The curtain rises on Gibraltar Rock——
            behind four guys on Little Lonsdale
            round the corner down the lane
            dark as city dark can be at 9:15
Simon rings the hollow bell and I follow
            the sound the pencil runs over blank space
            the wingtip of a jet so quiet and far
            the engine roar never reaches ground
Phil quacks and Carl kinda quacks back——
            Galapagos Duck me (Carl gives great pedal)
            I think not! Who’s behind
            the lost bandoleros
            with a thousand faces
            and five names?
Have you ever wondered why
            the shadow always falls across the line
            no one died but I weep still
            no one died but I hold my breath
            for fear of coughing
                                    I count the breath
                                    and time a hack
                                    and hack in time
             with Phil’s repeated honk
                        honk honk
                        and so on
                                    und so weiter
                                    ja gut, das Jahr
                                    geht schneller

Too fast, my dear, is the cliché
            of our age
            or time . . .
Beam me up Scott-tee! I need to fly
            no, no one died
            but I can’t stop crying
Does that make me odd
            or even
Did you think I wouldn’t notice?
            you in the background
I’m trying so hard
            three fingers on the pulse
                        a meditation
            shallow breath
                        a meditation
            avoid shallow breath
                        a cacophony
            profound depth
                        a meditation
            expand the ribs
                        a deeper breath
            avoid the shallows
Oh Christ, it’s hard to breathe——
            is letting air out a meditation too?
            oh, we left Gibraltar some time ago
            Phil made duck sounds
            now we’ve come to Kobe, Carl
                        that’s ducking the issue
                        that’s skirting the skirt
                        when have you ever come around?
                        I want you
The mind is a strange place——
            the riffs you find
            on the quiet
I couldn’t say how we got here——
            oh yeah

                                    we were walking down
                                    the grubby lane
                                    at 9:15
                                    last night

i.m. Allen Ginsberg


About Francesca Jurate Sasnaitis

Me = Francesca Jurate Kristina Sasnaitis... also known as Jūrytė/ Jūrytėle/ Jūračiuk/ Jurachook/ U-Russia/ Urata/ Rata/ Jay-bird/ Jay-peg/ Miss J/ Big J/ France/ Franca.... Sasna/ Fox/ Greville/ Knight... and Nerada Netis... as far as I can remember... oh, and there's still room for Kristina... somewhere, sometime... Me = drew, painted, made sculpture, then stopped; printed photographs, then stopped; wrote, then stopped; made furniture, then stopped; made prints, then stopped; became a bookseller and stopped; wrote some more, kept writing some... and more... started painting again... sold a few more books... stopped... wrote some more, kept writing some... and more... and now seeing words, writing images... was that last bit too wanky? What goes around comes around, I guess...
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1 Response to BAND OF FIVE NAMES

  1. Brita Frost says:

    Wow Jurate. Wonderful.

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