We stand outside and bathe -
in starlight and glow, of
histories in context
and roots.
Lives begun and deaths upon,
stream showers of
eternal end and story.
Les lumières in canopy
holding essence and finds -
us who seeded the ground,
that planted stories told;
from generation to single child.
The paths we take and roads
walked long, my pitch pipe
***** amuses.
Bellow the bloat and waste
the lamb.
2013 Barry Comer
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
We turn around
and find pinholes,
water streams of light,
from stars
who swallowed
and took our lives.
With sounds of snorts
and whiskered,
bully throats.
Whose heart
am I searching,
in this season of
hello goodbyes?
We look
upon them long
into night,
such twinkles,
of stars
that stole our loves -
their sweet
tender smiles.
Give back our dreamers.
Lend to us more - for years
into years.
2012 Barry Comer
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 2:35 PM UTC
We sail smooth
runners iced and swelled,
in teas of black
with Chinese talk-talk.
Lay your hands on me,
such smoothness tickles;
my fuzz and temptations -
you feel.
It’s our room on
Boulevard Saint-Germain
where hush-hush is
our language of
blushed romance
and foreign lip-lock.
Les femmes de la noir -
tenez ma queue et tordez.
We watch the sky
and count the drops and
swirl our fingers over cups
and sculptured hair.
Saturday afternoons on
Boulevard Saint-Germain.
2012 Barry Comer
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 2:31 PM UTC
Amazon heats her burning waste,
she’s tickling time with paint squint eyes.
With a sinkhole grip of uncertain hold;
she just babble talk babble, babble just blah,
blah and blab.
She dropped the room flat cold -
down so down.
Stole the show, priced the surprise;
little to show and much too nosey,
mind your business, it’s all go go.
2010 Barry Comer
Jul 3, 2010
Jul 3, 2010 at 4:15 PM UTC
With the sweat of icons and glistened pearls in stone,
she wept for lambs lost, generations plowed under and
sweet potatoes that sun themselves.
This south, sweet heritage of folds, of historical nuance
and terrible crimes.
Lay with me tender, find coolness of the sheet and
breathe the mist of sad songs and foolish loves.
2010 Barry Comer
Jul 3, 2010
Jul 3, 2010 at 4:13 PM UTC
This is the song of girls
who pressed themselves close,
and tried to be, my friend.
The softness of hands and
golden sweet lashes, that planted
seeds of memories.
They gave their songs of giggles and
breaths, whose sweet drawn, never to
capture again.
In memory of them and their smiles,
the passing of time reveals just
essence flickering back
of my head, whose scents unique.
Beautiful women who nursed and raised,
but move so slowly for me, the air and
the temperature, the thoughts;
they float on water.
Give them peace with time,
give me one more taste, a tint of
hue, their drawn lyric,
before floating away,
ebbing in slow rhythm.
2010 Barry Comer – www.blackcatpoems.com
Jul 3, 2010
Jul 3, 2010 at 4:11 PM UTC
Born dead with blinding light,
we escape the mouth of time tugging back.
Riding the light and the charge,
it is a one-way straddle feeding the volts.
Look up, gaze down – it’s where we end,
a discharge in dirt.
2010 Barry Comer
Jul 3, 2010
Jul 3, 2010 at 4:05 PM UTC
You float with blue, tinted eyes;oh, Simone.Dreams of your strawberry toes,hanging between moistened planks;dissolving, diluting in current.Smiling from a photo,your eyes are gauze;behind glasses anddampened hair.Leaning forward,receiving me;looking upward;hoping for approval.You float with blue, tinted eyes;but cannot tell.I push the water,with prayer shaped hands;warm and dark.You fell into my mouth,warm and salty;whom am I tasting?2010 Barry Comer
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 3:36 PM UTC
Green mint breath,with a predator’s thirst,her hot steamed plunder,spanked to affection;some candy man love.Her tom-tom palms,such smooth pony thighs;candy requires perfection,ride, boy ride.The monkey house screams,call it a wild girl whisper,her hot scripted words;I believe in love.Candy riders, where’s this going?Going to slaughter,touching her thighs;riding the animal slide.My candy girl,little steamed fluffer,she sweats warm venom;I feel her love.You’re pretty slow, if you still don’t know.It’s called taste of the savage,for ponys and monkeys,a sweet attraction;for candy boy love.She was hired to please,to guard, above the knee.You got it now.It was ‘62 and I was hot.2010 Barry Comer
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 3:33 PM UTC
Buzzing street lights in ‘65, while riding down broadway, I saw him raise a fist and knock on air, giving honorary mention, on a sidewalk, with licorice aromatics and things to come; a riot in mind and lost roads yet to try; I was driving down the hours, until the great eruption, the beautiful hydrogen plume, that turned my earliest stages to glass; of misunderstanding.I chose deep coma puffs for months; hoping for a big bang difference, but saw more of the same, those political chants and the binge melody; spread my head from ear to nose, and dripped to a kneeling pose that hurt the knees; that he created.There were buses choked with cigarettes and little fires that fumed high on revolution; I inhaled the moment, spiritual avenues of peace, ambience for a dime and phony masters of ‘68, who passed good karma as market produce, picked for it’s grace maybe taste; remembering a twisted paste, twirled around a pipe; I found his holiness smeared with rosin, powdered and heated in delicious spice.Banging down the hours, in the hallway and on the walls, the musicians in the park, the harmonica boy and a licorice man who posed like Cleopatra, a fist pumped high, finding power far from the action, the corner vacation it had become; one year late and an intersection erupting intolerance; a fascist dialect foaming at the mouth.It’s ****** man, the sacrifice for love’s survival, the astute grew grumpy, coyly taking savage steps for attention, a smiling Buddha danced mediocrity, and the breeze cleaned the streets of licorice lice.I pledged to mystic beasts, the iconic gods, who gave us head while swaying beads, killing rice cake hero babies, then slurped the carnage. That was the rise in ‘69, the fall of all, you young men, robed preachers; who stole the show. We worshipped your footprints, discovered nothing, but eased each in; so wild were our mouths.The cold floating fogs in ‘71, let’s drive the dark, close our eyes, seeing cars in stars, luck was far from there, it was over. Time to surrender, the freedom, the ravished femmes, the man with junk, singing ancient song, who lived in trees, who coasted hills, whose licorice taste, his heavenly dreams; visit my nighttime history, and the years we lived.
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 3:33 PM UTC