Ghost Tantra 61 · by Michael McClure

GRAGHGAYOOOR BLANG. BLANG-GROOOOOR
sharnagtreii greee say-oornake dann thay siteee got,
thy dooombreethe ooh ah toww, toww. Oooh ezz ayee.
Oh I call for thee to rise out of me . . .
But no need, no need, thy fleshwarm
and technicolor, sleep sleek, sweet smelling,
breasted soft thighed pleasance, more than more
abound thah noohr rhoon oogweshk loooh vye
thou, thow yeer drahooeth, grahrrgooo. Rooosh
oosweed softer thah noh ah hoor seeted thah
steeped nah oh hooreeze rydeen.


ODE TO JOY · by Michael McClure

I HAVE INHERITED THE UNIVERSE!
IT CAME FROM THE EARTH
that got it from bodies
that became divine.
Ocean, forest, fog,
are wine
and they drink me.
Nothing bad
can ever happen
—it is part of the constellation
—part of the code.
It is all an ode
written in eagles
and plasm.
The chasm is as drunk
as the dizzy height.
What joy to be in flight.


STAR LIFE · by Michael McClure

                       THIS LIFE IS STAR LIFE;

                                                         SISTER DEER AND I

                       SEE STARS WITH STARS.

                                                          Brother puma

                             bites his lovers neck and she sees

                             multidimensioned

                                                          shapes of light.

What is in space for roses and for berries
is the life
that's whirling there
WITHIN
--within the organelles of cells

and the imagined time they took to crumple selves

    into a racing thing that's standing in the rains
and still beyond the reach of brains.

NO ONE EVER

turned

my

HEAD

back

to face away

                     from the world in which I

                                  die and play.

 
Close your eyes and listen to Lord Dosis read this poem.


How Badly We Need Love · by Michael McClure

HOW BADLY
we need love
to
invent
it.
WE
pretend to
be
billowing clouds
of flesh
giving morning
kisses
on the backs
of our necks.
WE
ARE
(floating)
SUSPENDED
I
N
honey
like
cupids
in
amber.
Listen,
the whales
are singing
very clearly
in our hearts
and there's a blade
of violet light
on the window
ledge.

Listen to Lady Dosis read this poem.


A Forest of Horses · by Michael McClure

A FOREST OF HORSES
is where I am
IN
YOUR
EYES
and you have
handed
me your love
with your
smiles and tears
and my heart
in my mouth
knows we are
still babes
and innocents
dancing on
the edge
of impermanence
as it moves
rapidly
and
torturously
but
we
will always
survive
just like
this
in
(this)
moment.
THE LOOK ON YOUR
FACE
assures me.

Listen to Lady Dosis read this poem.


Foreward to September Blackberries · by Michael McClure

Each poem should be an experiment - in the sense that there
are experiments in alchemy and biochemistry. I have my tran-
sient meatflesh to play on as if it is a harp. I see all beings as a
finger or tentacle of a universe that is a surge of living matter.
When I make a poem I create an extension of myself. I can feel
more when I write a poem. A poem is like a nasturtium or a
tiny orchid in a ponderosa pine forest. A poem is like a panda
-or a giant ground sloth- or like the breath of a wolf on a
frosty evening. A poem is an amino acid in the ripples of an
endless sea.

A poem is like an ear or shoulder. Poetry is the way that we
extend our inner life. The real inner life is cut off from us -but
we can put it out there and call it a poem. We stand on poetry-
like a steppingstone in a torrent- and are more free. Then we
find the steppingstone is a drunken boat and we're sailing,
whirling, laughing...

Listen to Lord Dosis read this foreward.