BLUE CHINA
ALABOA PIVAUC
Also by Alaboa Pivauc
"The Hungarian/American, Alaboa Pivauc, has arrived on the scene like some modern day Cocteau...sometimes Morrison, versed in several disciplines of the art forum and seemingly competent in them all. Fresh air in a stale wind."
Jason Tottleberry-Jones (Coney Island Muse & Scribe) 2021
Alaboa Pivauc and the Electric Daisies
THE ELECTRIC DAISIES
YouTube debut 'Pay the Piper'
THE SEARCH FOR LOST TIME
Shut up in a Paris apartment,
tedious is the rainy day.
The demon of frivolity
(faithful to the female sex),
in order to house guests at his table,
forbade amongst friends, his winter clothes.
A soirée without programme.
Can I count on tomorrow?
Is that possible?
Who could refuse anything from an angel?
Depth of expression, painted by masters,
such cynicism for a go-between.
Diabolical spirit and blunt refusals
announce themselves with satisfaction.
I desire to rouse their envy.
Like coming from a party
with an ineffable smile.
ON THE TRAIL OF JIM, PERE LACHAISE
Thoughts of an earlier existence,
while freely plotting the distance…
Chopin, Baudelaire, Piaf, Poulenc.
A forest of chestnut and raven,
the silence of the nights quartet.
Global guests in conversation
with posthumous farewells.
We eternally suffer without remedy
in this kaleidoscope of darkness
that returns us to our own world of dreams.
SUPERFICIALITY
The pointed diamond in her glass,
had left a taste of quintessence
and the heart with lewd desires.
Shake hands and cancel our vows.
Swell the oceans so that woods appear,
for my brave brother is called England.
The tears we shed belonged to a crocodile.
LIGHT ON A DARK HORSE
I’ll run backwards through the alphabet,
while you send for the medical man.
The two villains remain nameless
& for several months bled out.
You think you are fit for society
with damask curtains and chandeliers,
playing crooked second fiddle
to a black page and a chamberlain.
That imprudence that you hear
is a song out of tune.
You fancy the airs you give yourself,
like the twopenny ring I gave you in the garden.
My father was King of this country
& I his only son.
The haughtiness was equal.
It’s time the dinner bell rang.
Time to carve the goose and take a glass of wine.
For looking down on you is not looking at all.
My soul has a sacred vein.
Make me immortal with a kiss,
for love is dead, or dead to thee.
From womb to tomb, born to die,
a dead mans grave in blue pyre.
UNDER THE GREAT OAK
Waltzing with the great oak leaves,
the summer winds shake wood and dell.
Violets rise to kiss the sun
as if by fate compelled.
Across a brook the poppies watch
as golden autumn comes to rest.
The dying day, felled by night,
inhabitants return to nest.
Midnight born, the winter snow,
under English dust the acorn lies
as nature's cataclysmic edge
sees death, but the seed shall rise
and once again in spring shall bloom.
The river swift in silver gleam
with pastures lush and warmer days
in a hazy summer dream.
SUNSHINE ON THE SABBATH
Brush the dust from thy Sunday garb,
all dignity and clerical neatness.
Face to face with the congregation,
obscurity between them and the holy page.
The strangers visage would be discovered,
wrapt in silent meditation.
Eyes weakened by the midnight lamp,
the countenance retained,
the composure of death,
from which paleness caused a whisper
that hid under secret sin.
Good women gossip from the parsonage window,
the mystery turns into scandal.
The gaze of multitudes is no moral eye.
BLUE CHINA
1. Tongue had lost no cunning.
Public meeting halls with one mirrored dressing rooms.
‘Nine in a Row’, now that was the place,
where fluent Japanese was spoken.
His choice of words too commonplace,
his directionless undertone
had failed to capture the mood of the moment.
Exploits passed over, modest explanations.
But a few words of duty & virgin losses.
Dress warm for the harbour mouth,
the scrap metal shipyards.
I counted seagulls and watched the black Madonna
hover over the Sunday morning crowd.
Nobody was listening.
2. I’ve come to find a lover.
The discussion started at the table
was paid for by enduring pain,
stricken with a serious apoplexy
and sentenced to twenty years.
Killed in the soft earth of redoubt,
the depth of the pit showed a narrow escape.
My background life, a guarded secret,
only truly exultant when the rain is falling.
I cannot think of you as a stranger
amongst this selfish tribe of rich relations.
I love my daughter more than God loves his own world.
I asked which death she would have for me.
3. Walking in tall grass.
it’s the poets right to trespass.
If we meet in the future,
we’d better have a plan.
Thanks for showing me around.
Rolling the word on your tongue,
we talk of art, not of artists,
‘cept the mono-ism of Picasso.
The temperature of flesh,
the taste of blood,
who would write a lie in their own diary?
A stone creates an outbound ripple,
an advance of less importance.
4. Like Carroll…
I try to believe in impossible dreams before breakfast.
Like Wilde, with scotch and soda grin, I hold an empty cup in the universe.
Like Cocteau, I only see junket on a telegraph wire.
Like Proust, I write throwaway lines of seven horns of pure gold.
Doomsday’s at three to midnight.
Faiths a drink of insecurity.
I seek her where she is known,
or so the rumours run.
CATCH 22
Shooting skeet with a loaded gun,
Joe unpacked his rifle mind,
in search of a missing clue.
He tried to predict the future by charisma, numbers
and a colour-graded image
of an Italian cinnamon dawn.
The bleary-eyed blonde, in satin blouse,
svelte in feminine parts,
paid for her drinks with nervous lips.
Hungry Joe snorted with amorous greed,
pampered flesh & a juicy drunken tart.
Everything tawdry & grotesque.
Money, camera’s, fornication.
BLACK SKY, LAKE SIDE
Frightened scribes cannot designate the movement,
neither anarchy, nor anti-art
and none of us Dada’s here.
Boisterous, likeable,
succeeding the latter,
the table to sit at with wickerwork chairs.
I was becoming attached to ancient myths.
An epoch when repudiation
was reputed to be ugly.
Nautical art;
Detours mapping the brink of the abyss.
Infinite torment or unshakable positivism?
SKELETON OF OUR ETHICS
On my way back to the normal world
of finger tip reality,
morally responsible for last nights trouble,
I nurtured the monster & betrayed the species.
Sedatives, pills…
a troupe of pink elephants
jet trailed through the summer sky.
Children have the power,
the formula to change
and nothing but golden eyes
that suddenly burst into tears,
hour after hour,
night after night,
wondering…
I’ll keep my steps in good time
until back in London,
postponed for another visit.
INDEPENDENT OF SUCH REFLECTIONS
The first movement was good music,
the echo & pattern preserved in my memory.
A year had passed since I walked this town.
The pretty girl made quite an impression,
like a brilliant new sun.
THE SARACENS EYE
A seat in the window of a cafe off Kings Road,
copy-book handwriting and cognac.
Knightsbridge in the evening.
On a cold stomach, one cannot get drunk!
I’d lingered too long in Piccadilly,
labouring over a pint of beer
& tasteless Christmas cake.
In Berwick Street, I paid ten pound
for some poker-faced information
from a tape machine of real booty.
The unfurnished life lives
in a convivial dimension,
embroidered in vogue of the day.
THE MARTYR'S LAMENTATION
The phone rang, a pessimist bathed
a seaside Monte Carlo dream.
Shedding his fur-trimmed mantle of fine green cloth,
festivities came to an end.
Only workmen remembered him,
even then they asked for terms
with a less than merciful view.
No better companions
on the morning of execution.
IMPRESSIONS OF NEW YORK
Hiding like an animal,
in a cab through hot streets.
Running away from the city.
An old impresario lives
outside a cigar shop on 30th.
A passerby inherits his eyes.
Birth is very chancy.
Eventually the brown brick gives way and
no more the smell of malt from the breweries.
Nor grimy factory walls,
for forty years the bones of the dead.
A tragic mother, her hair turned grey,
a shawled crone in the freezing dusk.
The art of love is a sublime achievement.
A Dionysian revival of the erotic Renaissance.
COMPLAISANCE TO LOVE
The bond that united us was love, not money.
Are we rich or are we not?
Moneyed affairs are obscene.
The wealthy flaunt their riches in front of the poor.
I talk of sexual endeavour
and help myself to cash in the other hand.
The bell rings in reticent manner
with a deep sigh of impatient forbearance.
Hypocritical words of affection,
passion in the full sense
is a baleful predestination.
Destructive in the highest degree,
devoid of interest & pretext,
a psychological amputation
and colourless by manner.
An empty canvas.
Urchins spy through keyholes to kill time,
the misery of suspicion & espionage.
Ten minutes passed more slowly than the previous thirty.
It is the epileptic contortion of the final orgasm.
THE LIGHT OF MADNESS
Condescension is counterweight.
We are born of antique dust,
an aural cloud in mellow fire.
Piercing visions, pudicity of expression,
but trifles in our shared past.
Street lamps, liquid yellow,
reflect Parisienne asphalt and cobblestone.
A prostitute in black fur, rouged,
glances backward at suburbs
and sunny lands to the east.
An exquisite pallor!
The widow’s song has blueish tenors.
Fellow exiles denounce fashion
as indicative of our mediocrity.