Out of the Cupboard #5

Presenting: A.J. Kaufmann

Under Berlin sky

the Berlin sky is all set ablaze
w/ Fernsehenturm candles & vertigo
cafes
where districts roll by like swans
in search of black&white angels
in search of our good’ ole Nick
or some Cabaret
blazin’
revival
all footnotes
to heaven
& such…

weddings, funerals, orchestras…
shock rock guitars…
the whole avant-garde
in a single black dot
the hair-ties
& sunflower suits…

so the sky scans the crowds
on the lookout for patchy jackets
cheap worn-out stetsons
jeans & boots full of holes
or a field of sand to play in
to draw mandalas
& cease to wonder
to begin a life
at every shredded breath’s corner
or find yourself in a room
full of strangers like snakes
& ladders to Jacob’s
milkshake
dream
w/ one of your notebooks in hand
still empty…

get in line
for the casting:
One Second Assumption
A Lifetime of Sweat
& Repentance

perhaps Polanski’s cut out
to make such a killer
real…

under Berlin sky we’re bound to die
we’re bound to reflect the mirroring
skyslide
certainty
we’re bound to exist
on the U-bahn girl
single
handclap
the Irish songteller
D-flat
the red-bearded sailor’s
stormwatch tale
on dead ship-clouds
in night’s filthy bossom
or postcard
memoirs
or film noir
magicians
or Japanese tourist
hunters

gettin’ tired of them anything pushers
crammed in underpasses
like stillborn projections
of death in a second
the seventy-seven times cheaters
& theatre poster magic
all right at your feet from the whore’s
balustrade
where you’re standin’ like Lili
herself
smilin’
eatin’ the 5 mark tortilla
to get to the slut
in a minute or so

while the Fernsehenturm candles blaze on…
blaze on like their name was Suzanne
blaze on like the
gamblers
be angels
or Jesus atop of his tower
the caring resentment’s
groan

& the Fernsehenturm’s castin’ her shadows…
the cup has a hole in the bottom…
& Lili will never quite patch her fishnets
or the very cheap
leather
jacket…

& the districts roll on like swans
& the districts care
for noone

 

 

Bum seraphim

all praise the bum seraphim
all thirsty
for day’s glow
eternity

all filled w/ insanity garlands
roses tulips
& strawberry wine
stuffed w/ immaculate madcaps
& cheshire cat’s mountain
tops
ever rollin’ like Euphrates does
ever snowin’ like winter does
ever singin’ like the hummingbird
does
never & forever
on his kneaded yet suffering
devoided
Lhasa pilgrimage

crawlin’ like the ivy does
expandin’ like the cosmos does
dyin’ like the sunray does
brilliant
as dew drops
alive
as the stones
precise
as thunder

praisin’ life as life does
vanishin’ like the wind does
livin’ like the prairie does
fragmented
unified
hollow

all praise the day’s
glow
bum seraphim
odyssey

god’s fingers exploring so vividly
gently
his unborn yet
tomorrows

 

 

Skull mural mirror

so… they’ve got the mural of my skull
here
they allow me to stare
at it
sometime…
I’m recognizin’ those yellow
trails
of pillage
red streaks
of constraint
amazingly fractured
wisps
of self

maxilla
cheekbones
orbits:
the unchanging
points of
reference…

all since the time that fears me
& loathes
me
continues

the giant bone tree
stuck to the mirror
of
former
selves
&
dead leaves on coffee
do drown

vast as the sky over Andes
& very well written
on ice
sheets

whose fingers should I blame
whose fingers
promise
redress
& ain’t that already
rebirth
in a way…
ain’t that already
seconde
vue…

 

 

One minute long

one long minute ago
one of the
longest
in mind
the insufficient indifferent
footstep
shattered in the mire
residently
exploring
the gut placenta
sideways
while the clock didn’t move
at all
& the time was for all
but for
nova
explosion

while she sewed her sunglasses
way back
together
in memory of her drunken cricket
paramour
& roared out “Build me a woman”
& decided to swing back
the past
decided to swing past
the future
to steer me
away from my myth
& my
fate

put my cowboy boots on…
took the shotgun off the shelf…
realised…
shivered in laughter…

remembered the Moonlite Mile
Suite
seven years of daylight
counted her lives in fear
of returning
too early
& shot three times
a day

bit into
the cushion
fell down

& suddenly the room’s
mediocre walls
became
eerie dada
installments
& the gaslamp
a pale
gallery

as the portrait of an artist
as a splattered
liar
glowed

the coming-of-age
the going-off-style
off-rhythm
& into the
vegetable
existance

 

 

How Gina sits

she sits on a rockin’ chair
stormship
observing the ceiling
moth dance
the lightbulb anxiety
propaganda
the waves form her Persian
carpet
the wineglass
the bullets
remind her my reptile
halcyon days
golden years
antacid
drunkard
luxuries of oblivion
“my name is of no
importance”
she whispers
“my body’s no longer
of use”
she purrs
“for you I’m no longer
of use…”
& from my balcony wide
magnoliagilded
she notices
J.C.
passin’
in the autumn needle rain
kino
for all the kids
interested:
he comes in sepia
whipped & shaken
the polish
zloty
saviour

the clockwork
Kain
in anger…

I try to calm her
sing quiet illusory
lovesongs
quote Wilde
or paint her on my lilac
wall
right next to some cut-up
paintings
sketches of Spain
her child’s first attempts
in crayons

try to rescue the skeleton
corset
Gina
from fallin’ deeper & swifter
into gorgeous tiny
notepad
nursery rhyme
pieces
while smokin’ ten thousand
marlboros

nothing helps
as usual:
our Gina sees the light
only when she’s really
dyin’

the moths dance still
“how banal” I mutter
“how quick & painless…”
she flutters
falls for the moth king
eyes stop at the lightbulb’s
border
Gina burns
& gauges
away

she sure would like some
tecata
now

 

 

2nd hand mentality

There…
there is the pin
glory center
of my 2nd hand mentality
there is the reason
why I run through the cheapest shelf’s…
obscure book collecting
fueled by fire Nijinsky idiot
bringing home
all the ugliest wordscalps
choosing the worst possible
authors
you can think of…
stopping Kali-sheltered eyes on cheap
how-to’s
why-not’s
& still sacred poets
of the underrated mire:
all Frenchmen, all keen on the devil
one brainscrewed
German screenwriter…

there: see all those SM
saloons
visits… drop from these pages
like honeymoon dancers

there…
there is the pin
on reading
the Fountain of Hyacinth
hallways alit in candles
& brewery sparkled
in clear Cracov
spray verse

there…
there is this 2nd hand feeling again:
her dress didn’t come
from a store
you might’ve
heard of…
the girl herself
don’t come from starshine areas
other than
cheap brocade
star-alike dots
in the 2nd hand’s entrance
window

 

 

Questions and Answers

Q)Your poetry is an odd mix of European references and Americana beatesque flow. Do you think your current writing style is that of a writer on the path to finding his own voice?
AK)Absolutely. I’ve been a song lyrics writer until December 2007. And it’s quite a different thing, really… the words go along with the music… and in poetry words themselves are music… I think I haven’t even found my own rhythm by now… the Slavic mentality’s still fightin’ with the western spirit…

Q)Are there any definite influences on your poetry?
AK)Not really… I recently read loads of Bukowski, Stachura, Sartre, Petofi and Burroughs. But I doubt if they’re having any direct or definite influence on me… I try to speak my own mind and spirit instead of simply copying the masters of verse… it would be too easy… I also love Gil Scott-Heron and Leonard Cohen. But only women are a perfect influence. Always.

Q)You’ve recently created Eviscerator, tell us more about how this came about?
AK)I’m perfectly sure that nobody in Poznan or even in Poland publishes modern beat poetry and experimental stuff. I’m also not aware of the existance of any english-language poetry magazines based in Poland. Perhaps I’m ignorant… But I decided to start this little zine myself… it’s gonna be a pretty nice PDF file you can download, print out and then freely distribute. I hope it’ll turn into something more professional in the future… Issue #1 seems promising… a lot of fine Poets contributed their works so far… and submissions are still being accepted.

Q)You were born in Poznan, Poland birthplace to one of my favourite Sociologists Zygmunt Bauman. What can you tell us about the city?
AK)This city is mine. I’m the uncrowned bum king of Poznan. It’s got a few nice bars, a few nice ladies to love and a few nice boys who buy you drinks for stories of the street… This is perfectly enough for me. There are a few nice parks as well. Mostly the Citadel and the park at Solacz. That’s the city I love to hate… I could tell you a million tales of its glory and failures but I’m afraid there’s no room for it…

Q)I noticed on your bio that you draw inspiration from ‘shamanism’, how did this become of interest to you?
AK)I simply read a book by M. A. Czaplicka. “Aboriginal Siberia”, or something… then I tried to become a shaman myself. To no avail of course… but I got in touch with Jacques Brel’s ghost, eventually… and wrote a poem about it.

Q)Having been in many bands, have you found the futility of being a musician similar to that of being a writer?
AK)The futility… I guess we all could be writers and musicians. Some people just don’t have the balls… I prefer drinkin’ cosmic amounts of booze, smokes and women to writing music or poems. I wrote songs for quite a long time… I’ve began as a Birthday Party influenced little rascal who could barely play his guitar. I screamed out my lungs though. I formed a band with some similar little bastards. We had a local hit with “I love your cunt to death”. I gave three radio interviews, played seventeen gigs and wrote over two hundred songs over a four year period of time. Then I quit this whole musical bullshit to become a writer. That’s what I call futility… I tried to write jazz songs later but nobody would want to sing them… I haven’t sold a single tune. But I’ll come back to music eventually… I can feel it in my veins… my voice’s gettin’ better all the time.

Q)You travelled to Berlin in search of inspiration, what did you find in the Zeitgeist Metropolis?
AK)I found Atlantis. The multi-cultural heaven of adventure and experience. I went to Berlin at the age of 17. I mostly met hookers, wanna-be artists, avantgarde musicians and heroin addicts. I had quite a time there… and the memory of the Wall did the trick…

Q)What have you got planned for the rest of 2008?
AK)I want to record some of my old songs. Some of them are already five years old… I want to write more poems. I want to make Eviscerator Heaven big. And I want to find a decent lady to share my life with. I’ve got tired of swingin’…

Where to go next
http://myspace.com/kaufmannpoetry
http://evisceratorheaven.blogspot.com

2 thoughts on “Out of the Cupboard #5

  1. The lyrical ‘sounds’ in your latest poem shows well and the background info on your music shows.

    Jacques Brel’s ‘Dan le Port D’Amsterdam’ is one of the best renditions I’ve heard.

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