Paul Bali 日 14/01/2022 · admin No comments


how is this not mine?  how are you not mine?

castrato-like i ask w/ hands clasped, sans Enclosure plans.

i ask in idle ponderance, i ask u from my prison bed.


my perfect ppt:  slides flipping fast into an Entity.

a FACE seen at high speeds,

a block of text who alters & evolves.


me pistol’s put away,

me hand under-blazer like a Caesar’s or humility:

over-breast in demi-cross of honoured Dead.


that finger-sniff bit, its full comedic impact i transmit as disease

odd as to disturb—

sorry no more content, no more context.


HEY, look at ME! 

i’m a SCHTUK!  i’m a SCHTUK!


so do they portray me in their beerhall burlesques & their up-swipe comedies.

they have me grab my thinning hair, decrying my perplexity.


i said i mistook—yet hadn’t even that!  my wit they mistook!

i showed them the redundance in I made a mistake, the wasted syllables.


my life has been a Fulbright with indulgent terms.

money no concern, and time alone to turn the mind absurdly.

a fitting incarnation, for thinking what i may, i’m

a cryptic aristocrat, an amateur of ease.

aptly am i placed at the fringes of this Campus,

free to rap irrelevancies.


how to write honestly?

i do it now—it bores me.

what is not authentic this or that!


If you don’t want to stink, well—don’t be a fish-monger!


ah, my first aphorism.  came into my youthful head

scraping steel plates into the fifty-gallon bin, amid

my good-boy seva at the Drop-in Centre, 1996.


i mailed it off to Harper’s so enamoured of it, was i—

certain they would print it in their Readings.


or start a monthly Feature—Thoughts Thought !


i yield in good-humor to the humorless;

i feminize with ease when assessed by men who’ve worked the line,

grim from killing geese.


have LUV ENUFF to dub e.g. the gent who checked my cap ‘n cape:

i doff to thine honour, Count Token-taker!


then ‘twould be AFFECTIVE CHARM

to chant mool-mantrickly, descant pentametrickly.


o my frozen Brethren!  yo my loyal Brozen!

yr blades are dulled to spades; yr pistols all are whistles!

yr platemail hung in pieces, now, a rusty trellis!


Ferraris, once armorers, make a candy carapace for Fatso now.


the Scene plays serene to the Omnispector over ye.

there, Safe as child’s play; tossed upon waves of my musing.

THINK a solo coconut on Southern seas.


should things turn scary, keep thy head,

use thy head to smile kindly down on things:

a big shiny marble in the Hall’s high corner,

floating there—(on Southern seas, again:)


gun has a bore hole; the floral-Fem is phallic.

a flower stem envaginates the semi-automatic.


paper, scissors, rock:  a micro-penis fucks your big urethra.


the overwrought poprock, obvious & maudlin, that

Kurt Cobain warns you of in that very song.


he’s singing that you’re jacked up over 

stupid shit, like this, the wrong song.


what Ian MacKaye hated in your mosh-pits,

inveighed at as he vied with Reaganomics.


when did now get center stage?

how is now all that?


could have been Nothing, yet

clearly stuff is happening!


i’mma gonna go with it,

join me [swaying sensually


a porpoise long-harboured,

his babble sought for stock-picks.


draw him in the sadhana of Shastric Fundamentals;

cast him in A HOMELESS MAN seated unto death or white senescence.


demarcate his Isle in the dark arcs of bank towers;

pole it with a simple tree, a comic panel’s axis:

receiver of his pencilled-in lean.


he’s Nanak in a happy nap at Mecca!

indifferent to the Monolith,

whichever way we aim his feet.


a genre tick, a DAW trick, that sweeps the scene.

the cricket hats of Trap, i mean.


the bird-chatter charms me, the noisy self-assertion from on high;

so why do boys annoy me in their Hummers burning by?


there’s trance in repetition to entrain the brain,

synch the tribe—now i see!


i hate them for they’re coming for me!


when i return from India, woolly & serene,

my nonce-word i’ll call you meaning

craves charred flesh & sits awkward in the satsang.


nostalgic for an ad, now:

Remember, hun, that first Domaine D’or?

girlishly you burn within my darkwood doorframe.

i half-turn, pull off specs i check these darned Accounts by.


i’m beaming enigmatic, a Father seeing yr jammy-crotch spunk-spot,

and thinking now it’s Talk time.


a pillow may you clutch to yr person;

or propless do yr full-bladder stomp-dance.


i’m back with no new Veda, yet

my face displays lines of willful solitude, yes?

a mystic glow, no?  for mothers now smile as i pass.


to sculpt a noble visage through austerities, oh—

that’s when it really rolls in, man!


my ballsack dangles when i’m deep in Half Tortoise,

tickles at my veinous arches faraway as babies so

i’m steeped in self-lust, a self-sufficiency.


shoulders loose, spry lats where once hung sadness—

wing-nubs to tressilate with every hacking laugh,

o in glory i’m ascendant!


Music no more, but a high bizarro harpbuzz,

a residue electric in the Symphony.


a wobbing ’round the song;

the Master’s own shadow falling long upon the puppetry,

emergence of the genius Dalang.


dure / endure, another day;

lassitude, a state of sway, for  

what be the Day but an erdwerm?


& what the worm but morsel for the morning Dove!


Suicide, a call for help, for angel’s aid:

a change-of-heart, halfway down

to pavement from high balustrade!


if only i could rub a bauble, hum a tune & banish all yr pain!

see how much i care, o luvvly Bruthers!


a blind & lonely line surges upward to infinity; 

vainly does it search for integration! 

shall find itself only in convergence with another—

in reaching out, an act of self-negation!


Devil ‘pon a Cross i’ll play, for broad applause!

Hippie on a crux, a Kouros on a stauros, a

Flytrap for all o’ yr cancerous thoughts!


stretched & hung, a lure to rot

for Roma’s looming May-queen!

hooked & writhing nice for the Great Mother Ickthus!

morsel for a sandworm, gulped in a yawn!


I’M A BOMB you’ve brought into your Ministry.

I’M A BOMB you’ll detonate by SHOOTing ME.


bars & cuffs shall be my shrapnel—shoot me!


to mist disperse all o’ my surmises, ex orem.

the thought of true revival, of rescue from this torpor—tires me.


i end it with a lazy thought:

am sick of thinking hard about sheep-killers.


i end it with a curse:

i’ll have it all, not half it with thou meat-bots.




hurting you would thrill me—true, yet

only in the case that you deserve it.


which would i rather? a world where

A. you’re blameless, thus i’m granted no revenge; or

B. where you well-deserve my cane?


if B, i am evil.  for EVIL i would will  i.e.

i’d will the world where you deserve my cane.


it’s good that i cane you, yet

i’m meta-evil, choosing B,

abjuring our Neutrality.


in principle, it’s A i’d take;

yet now we’re here, i hate you, and am glad it’s B we’re in!


you, by your wrongs—you have made me a Sadist!



paul bali is a poet-y philosopher in Toronto. he teaches at Ryerson University.