Author Archives: Louis Kasatkin

About Louis Kasatkin

Unadulterated commentary and analyses on all aspects of contemporary literary arts news and topics, can be viewed on twitter under the cunning guise of @louiskasatkin also at my blogs,"fahrenheit451"on blogger.com and "And So It Goes"@ www.wordpress.com My facebook page etc.etc, ad infinitum...

Everyday

Gibbet – shadowed the long slaughter
of hang – dog afternoons is shaking fleas
at screw-top topless towers ,
– holier than thou –
sweeter than nectar
sea captain’s sermons drowning
empty pots with their cloudburst
souls’ everyday oceans ,
neatly dispensing into quartered calico
absconded tanners,fortuitous recompense
for dismal hours spent not having
an evening loud with beer;

Ragged evenings’ dust-bowled veins
irrigated by glamorous gold nectar ,
restoring exhausted tongues with ,
stories , myths and inebriate fables
of addle-arsed angels serving
plates of tepid manna to wizened ,
crouching rats cornered by a nostalgia
for drooping eyelid afternoons ,
dry as bones sucked to a gleam ,
by licentious hyenas no longer in vogue ,
their severed heads staring
at stones ripped away from
redundant wombs that bled black clouds ,
of court-martialled men
in towns washed by crocodiles’ saline ,
applied by nightingales
to Crimean wounds ;

Ruptured virgin dawns implode
on tongues royally buried
in ashen debris pyramids ,
where squatting toad soliloquies
excavated from the lava depict ,
silken bursting bowel purses
drenching furtive hedges with
their sows’ ears coin congested bile ,
gently loosening lessening
throngs’ senile embrace of
cauterised eulogies morse-coded
beyond adagioed horizons of corteged streets,
their veiled memories of sunken maydayed hives,
charred opiate lives exhaled through membranes
into the ” open sesame ! ” promised grey ,
twisting ,slowly slowly in its Turin-shrouded dreams.

( This poem has lain virtually untouched and unpublished in my personal archives since circa 1988 , a jejeune ” homage ” of sorts to ” Under Milkwood ” and ” Ulysses ” )

Existential Allegory #83

There once was a beggar,

blind from birth,

sat by the city’s gates

who would shout out,

from time to time:

Why are you looking at me?

then one day

a passerby stopped

on hearing the beggar’s cry

and asked

how do you know if someone is looking at you?

the sightless mendicant replied

I’m allowed to guess,aren’t I?

Too Busy..

Hello..goodbye,

never said much,

always too busy;

Don’t know why

wouldn’t say,

always too busy;

Dropped a line

wouldn’t reply

always too busy;

Cards and letters

never received,

out of the country

would you believe,

always too busy;

Death notice

somewhere abroad

didn’t check out

found the next day,

Room service?

always too busy.

————————–

Author’s Footnote:

(one of my very early performance pieces circa 1997)

Ice Cream Mozart (by Russ Crabtree)

It was great to hear the children play

To the sound of the ice cream van’s harmonic tones,

Up and down the street they ran

Excitement built at the sound

Of the painted ice cream van,

Every day it never failed

Mozart sonata in C major

Was the tune it always played,

Wolfgang would not even realise

His music composition

Made the ice cream taste so nice,

When a little girl was introduced

To Mozart’s tune and it produced

An accomplished organist and pianist,

Now how the years have flown

that little girl has grown,

and is now teaching students of her own,

Inspired by that harmonic tone

And her first taste of a

Five pence ice cream cone.

( Russell Crabtree is a member of Writers Assemble,the local community development project of Destiny Poets)

A Tale From The Nursery

In the valley of the idiots

where a half-wit was King,

it was ordered coal-scuttles to be worn

on peoples’ heads when out in public

to prevent them seeing

things as they really are;

The whistling of merry tunes

was also prohibited,

lest joy was spread unannounced

and took others by surprise

who in turn might smile involuntarily

and so give rise to mirth,

and cause questions to be asked

about the edict on the wearing of coal-scuttles.

Author’s Footnote:

This is a companion piece to “The Ban on Straw”.

The Man in the High Tower

Among all the tall towers

there is a man in the

highest tower of all;

a man alone

surveying all that is his,

and most of what he sees

among all the tall towers,

is his;

Orders,commands,purpose,vision

and power flow from this pinnacle,

this apogee of authority

down,down into the

favellas, barrios, ghettoes,

shanty towns and slums,

to those who hear his voice

relayed by officials, underlings,

acolytes and the vast panoply

of enforcement;

Even from among all the tall towers

they gaze up at

the highest tower of all

and imagine in there

a man alone;

an old man

all alone

and

dying

of Cancer.

Corpse & The Duke

The carriage alighted outside

his well-appointed townhouse,

whereupon the elegantly attired

Duc de Charlatan stepped forth

jauntily as the carriage door opened;

Yet within the blink of an eye

his aristocratic frame froze,

as if struck by some sudden palsy,

Awash with incredulity

the Duke’s visage barely managed

to utter the refrain,

” I say,you there fellow! be about

your business or else!”

his carved italianate walking stick

pointing accusingly at the object of his ire,

a person prostrate on the ground,

their frame interjected geometrically

twixt the carriage’s door and the front

door to the Duc de Charlatan’s habitation;

Two footmen were despatched with

immediate haste to confront what

seemed to be layers of still-bound

ragged cloth,

” Be on your way or we shall summon

the Constable!”

The directness of their invective

whilst assuaging his excellency’s ire,

had little effect on the person

remaining prostrate on the footpath;

” Why don’t you move silly fellow ?

before I tread on you!” exclaimed the Duke,

Having ascertained the scene for a while,

the Footmen were prompted,

by conscience perhaps,

to inform his excellency

that the person on the ground

was in fact deceased;

” Such churlish effrontery to persons

of higher standing, incommoding one’s

carefully planned morning!”

extemporised the Duke,

to which a passing neighbour nodded sagely,

as they stepped over the cadaver.

The Haircut (by Russ Crabtree)

There once was a maiden so fair

Who cut all her families hair,

Collected all up in a great big bin

Threw it all over the garden in Spring,

Sat down in the chair for a rest

To watch the birds pick it up for their nest,

But the maiden got angry began to shout

The birds made a mess on her washing she’d just pegged out,

It was dire

all over my best white shirt I wear in the choir,

Them birds can be a pest,

I’ve let them use my hair for their nest.

Editorial footnote:

Russell “Russ” Crabtree is a part of Writers Assemble -the local community group project run by Destiny Poets as part of our wider community involvement and outreach.

For more info, checkout the facebook page for Writers Assemble.

Fin de Siecle

Trailing in the wake of Lions,

Hyenas come to feast on the carcass

of someone else’s name;

Shattered windows,

Burned out cars,

Looted Stores,

Toppled statues;

Triumphant Vandal hordes

breaking the gates of Rome,

trampling its glories,

defecating on Temple steps;

Anarchy like lava

spewing from a volcano’s maw

shrouding the days

in its ashen nights

and its silence drowning our screams.