—

November 9 | Halong Bay

Wake up 6am, sweat, shower, normal, new. Leaving with one missing phone, one missed boat and another trauma (but fun for the rest of us waving at you from the shoreline). I stare into the prodigal sun and, glancing away, drink more beer, jump from the deck with the Germans, listen for that lilt behind me — why do I feel this way — glance backward in spite of it. Sky dims, veins filled with nitrous and something in the water, vague and beautiful, it isn’t a cave but a symbol as your slice your foot, roll to face me on the sand, share a blanket and the shelter of a single bed under the sky. A kiss from a Champion — where were you then? Fall asleep with your arm on my waist.

—

—

Blue Grace intimidates Nevil Chamberlain
feels up Fillippo Marinetti
and other hysterics of the phallic rose

Blue Grace dressed up as automobile sperm
My Claw of the future
and the almond rose Rich the Vampire wears
over the US Army
— flags !
american flags !

flying like bats
out of ‘ My Burial Vault ‘ !
flood museums
where Robespierre’s murder is plotted
— floated from Texcoco,
the Prince of Bogota caught redhanded
sniffing forty cans of Berlin ether !

Hydrek ice blue teeth
impersonates, psycho-kinetically,
the resurrection of Blue Grace as prophetess of the anti-planet system

—

November 10 | Halong Bay

Wake up 6am, body next to another body, slight breeze. Everything at once smells acceptable, everything hasn’t seen light yet. Through weather and noise survey the damage and say a prayer beside those islands but last night — see it’s all submerged? Now we’re awake, hit with the anxiety of a particularly bad hangover, of thinking we’ll live forever, remembering a small child crying for his mother among whips of balloons and Hai Phong, spotlights reflecting off limestone while we smoke and ride bikes and climb. Something about an old movie, something about your father but never. Water so clear I could swim the whole ocean, I could be a marathon, I could stay here dodging glances until night falls again maybe green, maybe golden and I slice my own soft skin. We seclude ourselves in semi-public — didn’t you fucking love it? My heart in my head, my head on your chest, offering to stay but I send you off on the kayak laughing drunk into the dark. Fall asleep bloody in a bed of sand.

—

—

Blue Grace under dark glasses
getting out of one hundred white cars at once !
Cars of ectoplasmic tin-types
go to the juncture where Blue Grace Glass is raped
at the Court of Miracles, Mexico City, 1959

Blue Grace undressed
reveals tattoo marks of Hamburg, sea & storm of
Neptune-Pluto conjunction
Rumors of war
strafe the automation monster
walking to universal assassination
K & K and the russian poets
suck Blue Grace’s opulent morsels, back & front
The nicotine heaven of Bosch’s painting
emanates the thousand beauties of
Christopher Maclaine’s tool box
of mechanical brass jewels
Man,
the marvel
of masturbation arts,
intersects Blue Grace
at World’s Finale Orgasm Electro-Physic Apocalypse !

—

November 11 | Halong Bay to Hanoi

Wake up 6am, what’s this song called? What’s that trash in the water, salty eyes, consuming dread? I need to cry but — don’t miss the boat — what’s this separation, what’s this shit goodbye, what are these nitrous nights without you? On an island back in the city feeling square, feeling one, feeling half. I pass out talking to Danish men dreaming Adelaide, Adelaide, Adelaide.

—

—

I sing the beauty of bodily touch
with my muse, Blue Grace

— “Blue Grace,” Philip Lamantia

—

—

II of IV