H e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s b e r g

N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i v e s E d i t i o n

BOB RIXON

I Use A Dead Language Known Only To Myself

I want my critics to say I am a clown.

I wish to be introduced

as one of the Fratalini Brothers,

those generations of painted idiots

who amused the royal families of Europe.

My desire is to carry on as if

no dark abyss has opened at my feet,

as if the moon were not endangered

by our indifference, as if

the hermaphrodite angel

whispering in my ear at this

very moment did not exist.

Where are those works of genius

recorded on fragile papyrus,

now become dust, ground up,

mixed with mud to make bricks

to build the prisons of tyrants?

Who dares waste a bare tree

with a simile? I care

when a cloud resembles Elvis.