Six Studies of Beefheart


                                           skin and bones

                      ...leaves an impression

                                            dactyloscopical

                                 maybe two or more

                       in the corner
                                  on the torso
                                            wrinkled black and white...

                                                       amazon yellow
                                             proboscis-like

                                                       floating

                        spilling from its spinning spiny cup-stain head...

                                 more dead flies and newspaper

                                                                  moulded into time

                                               passing...

                                  a bag of skin and bones.





                                             a genesis of sorts

                       hidden in the excuse
                                                       of history

                                 a wraith
                                            red

                                            now...

                                            reading into it
                                                       a memory of other days

                       like red meat

                       like knowing each fibre
                                                       runs back
                                             to a singular origin

                                             a genesis of sorts

                                             until...
                       
                                             fingers skim into green beads
                                and the citrus sky...

                                                        falls...





                                         onto cinnamon earth

                                         a lover's clumsy touch

                                                    then light on green leaves

                    and petals' orange drops scattered

                                                    accidentally

                                          bleeding... onto the ground

                                                    onto cinnamon earth
                               as far as the eye can see...

                                           she
                                           weeping now

                               her flower eyes trailing random vines
                                                     of salt tears...

                                            and all is forgiven.





                                  dancers on the beach

                                           green tom
                                           seam crooked sam...

                      they danced in a frenzy


                                           the cracked sand
flailing
                                                       lashing around them...

                               but then
                                           stock still in time

                                                       frozen...

                      perhaps only all the calm of an embrace
                                                                   a moment stolen
                                                                              a touch to her breast...

                                                        or perhaps...

                                            if only for a while...

                             your seed bruised stem
eyes
                                                                    saw nothing of either...

                                                                                           anyway.





                                                of her sex

                          whoring herself
                                     to any of her many
                                                faceless
                                                moustachioed philanderers

                                      she bends
                                                 she twists

                                                            this way and that

                           ever-eager to please
                                      with access to the red felt

                                                            roped off area
                                                                       of her sex
                                                 ever the tease

                                                 if only

                                                 if only
                                      to keep the wolf
                                                 from the door
                                                           come what may...

                            a hard hand and told tears streaming

                                      cold tears she cries
                                                           alone
                                                           when her day is done

                                                 the sun just rising

                                                                         casting
                                       morning-after shadows
                                                 over
                            the scattered tinfoil hummingbird bones


                                                 the remnants
                                                            of her waning dignity...

                                       (a single pathetic daffodil
                                                 a consolation of sorts.)





                                             logos spermatikos

                                  in a spoken word in double nature
                                  in leading leaden souls downward

                                             fluid

                                             with the smell of burnt powder

                                  all-pervading...

                                  all monstrum hermaphroditus

                                                         trapped in the blowing wind

                                               its blood stains
                                   left around the sun


                                                         around around around...

                                               not doubly
                                                         but triply unlimited

                                                                                penetrating...

                                    base transformed
                                               opposites united

                                                          its wholeness absolute
                                    in a new-found self.



John Mingay 2011




references


skin and bones
untitled, 1967 (painting)
odd jobs, 1969? (poem)

a genesis of sorts
ghost red wire, 1967 (painting)
hollow smoke, 1969? (poem)

onto cinnamon earth
when she dropped the flower, 1969 (painting)
sun dawn dance, 1970 (poem)

dancers on the beach
green tom, 1976 (painting)
seam crooked sam, 1983? (poem)

of her sex
untitled, 1976 (painting)
the beep seal, 1984? (poem)

logos spermatikos
tinkling like mercury in the wind, 1987 (painting)
three months in the mirror, 1987 (poem)


all the above referenced paintings and poems by Don Van Vliet
can be found at www.beefheart.com