What waxes wanes
the enforced reincarnation hour
and green quartz veins
over the mind of pride
nonentities
Nowhere you!
Everywhere the electric!
the golden one
living in a poetic world, devouring words
these are the thoughts that run rampant
love paves the way to our existence

Inky Interview Exclusive: Rus Khomutoff, a Neo-Surrealist Poet From Brooklyn

Poetry Drawer: Prisoner of Infinity: To Felino A. Soriano by Rus Khomutoff

And all of them you’ll see dead, still dead,
All of them, cities, towns, hamlets
Dead still, life forever runaway –
So, please don’t fret, my grass, my trees, my friends,
I know what you’re looking for:
Death getting them as soon as the streets stop
Hugging homeless, beggars and cripples,
Death getting them as soon as the streets lock their walls,
Let’s throw away those who can’t afford the front-row seats –
Aren’t all streets heartless gods or nasty stepmothers? –
No names, please, those blue twilights fighting like thugs,
Nor do you deserve the lost items the thugs gave you
To eject lost souls to a maze of harvests, pomegranates,
And who cares, souls are such foul fighters,
The choicest food for harvest celebrations –
Oh, God, you here? How nice! And whom is your cyder for?
Maybe for the renegade days,
Maybe for the minds shacking up with a rotten silence,
Or that tricky equation we call life,
Only it’s just a wild loss, so drop it quick, c’mon,
All his life the sky’s been stalking women, he know best,
The limbs deep in the water, the words junked from traps and blows –
Look, God, give your cyder to demise, as she never yields
To green briberies, or the white of clouds, you know?
No charm, no shape, no playing by deception,
Only hunger, the evil bite to our flesh –
I know, I know, green is bloody hungry, oh, and before I forget
Any use for his scraps of lives?
What a daft gift, a waste of colours while death
Runs fast to gather falling souls,
Look, don’t you worry for there is room
Where they shake like scared poems –
Trust me, the lovely porticoes rife with rain and flowers
Will get their gift, who knows, maybe an unchained river,
Maybe the earth dancing berserk in a game of one-upmanship –
Clashing like cicadas’ songs or, if you wish,
The wicked subtlety of mornings,
The witches trilling sweet lullabies while making
Gingerbread houses for the kids.

Inky Interview Special: Italian Poet Gabriella Garofalo

Poetry Drawer: Asymmetry At Full Blast by Gabriella Garofalo

When the water began
to fill the coalfields
I, the last inhabitant
of this city
had tied myself
to the basement post
looking for—what?—
a revelation?

Possible.

The water, coated
with coal dust,
swirled around my feet.
The rope tightened
around my neck.
The darkness
in my basement was pure.
I had to feel
the water
the coal dust

and I could feel
the great manuscripts of Florence

covered with coal
illuminated
with potential combustion
even as the water
permeated pages so thick
to be almost cloth.

As we drown
we have the potential
to burn.

What?
A revelation?
Possible.

Water around my waist now
cold as coal
cold as the mine in winter

and still the rope grows tighter
around my neck.

Water mains broke
in a thousand earthquakes
around the world last year
and flooded the streets.
Now certain third world countries
find it suitable
to sacrifice whatever
first comes to hand
on the anniversary of the flood

chickens, cows, in one
case a firstborn.

Water sustains us
but at times is our adversary.

A revelation?
Possible.

The rope soaked
and dusted.
I taste coal on my lips.
The last inhabitant
of this city,
I give myself
to whatever powers guide
these waters.

A revelation?

I wake up,
afloat,
clean.

And it’s always been so simple, hasn’t it?

The poets
stifled by their governments
their countries
some of them scream
and whine
and cry
that they are being
repressed—
shut up!

You have governments
that notice you
enough to stifle
your pitiful syllables—

look at Artaud
locked up and starved
for nine years
Artaud who was crazy
and locked up
and still wrote
the burning lines of France

look at Holan
crushed for fifteen years
under socialist censorship
all the time he wrote
all-night dialogues
with a paedophilic Hamlet
with Orpheus
and Eurydice
all he did
for fifteen years
was write
write lines stifled
by silly socialists
and Holan never whined once!

Writing bedridden
Holan’s hand
guided by Hamlet
and Orpheus
wine and music
something rotten
in the state of Czechoslovakia
repressed and asexual
yearning for a Eurydice
not in Hell
but maybe in Philadelphia

they took Shakespeare
by the tongue
and pulled him inside out
stretching glands and breaking bones
the bard’s words warped
and torn

leatherbound volumes
self-produced
given to friends
and never seeing
the light of day
transcriptions
of A Night with Hamlet

To be
or not to be?
And it’s always been so simple, hasn’t it?

Cleaving together
to be a writer
repressed by the government
not to be a writer
not to be a poet
in the eyes of your peers
an underground poet
in the truest sense
a poet
a poet!

Shun everything and write for fifteen years.

Take a pension
form the government
which represses you

twist all those fainting words
from seventeenth century
musical fools
and publish again
publish again
when the government sets you free

look the fire of Hamlet
straight in his one yellow eye
and burn
burn
cut your arms
and bleed
bleed
play your lyre
and sing
sing

rescue with your blood and fire and voice
your tarnished Eurydice
from the hell of Philadelphia
let your voice
spit blood
spew sweat
sing poetry
scream every syllable
of Beowulf
or A Night
with Hamlet,
till some underworld Pluto
takes pity on your plight,
releases your muse
from the burning brimstone
of Center City buildings,
take her away
and don’t look back,

maybe you’ll lose your muse
baby, but you never know—

let her follow you
to South Street,
meet your one-eyed Hamlet
on a street corner
then maybe,
just maybe,
your Eurydice
will catch up with you

Talk is mostly small talk.
Despite all I’ve done,
all I know,
I can’t get by the weather,
her sweater,
how she’s done her hair.

I don’t understand
why it’s all so awkward.
It’s not that I expect
us to spill our heart’s insides
but a little mutual scraping
of that organ’s surface
should be possible.

Silence is unfriendly.
Attention is everything.
But nothing much is said.
And concentration
reaps no rewards.
Are we both just shy
and don’t have it in us
to speak freely?

“Good coffee,” I say.
“Yes, it is,” she replies.
In infant talk,
that’d be “dada”
“mama.”

My mind has been circling an idea
For a few hours now
Like a bird gliding above roadkill
I have it pinned down, located
Claimed as my own
But I have yet to touch down
To sink my beak into the gore of it
It is merely baking on the pavement
In the hot fruit fly summer sun
Glistening and raw with blood
My mind has been too occupied
To do what my circling implies
Circle, screech, die, repeat

Oh Prisoner of infinity
countercurrent between transgression and transaction
insinuation of eternity’s unrepeatable coalescence
poise deposited in an effervescent aye
on this iron chain of birth and annihilation
you espouse your catastrophe of charm
surefire voices that furnish the kiss of death
an unwearying impulse
to decrypt and decipher longing
like an idea infested with platitudes
realm navigator on the edge of consciousness

Why the thing killed itself
While the slaves closed in to eat
The cannibals or yes no quite indeed
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The death
The reason
The dream

The dream the dream remains
They are coming coming
To get me
I know too much

I will not tell they will not believe
OK they can’t think they can only screw

Dark the thumb
the race cards tell us all
The death of God
Killed in a drunken fit
That is my story

I killed god

They snare us while we sleep
They come for us while we sleep
In a bed of golden fleas

They are waiting
In the archway of my house
They are waiting outside

I march to my doom
Screaming with all my might.