by Agluppos
The Job
By Agluppos
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© 2013 Agluppos
ISBN: 978-951-98911-6-3 (ePub)
ISBN: 978-951-98911-5-6 (paperback)
Pathways:
O Fiskars
The deacon devils
The Lexicon of Stone
Obscure French porn pop
Metatarsuses
The armours are sleeping by the road
Bugs
About Agluppos
Stone's rolling on the graveyard,
the baroque standard lamps stand
by the naked paths
and the surveillance cameras spy blue collars
drawing lines to the sand with Fiskars rakes
I wander behind the bell tower on rock
it is firm against the soles, it will take it
I pull a cigarette secretly, I cough
like on a train they thunder past the village,
the faces and voices
past the wood in their miserable cars
It is a strange whistle stop now, still here I am
even if it doesn't concern me
or really anyone else either
particularly it does not concern my wallet
which remains empty
as this widely deserted garden
and this blank, dull day
they still wage wars beyond the frontiers
and they eat cactuses in the slums behind the sea
and there are bedbugs in our tomatoes
O how this flat, pointless grass rings
whose mind could it calm in the hell anyway
and in the heaven they don't miss it
with their harps and pling plong
This originated ages ago: they started to die
and as plague wreaked havoc
and the breaking wheels got crowded
they set up a stone quarry
and commenced hiding corpses under granite
There are them aplenty here alright
and all with personal epitaphs,
as the office's brochure describes
the letters are provided with golden borders, or without
But now let's quit kidding,
this is the valley of sorrow
the weeds must be expelled from the banks
so the cadavers do not take offence
and rise at night,
to scratch plantains from their resting places
I look at the work machines
scythe would be best for that bank
but chief wants to hear the betraying blatting,
to track the blue collars
Listen, this is hard biz, no slacking
Right, nope, right, nope
I wonder how big a sledgehammer one needs
to properly mineralize those suckers
when petrol runs out, I laugh
just like the pitched, dry bore in the desert
I visit the city, I try to blow this stink from my skull
I walk and register, stone and board goods
here's another pile
I ponder where it might be going
I sit and watch folks,
Today
I had the privilege to dig
with a magnificent hangover,
and I discovered
six uncanny soft brown, round objects
under the soil (from the old territory)
got malicious thump to the spade,
and as I wavered
the sexton cursed
now give that here goddamnit
I passed it to him, by all means, take, please
there's more where that came from
we piled them
on a handsome hill under the fir twigs
I suggested to take one of the cuties to the coffee break
for old times’ sake, but it didn't amuse
our Lady Comrade at all,
lousy coffee company, I suppose
Later in the afternoon I showed my dear chick
one vertebra, just as she wanted
she almost puked
meh, I returned it to the grave grove, not quite
at its proper place
and very soon the transgressor felt ashamed
and worried if the violated ones would come
and haunt his dreams,
bring grey hair and blood bursts
(they came)
