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My Pen-name is Lubinous Labinous, well one of them: others are De Pavluv, Pavlos, Pavel B., etc. In the Web under LUB-lab
are 2 poems mentioned but no poems or version's of them? - well here they are- Pavlo$
"WALLS, and the WORKERS"
Sweating fools, whose bare feet are soiled,
laying down the temple's adobe mud bricks.
The vendor of words, prose undulating akin
to the waves of the sea, one meaningless
word, following another vain tedious word,
flowing into another hollow, meaningless image,
followed again by a shallow, wearisome image,
all this for the corruption of the original sin,
our lives at the very source, at the inception,
when we where all super hot invisible strings,
and the original sin had nothing to do with it.......
Then God's whirlwind took us away, as stubble,
blowing on them, and we were all withered away,
to be mixed with his spit and the mud bricks,
carried into the garden fields of Babylon's Eden.
For when the strong wind blows in the stillness,
of the human heart, great tempests, great storms
of faith, the leap and the reeking void of the Holy One.
Why: we have but the one voice, this hollow reed flute,
weaving songs of the brick labouring angels that
came before us, the eagle's cry on wing,
bull's bleeding in the dusty arena,
the lions hunger for Christian flesh,
history's tune, cleaves and rents the vacuous air.
We took turns, singing,
as we worked under the lash,
making and laying the Pharaoh's
sun dried mud bricks,
we took turns, singing,
as we worked under
the whip,
laying out the divisions, the walls,
in our lord's fields,
the walls that keep some within,
the walls that keep
the free nomads excluded, keep out,
this belongs to me,
you belong to me,
positively no trespasssing,
paying the price, with your flesh,
with your skin, it will be consumed
and we will get drunk from
the wine of your blood,
and you picture and wonder with great admiration, viewing your handy works,
come back tomorrow it is all clay again;
once more to be made into adobe mud bricks.
[first printed in IMELOD-90ties]
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The DARK SIDE
Painting with an utterance
slicing your observant eye
with an acute straight razor.
Then going in for the kill.
Staring at the bloody image
your indignant moral outrage
just so nasty, nasty, nasty.
Why he wouldnt hurt a fly.
Stirring your raw emotions
going way over the line, your
disbelief, then suppression.
What you don't understand?
The necessary provocation
the harsh slap in the face,
the shock, you silly creature.
Where is the responsibility?
The continuing preference
hiding your face in the cloak
moral sanctity, you hypocrite.
Why I am you and you are me.
[first printed in LITziner-IMELOD-90ties]
[Hey pavlos, what does y'z MEAN???]
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