LIGHTHOUSE ON MURMURING ROCK*
an English sonnet after Peter Ustinov on The Muppet Show, after an ugly cry in the shower
No more words left for wrongs, only my cries
backfiring from sagas of deep blank seas,
where ships have sailed away and left my eyes
mystified by memory’s drifting tease.
With savage bursts at seams of craft I built,
I cling and clench, slipping, I can’t get back
innocence lost amid sickly fine silt.
I feel no worth, just shame, for all I lack.
In my aloneness, who is it I hear?
Anchored authorities’ hats go unchained
to hear a master voice at distance steer
all that spits forth of truth and down the drain
from epic pull of spiraling black hole.
Let go these oceans I cannot control.
*in reference to Lorelei
all i can get
after watching Wally Boag on The Muppet Show, after a heartbreak
he never heard male robot sighs on soap
operas from the 80s & 90s i found myself
watching, or he didn’t want to know that
about me, or he never wished to imagine
sham pipes blown up in me, & if he did,
i’m a real shrink for attention to detail &
i’d never want him to be tortured. some-
times absolute worst line of amusement
park, bad all around, hits body strangely.
blown up jealous condom in life of limes
is a fact of the black mirror gatekeeper
i’ve spent so much time w/, ‘cept i never
really got into the PIXAR thing. is that
cuz i am old? or older? it was definitely
older writers considering younger oglers.
i much prefer hand-drawn animation. yet,
i liked WALL-E cuz it was space & robots
& that worked, but what do i know about
future music perspectives on linear tracks?
why do humans have to be computerized?
only sure thing that gets me out of bed
now is trusting i might get Sunday lucky
again, & there is a bit of fate around that
corner. i fell in love w/a cockroach who
didn’t believe in luck. i could never really
understand if it was because he believed
in GOD, or rather, in faith, which made
him sure, or if having a silvery moon in a
time forgotten was on account of himself
& his doing. i think it takes a lucky man to
say he doesn’t believe in luck. i understand
my collection of greens from between tee-
th can’t deliver me any golden fortunes, but
i am one who still thinks a wish is a prayer
& a witch to believe in superstitious spit—
it is terrifying that there was only one form
of communication we failed at. i miss breathy
spells before dialogue. i like the first half best.
what’s a robot to do by himself w/this dream
about what moving image he’s lucky to catch?
my own breath makes me anxious.
i can’t write a haiku.
it came from beneath—
(his) third arms war love nature
male keen octopod
dies la grande morte. female dies
to keep love’s spawn alive.
senescence makes sense.
shallow sucker in deep den
blows ink impetus
(on) fluid flex shunga
w/ remarkable spineless ease
& calm control of me.
i’m pulled by spirals— camouflage abyss— space saved from death’s erotic arms—
Nico Teixeira is another artist soul from the boonies currently living out his daze in NYC, where he’d like to start the School of Pop, while staying in Spanish Harlem, after attending The New School, CCNY, ULisboa, SFSU, LMU|LA, and various other schools off the Mass & Jersey turnpikes. He will be going back for more at Hunter, right by the old Muppet Mansion at 117th E 69th St. Cyber remnants of his being\work can be found through his nom de plume @muppoet and his blog @ muppoems.com
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