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The feathered eagle
To the skies
No more uprises
Instead a palm of dust grows
You know that earthly tree now bears no bread
A hand outstretched is trembling
The flagstaff has an ensign
Only madmen see
With famine starting at the head
Some judy delivers a punchline
In the breadbasket today
No fond embraces
Are afoot
Death puts a boot
Where the bounce was once
In among the listening lilies a silent tread
Bite the fruit to taste the stone
Throughout the Gobi seed awaits
The rain to stalk
Famine starting at the head
He only has to say one word
Roses grow from an empty bowl
In our shuttered streets
The cars roam
Don’t need a home
Or volume control
Wandering sizeless with the unaimed dead
We hear his voice cry ‘Paradise!’
On the Golden Coast the cymbals
Start to sound
Salvation starting at the head
Tortures
There’s no answer from the old exchange
I want to push inside you
The sensations you find in yourself
May just be within my range
Grimly sitting round a table
Fifteen men with life at stake
They may torture themselves but those tortures
Will not make them awake
The cards were somehow different
The board I had not seen before
Their iron maiden gleamed dimly cherry-red with sex
Down in the basement I reached Low Point X
Last year they stopped their playing
Phone just ceased to buzz
But if you find them there tomorrow
Better start in there praying
Reincarnation where the cobwebs
Are comes daily from your keep
We may torture ourselves but those tortures
Cannot break our sleep
Poor A!
(Gurdjieff’s Mocking Song)
Poor A! Poor A! Now there’s a clever man!
He only wants to talk and he is happy!
I could have pulled his trousers off
Un-noticed, silly chappie!
Poor A! Poor A! What sort of man is it
Who only wants to talk and he’s okay?
I tell you everyone’s like that –
They fill the world today.
I might say poor old A is rather better
Then some wild talkniks I have met, a
Chap who in his way knows what is what –
On military onions he knows quite a lot.
In a superficial public way he tries to find out Why:
And he’d hate to think he ever told a lie.
Poor A! Poor A! He is no longer young!
He said so much I think and was uncouth
To guard against an awful chance
To listen to the truth –
He led himself a merry dance –
He hid his head in circumstance –
To fight against the truth!
Disciples: Poor us! Poor us! We really felt his tongue!
He drank Khagetia and chattered without ruth
To guard against his only chance
To hear G give out truth –
He led us all a merry dance –
He leads himself a dreary prance –
To smite against the truth!
To fight against the truth!
The Unaimed Deadman Theme
Foreign familiar filthy fastidious forgotten forbidden
Suicide’s revelation its sunnyside hidden
Death’s black-and-white checker is down on the table
Fugitive fustian funebral infinite formidable
Far down the runway the black sheds are standing
My love talks to me with a delicate air
I am the victim the assassin the wounder
Her face looks no larger as I stand close than
It simultaneously does in my telescope sights
But pleasant is walking where elmtrees paint shadow
If I fire I might as well hit me
I walked with her once where her elms brought their shadows
The dogrose dies now while the invalid car
Barks vainly and I the assassin the wounder
On the runways the markings are no longer valid
Hieroglyphs of a system now long obsolete
