On DOA plane leaving Prague airport.
And the ship whistling has
but fat cheeks and eyeglasses
And the capitalists proffer
in green suitcases to the naked. it.
And the communists create heavy industry,
but the heart is also heavy.
And the beautiful engineers are all
now conspire for their own glamour,
in the future, in the future,
and lament the security forces.
And the capitalists drink gin and whiskey
but let Indian brown millions starve and
murder whom they can in Vietnam.
and capitalist assholes tangle,
but not like Indian Saint Kabir.
of the just man above the clouds
in the bright sunshine is a salute
to the health of the blue sky.
Four, I was arrested thrice in Prague,
once for singing drunk on Narodny Street,
once knocked down on the midnight
who screamed out, BUSERANT!
Once for losing my notebooks
and I was sent from Havana by plane
by detectives in green uniform
and I was sent from Prague by plane
by detectives in Czechoslovakian
like card players out of Cezanne
like the two strange dolls
and examined my scribbles
and followed me night and morn
from the houses of lovers
And I am the King of May,
which is the power of sexual youth.
And I am the King of May,
which is industry in eloquence
And I am the King of May,
which is the long hair of Adam
and the beard of my own body.
And I am the King of May,
in the Czechoslovakian tongue.
And I am the King of May,
which is old human poesy,
and 100 ,000 people chose my name.
And I am the King of May,
I will land at London Airport.
for I am of Slavic parentage
who worships the sacred heart of Christ,
the blue body of Krishna,
the straight back of Ram,
in a manner which I have invented.
is a Middle European honor,
mine in the twentieth century,
despite spaceships and the time machine,
because I heard the voice
that sleeps with teenagers laughing.
And I am the King of May,
that I may be expelled from my kingdom with honor as
of old to show the difference
and the kingdom of the May of man.
And I am the King of May, though paranoid
To last for more than a month
With trembling hands who said
Stepped between our bodies
I was being shoved off to England
Returning to see Blake's bones
and walk as Keith on Amstead East.
touching Albion's airfield,
trembling in fear as the plane roars
to a landing on the great concrete,
where the part of blue heaven still visible.
And though I am the King of May,
the Marxists have beat me
kept me up all night in police station,
followed me through springtime Prague,
and deported me from our kingdom by jet plane,
thus I have written this poem
on a jet seat in mid -heaven.