The Jivin' Ladybug

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Bernard Bador


their secrets in suspense.


The sun is scuttled into pocket crevices,

locus of the moltings of the void


Strata-encrusted eyes—

solstices weaned of memories

drilled by

fanatics searching for transitory prophecies


A sole cat at

the edge of time

crouches in wait for ruins.




At the edge of its rock

a ghost snaps up foam

immediately dissolved in its shroud.

Below the squalls,

all disappears, only raw heart drifts

the sand of lost tears




Ruins raging, jolted by dunes,

drift toward burning blizzards,

dismantlers of the void

perforated by memories.


Sun crumblings

plastered on the raised rejects of the sad earth—

even loyal shadows abandon them.


Where to scoop up some ghastly deceitful

ghost sand in order to recover

our karmic ferrymen

dissolved in an unspeakable alchemy?




emerged from a glacial ransom.


Scattered blooming moons thicken

the forever radiated corpse of a shadow.


Smelling of magnets a greenhouse skin

expands the void over the decoys.


Cries crisp the rock-work as soon split by

the hatchet breath of diving bats.


A tin sun laminates tears run wild

that gnomes waylay and nibble.




bony horizons:

the finitude of the soul.


Only the leap

before its time

flings forth the serene sigh of the fall.


Thick word walls clawed

out of praying bowels could not check

the executioner of doubt.


Below, on the concrete,

tepid brown rejected years spread out around

a bland mosaic of looks.




The buzzing of terminal moraines

by a sheer drop of anguish

soldered with sigh-weaned sap.


At the dawn of blood,

already plundered by the outbursts of fate,

between the projections of labial faults,

Artaud’s memoir of disjointed planets blocked

by the insolent cats of the solar barge cats,




between the folding-doors of dusk

a shriek

taunts the fevered horizon of

our pupils slogging on.





in voracious bulbs.


The fruitless blooming of a rictus

draped in mist

clawed by hooded crows.


Rocks lie in wait

in mud silence

which vortices squeeze around.


Spiraling eyes struggle in

the breathless drought of flashes.


O demented amnesia of adoption’s chaos!




The page bursts into a fertile mire of continuing eclipses.

Blackness springs back, detoured by tortured shadows.

Eyelids barricade themselves.

Red fury of the unseen

   grave-dredger of memories




For Tristan Tzara


Translated by Clayton Eshleman


Tzara is not dead—only pretends to be, and on This

I will once more erect my eclipse.

Tombs remain the best mail slots for our fugues on

that menstrual flood where Moses drifted

between two buoyed nipples

among the reeds of the Pharaoh,

that embalmer of honeymoons and pickled egos.


The moon repeats its palatial belch

transmitting the old hieroscratched code of heliotropic

priests, sullen lickers of baby scarabs.

Quite a few Dada wars ago

a whole new gang of rich Romans attempting

to surpass the frog, trying to grow larger

than the bull’s-eye bull, suckled

she-wolf udder and deified the milk.


Dali was wrong to identify the Bible as runny

cholesterol cheese, it was in fact

the dairy Latin Empire, the cultured

rennet of the Pax Romana!


Morning returns to the stoned ignovimous doors

with a handleful of Europas out of their potless minds.

They cannot be ransomed by scalping ice caps

camouflaged as Artaud’s

sawtooth buttocks, especially since

his theatrical double was caught red-handed in

Marat’s bath disguised as Charlotte.

putting the last touch to her purist royal pear coulis.


In the two-faced mud of shut eyes

the gold fish of the Rising Sun makes lies glitter

but these lies quickly turn green as withered

angels’ wings. A great wall of unicorns

--Confucian messengers?—

rolls and closes in on the belly

invented with each penetration,

and high noon? Encumbered with flies

and weighed down by mythology’s malefices,

it thrusts forth its polar bear star, snorkeling under

the very black ice that our orbits furrow.


Albino spiders have confessed their fetid sins to

the shrimp and raucous seabass

dangling from Don Juan’s certified neck.

In the Dunhuang caves the homeless broccoli

and the abandoned baby zucchini

have been raked into a Ryoan-ji

strip of tyrannous

genitals, sighing fire, poached in Tzarist vapor.


Tristan is gone, without even leaving an abbess.

A frieze of checkered camels

gnawn by pycnogonidic cenobites,

has been beribboned with blighted tapir prayers.

Dragging along the stucco banks of our resentment,

a horde of bearded captains with spongy

eyes are sodomizing buttered flies.  

The Jivin' Ladybug- A Skewered Journal of the Arts
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