'The Ocean Bed' / Ezra Volta

'The Ocean Bed' / Ezra Volta


The Ocean Bed

Aye keenest lavenderr!

What hath now hathnohow?

Oh keenest of all

That you so sweet as them all

Temple the fall

Mighty Babylon!

Mighty Babylon.

Might he babble on

Had to adjust


Speaking to an old friend

And a new one

Ready for the oven

Toasty oh-so-chicken

With the hyphens on

Hyphen son

Got caught

Namn fall!

Namn my cueton buttan!

Kew-tan mighty kingdom!

Might he kingdom?


Stanza breaka

Stanza divertente oh-so-apartlee

Much thee thyne thee.



Let my friends speak

That is noble.


A letter to the editor

That end quote

Names of Pound, Ezra

That was not his quote

But mine

That sounded of his

In hindsight

In noble hindsight

(A Postscript but still

Written in the despicable set)


Oh so brilliant

Vexations of a most-so-roastlee Vishnu

Or Shiheva.

On my paradise wall



Ends stanza breacka

In Bragança



Poem on my wall

More, moll, more


Till eh’s no more or so!

Noble guvna!


Oh so nightlyee-comely sweetlyee

Oh so Chris-tianly!

I should stop good god

What have I done!


Letting good days go by,

Water flowing underground,

Into the blue again

After the moneys gone

Once in a lifetime

Water flowing underground


Same as it ever was

Same as it ever was

Same as it ever was

Now look where my hand was


Time isn’t holding up

Time isn’t after us

Once in a lifetime

Music fades out.


Silence on the oh-so-pretendly

Naked body

Under noble pyjamas.


Sex! Sexy sex!

Cried Fran the oh-so-smokely


Will you just look at these...



Television is gone.

You might think I was lying

About what I have said

It is all in my find, or mind,

And laid on my bed.



Nice rhymes jerkofffred!

Cried the heep-hoteler


Crisis of the Crimea

In mighty Ottoman domain!


In might he Ottoman, domain?


Back to work at domain

Sorry can’t say that

Mention thuns employer

Must I call a lawyer.


I’m so all-so-sorrily

About my rhymes

Dear sweetheart





Amyl and the sniffers ay!

Cried them on the street

A noble band

Is what they am,

Is what they am.


Curse the wenches of ancient


Curse thems jillatinuus legs

And bodices?


He laughs,

Looking to his phone again

Laughing about his own

Highest thoughts.

He’s prepared to think rationally now

Prouded the narrator across thine Ike’s.


But once more into the breach

The core

Or fire.


No great poem says

Or in it.







I have now removed myself


From the competition

And thus the disgrace

Of losing.

And also the theatre of conflict,



Life is a theatre of conflict -

Said the noble edgeman.

His epic poem

Became a novel

Said the squirrel on his bed

Looking at him propanely.


He or I


As in a laugh.


Seen the beginning once more

May have a wank or so

Some more.


His high behead

Rested on his headeded.

He recedededed

Because he’s fingers

Wherest hurting.


Passion pop

Sin against nature

Contra naturam.




But was written

Sweet Herat (Afghanistan or once ancient Alexandrian beyond the Bosporus and etc.)


U.p.: up.

Stephendedalesu chan.


Mind so fudgely

“Aye, face too ugly!”

Cried the baboonoon.


Marina does it talk!

Cried the midgeley

Of name Elizabeth

Ms. blond haired

Of oh-so-brightly divend)


In this noble business

The noble broker

(Stock variety)

Preach USURY

And trickery.


And that is a god, not

Man made words

That offend brahmuvishnu

And noble siva.


Crowley sits behind my phone

The creep from Palermo

Out with them

Out with the lot!

Said noble Mussolini

Who then brokered THEIR stock.


Not really noble but

A sin to the mind

Contra frontallobus once

Changed from pareitallobus)


The mind is sin against it all

The wicked thing

For noble Aquinas

The fool of church street!


Even Nietzsche cried

Because he was lost

In his mind street.


He’s no longer curled on ‘is side m’lord

Said the dirtiest and

Most naughtious of the pigeon lot

(The Irish)


Molers script ad libertatem

Changed once from mother there

Said his phone correcting machine.


Molars, molars, you fool!

Cried Berkeley, the champing fool!

Chumpening he is, isn’t he!

Said he

Of the king of Chūmp-pén-nìng-kì.




Oh that’ll be a hard one

To translate

For the scum

(Rhyme unintentional)


Scold the patriot.

He has no noble blood!

Cry it all day lurk boy,

You’re here for a day

Jerkered and lurtheard the

Cruel wives.




Oh goddy I am


My phone bends back like

A bananana, ho!


Sounds of my sheets moving

Like an ocean on

The wind.


The idea

More than the image of it

That of

The smell

Of ocean upon

La mer.

The sea.


Sell his perfume!

Bah-godde’s the negress clerk.

He watermeloned his way into

Racial stereotypes

And Rachel stereotypes.


Oh Rachel!


Buddha watches me recline

He weeps at my sight

Every day

Is probable but sad.


But sadness comes to happiness

Nothing is permanent

Everything flows

Said Heraclitus

Shallow rip off of

Ezra Pound.

Haunted by the ghost of

Ezra Pound

A good title.


A drunkard on his acidy

Haunted by the demons

Of techno blazers

And Louis Gerber haircutters.

By Ezra Pound perhaps

But he was a clean mind.


Proof of my destruction

The police came earlier

The flames were dithered

And the drugs were hithered

But did not exist really.


Man in the coat climbs my wardrobe

Looks like inspector gadget

The smiling fool.

A girly hand takes me leg.


Very tired

But must struggle through

To make a great work


In the not-oh-so-sexually way


That was hidden in my unconscious!

Good god!

Cried the lamb boy (Ezra Volat)

Alias of Ezra Volta,


Poet by name;

Rapist by profession.


Everything thought hitherto

Has been unthunkerthinned in the mind

Of Nietzsche



Or in other termses subconsciousness


Cried the dainty psychologist

Paid to let his wife fuck another.


Said he with his glasses toothered,





1:1. “For I hath been oh-so-sentenced-to

Life upon this dainty earthlet that is so crueleth!


1:2. “My back is really very sore”


1:3. “Come one and all this lifey wifey lifey of a life will cease to be but will be to cease.


1:4. “Last of it all I’ve never been”.


These where what’s-the-poets called her.

Oh how my heart races!

But it’s not love,

But the acid.


My beret weeps and cries at me

He leaps and jumps and cries and weeps

“Why are you so fucking sad!”

I said in a very ever-so-gently way.

“I’ve turned my poems into novels!”

But with shorter lines

And capitals at the start of every



La belle oh-so-breastly comely!

Sucketh and fucketh me lad drad try.

Wild noble giggerish.

A perverts ears!

Avert your eyes and ears!


Don’t go too far, demon naked suckleth

Of my deep vision

Revealing the tremendous ravine

Of SEX, of the mind.

-Also sprach Freud.


Dreamy green naked sucklet

Beautiful woman

In twentiesish hair

And all the bonneted maidens

At Central train station

Watch me be sexually humiliated by you.


Like a namely-won’t-say-namely

Who is my fear and desire.

And both.


Noble poetry that he can write upon hours

Without sleep

Deprived once more into the breach.


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