Thursday, 21 January 2010

£ S D ( love , sex, death pounds, shillings, pence lysergic acid) Alexander Trocchi

Iron leaves glint,
where winds broke in,
red rot in rain:
my death is lead,
cloven by slow,
radium-sharp shark-fin.

In my soft tree-bole
bleeds pearl,
spreads spoor
of wee, unhungering,
ceaseless vole.

An end to blue and green
and tune;
no more delight
in the black cave
of yr feminine night:

the poor silt of years is thin to spread...
after I am dead, " Margarine,"
it will be said
"he mistook it for butter."

An end to the sun
moon, sky,
no young girl now will lie
in hot halter of a pregnancy.
...young witches,
old bitches,
silvered resilience
of stagelit thighs,
hot, husky cries,
mascareaed of highs,
excruciatingly artificial.

threadbare ascription...
clues: blues
unpaid dues;
... dropped Plato
like a hot potato;
wouldn't work:
hasish of the Turk...

There was a door between him and himself.
Out, like the biff-ball
from the bat,
the limit taut,
feet sunk in cement,
tripped over himself,
a closing hinge:
himself something
upon which he couldn't impinge.

REPRINTED FROM " Children of Albion, Poetry of the Underground in Britain, ed Michael Horowitz , 1969


Who is purer
more simple than you?
Priests play poker with the burghers,
police in underwear
leave crime at the office,
our poets work bankers' hours
retire to wives and fame-reports.
The spike flashes in your blood p
permanent as a silver lighthouse.

I'm apt to loaf
in a coma of newspapers,
avoid the second-hand bodies
which crie to be cataloqued.
I dream I'm
a divine right Prime Minister,
I abandon plans for bloodshed in Canada,
I accept an O.B.E.

Under hard lights
with doctor's instruments
you are at work
in the bathrooms of the City,
changing the Law.

I tend to get distracted
by hydrogen bombs,
by Uncle's disapproval
of my treachery
to the men's clothing industry.
I find myself
believing public clocks,
taking advice
from the Dachau generation.

The spike hunts
constant as a compass
You smile like a Navajo
discovering American oil on his official slum wilderness,
a surprise every half hour,

I'm afraid I sometimes forget
my lady's pretty little blonde package
is an amateur time-bomb
set to fizzle in my middl-age.
I forget the Ice Cap, the pea-minds,
the heaps of expensive teeth.
You don a false nose
line up twice for the Demerol dole;
you set yourself on the steps of the White House
you try to shoot the big arms
of the Lincoln Memorial;
you spy on scientists,
stumble on a cure for scabies;
you drop pamhlets from a stolen jet:
" The Truth about Junk";
you pirate a national tv commercial
shove your face against
the window of the living- room
insist that healthy skin is grey.

A little bood in the sink
Red cog-wheels
shaken from your arm
punctured inflamed
like a road map showing cities
over 10,000 pop.

Your arms tell me
you have been reaching into the coke machine
for strawberries,
you have been humping the thorny crucifix
you have been piloting Mickey Mouse balloons
through the briar patch,
you have been digging for grins in the tooth-pile.

Bonnie Queen Alex Eludes Montreal Houds
Famous Local Love Scribe Implicated

You purity drives me to work.
I must get back to lust and microscopes,

REPRINTED FROM " Flowers for Hitler ", Leonard Cohen , Mclelland and Stuart, Toronto 1964.


  1. cheers mate, both poems are great.
    Children of Albion is a poetry bible for me, along with iain sinclairs' conductors of chaos anthology. i haven't read much new poetry of late, i only buy second hand books and decent poetry books rarely pop up. have you been to the poetry shop in hay... totally wonderful but i always come out empty handed as it's too expensive for my pockets

    Apparently trocchi nicked a few of Leonard Cohens' suits when escaping back to the uk via canada,and wore them on top of each other... xx

  2. The Poetry bookshop in Hay I visit about once a year, about time of lit fest, i agree wondrous place, I sometimes feel the owner sees me coming round the corner and inflates the prices somewhat, I love his dry senso of humourhr often leaves me salivating after he has pointed me at some tome, knowing I bloody well could'nt afford them, always leave with some bloody gems though, to go back to West Wales with, thouroughly skint, anticipating my next incapacity cheque, hey ho, Like you only seem to buy second hand, and a good book if found beats the hunger, all the best xx

  3. I'm gonna be really controversial now.
    Big breaths.
    I think Trocchi was a charlatan, and the first poem of his you posted proves that.
    There, said it.
    Where's my birthday card, you bastard?

  4. so true, Mr Rocket,belated greetings, oops .

  5. meanig he is perhaps not too everyones taste, he was wild and sometimes a little insensitive, a public junkie, he upset a lot, he was often hungry for attention, but he led a kind of interesting life, I admit I can be forgetful hey ho, respect to you , lets try not to get to cynical, if you know what I mean!

  6. happy birthday roy
    i agree his poetry is shite, but cain's book is the bomb,the only book that captures the junkie high(chase and catch)for me anyway.xx

  7. I know what your saying, laters xx heddwch