enough that the masses are all sodomites
Good Morning
the ships are in I’ve brought the gold to burn Moctezuma
I’m in a tipi joking with seers I’m smoking yahnah
I’m in a joint smoking marijuana with a cat who looks like Jesus Christ
heroin is a door always opened by white women
my first act of treason was to be born!
I’m at war with the Zodiac
my suffering comes on as a fire going out O beautiful world contemplation!

It’s a fact my soul is smoking!


That the total hatred wants to annihilate me!
it’s the sickness of american pus against which I’m hallucinated
I’m sick of language
I want this wall I see under my eyes break up and shatter you
I’m talking all poems after God
I want the table of visions to send me oriole opium
A state of siege
It’s possible to live directly from elementals! hell stamps out vegetable
  spirits, zombies attack heaven! the marvelous put down by
  martial law, America fucked by a stick of marijuana
paper money larded for frying corpses!

HERE comes the Gorgon! THERE’S the outhouse!

         Come up from dead things, anus of the sun!


old after midnight spasm
juke box waits for junk
round about midnight music
combing bop hair
getting ready to cook
Jupiter wails!
heroins of visionary wakeup in light of Bird and The Going Forth By
the pipe’s spiritual brain winters off the Nile old hypodermic needle
  under foot of Anubis
                                         Mother Death
I’m at the boat of Ra Set
I’m Osiris hunting stars his black tail of the sun!
It’s the end of melancholy       sad      bop      midnights.


They shot me full of holes at Kohlema’s hut!
It’s your who’ll be butchered in my precise imagination
It’ll be hard to withstand the reasoning of peyotl Rack

  many times my song went downstairs, people of entire hate and I
burned you in basements without tearing my face up
O people I hate the most! glass automobiles snake by to decay decay is
  living anthill
where yr automobiles lift their skirts and stiff
pricks of dead indians going in reverse
automobile graveyards where I eat fenders, bodies I crunch mustards of
  engines I devour whole gallons of molding chrome I whip cheese
  from cannibal hoods

O beautiful people of hate! your money fenders how creamy! your electric
  eyes stinking! your geometric reconstructions against my

   – Philip Lamantia [Destroyed Works, 1962]