If I were to kiss you here
they'd call it an act of terrorism--so
let's take our pistols to bed
& wake up the city at midnight
like drunken bandits celebrating with a fusillade,
the message of the taste of chaos.
Too young for Harley choppers--flunk-outs,
break-dancers, scarcely pubescent poets
of flat lost railroad towns--a million sparks
falling from the skyrockets of Rimbaud & Mowgli--slender
terrorists whose gaudy bombs are compacted of polymorphous
love & the precious shards of popular culture--punk
gunslingers dreaming of piercing their ears, animist
bicyclists gliding in the pewter dusk through Welfare
streets of accidental flowers--out-of-season gypsy
skinny-dippers, smiling sideways-glancing
thieves of power- totems, small change & panther-bladed
knives--we sense them everywhere--we publish
this offer to trade the corruption of our own lux et gaudium
for their perfect gentle filth.
When ugliness, poor design & stupid waste are forced upon you,
throw your shoe in the works,
retaliate. Smash the symbols of the Empire
in the name of nothing but the heart's longing for grace.
If rulers refuse to consider poems as crimes,
then someone must commit crimes that serve the function of poetry,
or texts that possess the resonance of terrorism.
At any cost
re-connect poetry to the body.
Not crimes against bodies, but against Ideas (& Ideas-in-things)
which are deadly & suffocating.
Not stupid libertinage but exemplary crimes,
crimes for love.
In England some pornographic books are still banned.
Pornography has a measurable physical effect on its readers.
Like propaganda it sometimes changes lives
because it uncovers true desires.