Samsa Meets Mephistopheles

(a work in progress)

Samsa Meets Mephistopheles


lit my cigarette

stood alight


a bit


upright, just might tell myself to sit down

a sense of time, of word,

the rest

all curiously quite cued up

and fused, and of course

all maligned

by machinations of which

I now

rewind and hope

not to feel

any remorse over.

but I am not optimistic.



of all the times to ask myself that

is this then?

What faustian logic has

on my mind been impressed

attempting to express

with ink on paper pressed

or keystroke after keystroke?

my own personal

Lucifer Christ

she is undressed.


I’m reminded of a certain wave,

crashing water in a certain gaze

I stand on an entirely different

plane’s haze,

and I wish

I wish

I could keep it all

like that mindscape was.


I wish

I could

be nothing at all

just vapor



that I somehow could retain

all of those small

little memories,

that you lose because

they didn’t happen, really

there were truths still lost.


Can you pull this cotton out?

I won’t tell you what for.

until you’ve read the reason

like a Sarajevo Rose

on the ground

when I’ve left my shell

molted on the floor.


a note about doors

and holy whores

and leaving hell

how grand!

It’s too bad, really,

that falsehoods should make

the best myths, the best worlds

one can’t help but compare to

or the worst.

Which is which?

you tell me.


“I’d like to do a song of great social and political import”

Janis said softly over the clicking whir

of my fingers over the machine,

and with her singin’

I like to paint my glasses rose.


I am samsa,

little cock-a-roach

let me tell ya

I’ll cry and I’ll cry

and I’ll try and I’ll try and I’ll try.

just like any other monstrous vermin,

maybe make a baby,

most assuredly die.

at least life is not made

of maybes, in hindsight.

I am a fly,

or I’ll attempt

and get off of Kafka’s shit,

and either right my own wrongs

or get some sense of it

rank up with the crook division.

well, at least I do like to look

at the sky.