Read too much prose today
Kerouac, Micheline and Miller
And that old Bob Kaufman too
Tried to sell me their rhymeless lines
Child, Eyed, D.A Levy capitalizes all
Splashing bloods and vessels on the wacky paper
Airs of San Francisco, Paris and even…PAUSE!

Read too much prose for hours
On end, Kerouac, Micheline and Miller’s
And that old Bob Kaufman as well
Tried to sell me their rhymeless swell
Child, Eyed, D.A Levy capitalizes, he does
Splashing bloods and vessels on the wacky paper
Airs of San Francisco, Paris, and even… PAUSE!

Renegades and outlaws, Bible of the Outraged
To me rhymless poetry is like a hammer’s sledge
Ramming its fake fluid down people’s throat
And all is left on here is some ink one should blot.

January 19, 2016, 7:45 pm
Guillotière

Flutters of your blood
Your heart joins my flood
Chest to chest we pervade
The air with love we invade
Our flesh and fingers fidget
As close as we can get
From the unique encore
We feel when I skim
As lights are sweet and dim
The key to your craving core
We lay beside Neptune the blue
Tone of our celestial tune your hue
Flashes through my panting eyes ajar
As we both finish the dynamic painting
With one momentum from one jar
Sweetly letting go of the world united
Entangled as our lips remain parted
One in the expanding universe
On the verge of veering from this verse


December 25, 2015, 10:41 pm
Libourne, Western front of France

Instead of brooding over
The blackness of a light
That tenderly brightens
As the sheer warmth thickens
When you hug each other
I should think this is right:

I should delve in the kiss
Of the winter season
Rebel against my skin
We humans, all akin
I should seal my reason
In this holiday bliss…

But without a shelter
Without a clean cover
Not just a mere lover
How could I then not wish
For my ordeal to be over?
My pleas rush like a swish!

You plead about people
You’ve lost to wars and crimes
You could still when injured
Hurry to your white hall
Me, I just have my rhymes
But you call me perjured!

I will walk wild and weak
To the summits of time
With nothing but a dime
To see on top of all this love
You have deemed bleak.
The velvets of the glove

This lady in her shawl
Touches to her forearms
If I knock do you believe
She would hand me a bowl
Of this Christmas cold eve
My home her humble arms?

Lonely lunatic child
In the gleam of the moon
Oh! I hope she will soon
In her lenient linens
Open to the pure wild
Ness of my night silence

For a piece of this bread
I would tell her my world…
But she leaves satisfied
In the laughs of her thread:
To me demystified
Her dreams I can’t afford.

December 25, 2015
1:06 am
Libourne, France

From the Thames, I snake along the black
Serpent taking the Tube, London’s rack
On the Northern Line, the night lays ahead
I remember the town’s name at the top of my head

Camden is like a classy underground broad
Come along before you’re again on the road
I was a chick when I first came to Camden Town
At eighteen, now a woman I’m downtown

From gothic ***** clothing to Hare Krishna
Camden is kind of like Gingsberg’s California
It’s shabby and mystical, silly and lyrical
When I’m there please don’t give me a call

Camden is like a drunk crow looking for Poe
In between nails and leathers that glow
You would grab a dude and he’ll be beneath
Jack the Ripper roaming at Hampstead Heath

My New England, Camden was and is
Not because of bars and hashish drags
Camden possesses underneath her rags
The sweet scent of a quirky release

Deliciously deviant divine
Line up at the looming line
The black Northern Line inked
All throughout London, linked…

December 20, 2015 9:26 pm
London, Victoria

On a bench of relief
I sat. My pen green
At Bloomsburry gardens seen
By the wind like a leaf

To the publishing house around
I submitted my rhymes– this garden
Is against my literary gambling a warden
Behind those doors I heard a different sound

I toss the written coin–Head or tail?
London is a greedy squirrel searching litters
Would you British bustling bushy tail
Want to keep my tale and like my letters?

On a bench of hope
I dreamt–about poetry
My treasured sole trope
Lent to someone else’s industry

Bloomsburry I say your name
House of many a request
Your doorstep is my conquest
But what is, to freedom, fame?

December 15, 2015
Bloomsburry Square Gardens
London

Like a line love
Tethers my threshold
Poetry can’t catch hold
Of what we cannot solve

I chase, take down the thought
So that someday you ought
To see without the veil
Towards where I can’t sail

Is love a leeching spell
That bloodthirsty, pray tell?

December 11, 2015
While recording a song
Lyon, rue Juiverie

On your knees you pant
Devastated, waste-land
You feel your blood this bland
Rush filling you whole empty
As you slowly and deftly
Rise again sunset, slant

Light of your courage, wage!
Wage war, light of courage!

On your feet you rest
You will fight so lest
We forget for those
Who can’t stand
Devastated, waste-land
You are of thorns the rose

Light of your courage, wage!
Wage war, light of courage!

On your skies you reach
The tallest tower lower
Than your lithely self
No bounds no leash
You fly up, up higher
Freed from your self!

Light of your courage, wage!
Wage war, light of courage!

December 3, 2015