Archives For Carlo Marx

Mad House Blues: Part 4



flower grows

among the dead

bodies of children.

Carrion crows tear flesh

and drink congealing blood

as we danced upon the hill

in a drug-fueled orgy of sorts

around cruxifictial silhouettes.

One by one we were martyred for art.

We became the ultimate martifice

Mad House Blues: Part 3

Eye’s darkened with eyeliner we lay together naked flesh pressing against disgusting flesh so beauteous and repelling buttocks flashing and we sat up discussing Dali as the Marlboro’s burned out and we lay again enwrapped in dreams sweet and lustful our teenage desires undiscovered by the world outside our room how we thought we’d never be found but like all good things it came to an end.

Mad House Blues: Part 2

Fear no one as the sun falls from its perch with

terrified glances at the shelled out town directly below

carnage that began with a rebirthing of Kristallnacht the

Jews ran with reborn terror while us Ginsberg, Solomon and I

were safe hidden in our room from the supposed free and

safe America lies based upon layers upon layers upon layers

of destructive racism.


We looked out at the now dark sky dotted with tiny aeroplane

lights like a signal for our freedom in the free country

smashing the window we climbed down like mutilated falling angels

black against the blue hospital filled with grey minds

unfocused and cannibalistic eating each other

we escape into the true free America full of rapists

and artist’s moaning about their suicidal day-dreams.


We clung like retarded monkeys to the sills

avoiding the shadows lurking above and below

of mutant dogs and murderous whores who are out

to feed on unsuspecting flesh like us innocent

poets who just seek something ungraspable something

dying a metaphor created and forgotten and used

for something else.


As we skulked through the twilight streets arsonists

joined us and three became more and more the beatnik’s

stealthily raped us saintly motorcyclists without our rides

and hell opened beneath our feet a cliché as Metiphovles

joined us with Heinrich and Gretchen and all those Hitler

look-alikes five hundred years early.


We simple Jews sat and talked and the flames brought

more poets to our midst and we sang songs our tongues

in cheek with Plath and Pound

with Kerouac and Eliot,

Carr, Corso and Cassady.


So when dawn awake and spread it’s rosy

fingers we were a troupe of travelling

writers and artists dancing down

on the road from the town and into

the city.

Mad House Blues: Part 1

Up high on my sill I watch the twirls and graceless rising

of cigarette smoke against the amber inset sun

inelegantly dancing keeping shape as I inhale

the cancerously beautiful wraiths into my lungs

clogging and causing blue blood to spatter against

the red parasols of crying visitors and uncaring staff.

Beyond the casing of my unisexual room it explores

a variety of obscene events that wouldn’t be out

of place at a freak show melding into reality

the abstract insanity that causes the naked

to lead the blind and dream junkies to snort

crushed marble dust (the colourful kind).

In lead-lined corridors the smoke explored

disturbing events beyond any human or aetherical

poisonous comprehension and intimates with other fumes

intoxicating and druggy the snow-white flecks of coke

the fog of Mary-Jane and I’m left with a faint emulation

of blacked-out and hallucinating inmates.

Chewing on his tongue in the room to my right

Soloman to the left knocks on my door until he comes

and in he comes with face a grinning mess the

residue of white lining his mouth making him seem

more anemic than usual.

We discuss possibilities of insanity real and mental

mixing and copulating creating creeps like us

not ill but ego’s a mess snorting our heads off

until our minds are as high as our bodies

and they spiral down like the smoke does up.