Read Online Poems 1959-2009 by Frederick Seidel - Free Book Online
Authors: Frederick Seidel
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officer,
Cross-dressing across Deathland in the final months of the war,
Urbane inside his skull-and-crossbones attireâ
The first John Weitz fashion show, my dear!
When Weitz wanted to obliterate his SS tattoo,
He burned it off with a cigarette just like the real SS.
The underground network he would infiltrate had removed theirs.
A mysterious beautiful woman was involved. It gets better.
There is the story of how he needed publicity
For his fashion line and couldnât spend much money.
No one had thought of putting advertisements on the back
Of New York City buses back then.
Weitz wrote koans for the age of Warhol.
I DONâT UNDERSTAND JOHN WEITZ ADVERTISING
Went rolling down Fifth Avenue behind a bus.
He looked like a distinguished diplomat when he ate a wurst.
Weitz had the lofty friendliness of a duke.
He was full of goy.
He was not discreet.
He admired the great.
He could operate on automatic pilot
With his beautiful manners.
He had unreal good looks.
He used his mellifluous voice.
John Weitz belonged to clubs, loved boats,
Told lovely anecdotes, bad jokes, wrote cordial biographies
Of colorless Third Reich personalities.
He loved honors and he loved glory.
He kept the Iron Cross
Of his father from the First World War framed on the wall.
He denied that he was dying.
He never sighed until the moment after he died.
Â
TO DIE FOR
The ants on the kitchen counter stampede toward ecstasy.
The finger chases them down while the herd runs this way and that way.
They are alive while they are alive in their little way.
They burst through their little ant outfits, which tear apart rather easily.
The little black specks were shipped to Brazil in ships.
The Portuguese whipped the little black specks to bits.
The sugar plantations on the horrible tropical coast where the soil was rich
Were a most productive ant Auschwitz.
The sugar bowl on the counter is a D-cup, containing one large white breast.
The breast in the bowl is covered by excited specks
That are so beyond, and running around, they are wrecks.
They like things that are sweet. Thatâs what they like to eat.
The day outside is blue and good.
God is in the neighborhood.
The nearby ocean puts liquid lure in each trap in the set of six,
Paving the way to the new world with salt and sweet.
They sell them at the hardware store on Main Street.
Inside each trap is a tray that gives them a little to eat
And sends them back.
There is light in Africa, and it is black.
I was looking for something to try for.
I was looking for someone to cry for.
I was looking for something to die for.
There isnât.
Â
BARBADOS
Literally the most expensive hotel in the world
Is the smell of rain about to fall.
It does the opposite, a grove of lemon trees.
I
isnât anything.
It is the hooks of rain
Hovering with their sweets inches off the ground.
I
is the spiders marching through the air.
The lines dangle the bait
The ground will bite.
Your wife is as white as vinegar, pure aristo privilege.
The excellent smell of rain before it falls overpowers
The last aristocrats on earth before the asteroid.
I sense your disdain, darling.
I share it.
The most expensive hotel in the world
Is the slave ship unloading Africans on the moon.
They wear the opposite of space suits floating off the dock
To a sugar mill on a hilltop.
They float into the machinery.
The machine inside the windmill isnât vegetarian.
A âlopperâ lops off a limb caught
In the rollers and the machine never has to stop.
A black arm turns into brown sugar,
And the screaming rest of the slave keeps the other.
His African screams canât be heard above the roar.
A spaceship near the end of a voyage was becalmed.
Two astronauts floated weightlessly off the deck
Overboard into the equator in their chains and
splash
and drowned.
A cane toad came up to them.
Theyâd never seen anything so remarkable.
Now they could see the
Cross-dressing across Deathland in the final months of the war,
Urbane inside his skull-and-crossbones attireâ
The first John Weitz fashion show, my dear!
When Weitz wanted to obliterate his SS tattoo,
He burned it off with a cigarette just like the real SS.
The underground network he would infiltrate had removed theirs.
A mysterious beautiful woman was involved. It gets better.
There is the story of how he needed publicity
For his fashion line and couldnât spend much money.
No one had thought of putting advertisements on the back
Of New York City buses back then.
Weitz wrote koans for the age of Warhol.
I DONâT UNDERSTAND JOHN WEITZ ADVERTISING
Went rolling down Fifth Avenue behind a bus.
He looked like a distinguished diplomat when he ate a wurst.
Weitz had the lofty friendliness of a duke.
He was full of goy.
He was not discreet.
He admired the great.
He could operate on automatic pilot
With his beautiful manners.
He had unreal good looks.
He used his mellifluous voice.
John Weitz belonged to clubs, loved boats,
Told lovely anecdotes, bad jokes, wrote cordial biographies
Of colorless Third Reich personalities.
He loved honors and he loved glory.
He kept the Iron Cross
Of his father from the First World War framed on the wall.
He denied that he was dying.
He never sighed until the moment after he died.
Â
TO DIE FOR
The ants on the kitchen counter stampede toward ecstasy.
The finger chases them down while the herd runs this way and that way.
They are alive while they are alive in their little way.
They burst through their little ant outfits, which tear apart rather easily.
The little black specks were shipped to Brazil in ships.
The Portuguese whipped the little black specks to bits.
The sugar plantations on the horrible tropical coast where the soil was rich
Were a most productive ant Auschwitz.
The sugar bowl on the counter is a D-cup, containing one large white breast.
The breast in the bowl is covered by excited specks
That are so beyond, and running around, they are wrecks.
They like things that are sweet. Thatâs what they like to eat.
The day outside is blue and good.
God is in the neighborhood.
The nearby ocean puts liquid lure in each trap in the set of six,
Paving the way to the new world with salt and sweet.
They sell them at the hardware store on Main Street.
Inside each trap is a tray that gives them a little to eat
And sends them back.
There is light in Africa, and it is black.
I was looking for something to try for.
I was looking for someone to cry for.
I was looking for something to die for.
There isnât.
Â
BARBADOS
Literally the most expensive hotel in the world
Is the smell of rain about to fall.
It does the opposite, a grove of lemon trees.
I
isnât anything.
It is the hooks of rain
Hovering with their sweets inches off the ground.
I
is the spiders marching through the air.
The lines dangle the bait
The ground will bite.
Your wife is as white as vinegar, pure aristo privilege.
The excellent smell of rain before it falls overpowers
The last aristocrats on earth before the asteroid.
I sense your disdain, darling.
I share it.
The most expensive hotel in the world
Is the slave ship unloading Africans on the moon.
They wear the opposite of space suits floating off the dock
To a sugar mill on a hilltop.
They float into the machinery.
The machine inside the windmill isnât vegetarian.
A âlopperâ lops off a limb caught
In the rollers and the machine never has to stop.
A black arm turns into brown sugar,
And the screaming rest of the slave keeps the other.
His African screams canât be heard above the roar.
A spaceship near the end of a voyage was becalmed.
Two astronauts floated weightlessly off the deck
Overboard into the equator in their chains and
splash
and drowned.
A cane toad came up to them.
Theyâd never seen anything so remarkable.
Now they could see the
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