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This isn't happening
all of the sudden
we need to close the beaches
and call in sick

Don't cry again teargas
it's not your fault
don't get hot there gun
you gave it your best shot

Song and dance, weekend warrior
soothe your soul
with a little radio friendly fire

The forest can be petrified
the sea wild
working without a mask
is both, you know

It's quite out of this world
but you haven't
really seen outerspace
until you've had DayQuil
with dissociatives

Then you take hot trips
to odd places
like an international
convenient store
where they're always
out of Africa and milk

I wish Monday mourning
would go jump off a bridge
I wish taco Tuesday
would become a festive holiday
nevertheless, our girl Friday
is always good for the job

The weight has lifted
the wait has (week)ended
the search for
my socks and sanity
can now kick off

4d · 351
Life on Mars
[begin transmission]

Little mean marble,
the grasshopper lies heavy,
riding storms
and trailing winds,
eating dystopia
right out of the box

suns and daughters
of the cataclysm
sit about a space
cadet's campfire,
hints of alien sand
in their voices

it so oddly resembles
vast outland libretto,
that breathe of menace,
inside sojourners
holding tickets to ride
tramlines on shuttle days

swarming with
Walter Mitty groupies
and econowives,
transporting ****, rapture,
and/or reproduction to worlds
of public domain

one day we'll settle here
one day, with bowed heads,
we'll kiss the splendor
of its red ruination

[end transmission]
7d · 856
If I am treason,
it’s you I kiss.

If I am desertion,
it’s you I blame.

If I am persuasion,
it’s you I rob.

And when we kiss dutifully,
smile in simile,
just whose road of promise
will it be?

If I am steep,
it’s your future I will not climb.

If I am winter sky,
it’s your way out beclouding.

If I am compromise,
it’s your eyes that hold no conviction.

And when we drift apart in apathy,
evade with euphemisms,
just whose road of decline
will it be?

If I am consternation,
it’s your dream driven away.

If I am turbulent sea,
it’s your ship high upon waves of doubt.

If I am fruition,
it’s your tomorrow that is sunk.

And when we drink to this tragedy,
get drunk on alliterations,
just whose road of surrender
will it be?

Written March 27, 1996
May 5 · 398
Truth Coffee
Cape Town café

drink up it's gospel brew
as black as ink
and I will ask you
what you're thinking
how you're feeling

is my love only in theory?
does it mystify?

look plainly at
your hot cup of gloom
watch it stimulate the tongue
and give away
fidelity's holy fire
that once lit the fuse
of addiction

within the skin of this burning man
May 3 · 383
Quarter Boy
The disruptor,
whether digital or analog,
strikes the bell,

bioengineered automaton
—a manufactured life form
given little agency or dimension,

mnemonic to the finitude of life,
and subtle muddling of humankind's
supposed moral transcendence.

Apr 27 · 600
City Lights
Carlo C Gomez Apr 27
Metropolis is dust,
the smoke of unfaded coffin nails,
she's a sensual bonfire
littered landscape,
the burning lust running in my veins
between safety and risk,
circumcising the stage
where Dylan went electric.
"I didn’t belong to anybody then or now.”

Swing-shifting to mercenary mode,
but sinking my face value
by ordering takeout religion,
sharing a cab with Hepatitis C,
and all those sky-high boxes
and rectangles
—existing in one, spending nights
with her in another.
"Oh, lay me down to sleep
upon the trickery of time."

Apr 26 · 1.2k
Carlo C Gomez Apr 26
In her sulking-place
alone and naked

framed in soft sepia
—the vintage, harlequin hue

at this supposed faded hour
she sits looking back on memory

she sits and stares
into the boudoir mirror

at herself
at her embonpoint

yes, at these *******
—at their landscape

how they fall
(like Niagara)

where they point
(like a compass)

what they tell (so fondly)
when pressed together

about their time
—their work and play

towers on the precipice
of judgment

both callous and

if the mirror
truly be her reflection

her vision is turned around
as illusion

—a study of tonality and tolerance
for one's own flesh

the room
an invitation

or perhaps
a lockaway

where she even keeps secrets
from herself

avenoir - n. the desire that memory could flow backward
Carlo C Gomez Apr 23
Welcome to Misadventure, you're drawn to it in some berserk way, maybe due to it's atomic habits or technological urges,

sometimes there are cool, but irrational gun-totting robots who speak in foam, their presence detected by iron filings or teeth fillings or both or neither,

I just know there are tire tracks on your wife's new dress, the smell of gasoline coming from the guest bedroom, and a half-eaten Stouffers lasagna rotating on the record turntable,

and here a replicated version of your wife dances to the Italian Song, her ******* like lodestones, upturned and pressed together,

drawing you to them in some berserk way,
and they give such life and merriment to your brain's parcel of needles, that they prance and sway as if the devil were in them.
An absolutely drug-free inspired/written poem...Lol!
Carlo C Gomez Apr 21
Ziegfield girls with Gatling guns
in complete synchronization,
decked out in Erté.
Watch your step, soldier,
for what's often considered foreplay.

Much like Peter and the Wolf,
one thing leads to another
on this daisy chain,
and as you know,
Burke's only jealous of Lorainne.

I'll tell you what,
dress warm for the ******* snowstorm,
and there'll be a place alongside
such an ingenue.
But what a terrible let down
it would be to find out
she was always smarter than you.
Erté (pronounced AIR TAY): Romain de Tirtoff's pseudonym; he was a 20th-century artist and designer in an array of fields, including fashion, jewellery, costume and set design for film, theatre, and opera.
Apr 20 · 597
Sports & Ice Cream
Carlo C Gomez Apr 20
Love is the painting
every heart hopes to achieve,
sifting through seldom
looked upon pictures,
we came upon this masterpiece:

The little boy pensive
just to hold the hand
of his darling,
and skipping along
we played to this game,
giggling in each other's ear,
yet, with only sweet innocent thoughts.

The daytime summer sun
meant a twirl in the air,
a ride on the swing,
and an ice cream to share.

As children love
was an amusement ride,
just leisure fun we never took seriously,
as adults love achieved art,
developing a magnum opus
rich in its own poetry.

The young man proud
just to hold the hand of his darling,
and strolling along their game matures,
they whisper in each other's ear,
yet, with each word the balance
of their intimate thoughts so rest.

The dazzled moonlight of evening
means an aura in the air,
the anticipated kiss it will bring,
and maybe an ice cream to share.

We were never good at every sport,
but somehow this one
came so natural for us,
and so we too were an art
unto ourselves.

Written June 28, 1989 in Williams, Arizona.
Apr 16 · 1.2k
Carlo C Gomez Apr 16
Silver water
flowing out from under

Beautiful daughter of the stars
dancing in eclipse, remembering
the season of the sun

And how her
calculating love survived
its long hibernation

Carlo C Gomez Apr 13
A break in the clouds
Of heavy burden

****** sand between
The toes, for certain

The surf, a cleansing
A light mist descending

Dark days of struggle
They ripple away

Laughter in the air
As children again play

Apr 11 · 1.1k
Quite Frankly, Infared
Carlo C Gomez Apr 11
There's trouble in Alphaville:

Caution in the taxi, "I am on a journey to the end of the night."

Remember to silence love when sneaking Sally thru the alley.

There's always one too many wives on the same wavelength.

Seeing is believing in the cold ultraviolet light of a long, warm lens.

And naturally "How to Teach Your Wife to Be a Widow" is all checked out at the local library.

Apr 8 · 571
This Island Earth
From the initial dawning

lithium sky met infernal waters

and it all went awry

the light of happiness

constituted halos

leaving intimate words

paperclipped, tongue-tied

and love bruises

upon inner thigh

the wellspring enveloped

char and holm

with faint kissed alkali

abating the stormy umbrage

as if a softly whispered lullaby

and suddenly along this watermark

only you, me

and the need to multiply

Apr 5 · 678
Dead Sea Scrolls
standing in the middle of some vast, empty space—the kind of ocean or plain where you can see the edge of a dream in all directions

and it opens to you, and you let it in—womblike—everything around you is meaningful, whether it’s beautiful or horrible or sublime

it must be written above and left to fall as the wettest raindrop, tempting fate, and fate retaliated—again there was light, and again there was darkness, a new day
Apr 3 · 594
Starting from the Euphrates
wayfinding a trail toward Babylonia
to divert her waters

mapping her ancient towers
her eyes
her desires
her pudendum

egressing out of the bitter river
surrounding her temple

until enlightenment
glisters betwixt the frangible pages of her
Dialogue of Pessimism:
"Who is so tall as to ascend to heaven?
Who is so broad as to encompass the entire world?"

Inspired by Jamadhi Verse's poem 'Minor Melancholy' and the music she provided a link to:
Apr 1 · 827
Grecian Urn
in limbo, paralyzed by inaction
and unsure of how to move forward
moodier and more menacing than ever before
a delicate state of mind is explored
all about seeing the beauty
in the darkness of futility
digging wells and all to happy
to throw us all down there
as images painted on an ancient vase, exploring
what it means to be frozen
in a moment of time for all eternity

It was all the rage
in the food industry
or so they implied

It was easier to
go down the bakery aisle
or so they justified

It was how so many men
preferred to see dessert
or so they specified

But to her way of thinking
it just never looked right
no matter how she tried
Mar 28 · 647
Fata Alaska
Carlo C Gomez Mar 28
On a clear day
I can see my sister

It's between six and seven o'clock
and a beautiful expanse of water, reflecting her cultivated shores

a nod, a smile,
through the vapor

castles in the air, ruling over
the available light

then in a moment, she's lost
half her height

and bent into arcades, like those
of a Roman aqueduct

evaporate before me she will

the fading of family, a returning
to cold white at the dawning
of an unfriendly expanse

Carlo C Gomez Mar 25
Salvation comes with a price--

Pried open doors,
choir songs of fingerdust
resurrecting goldrush,
and a pretty little
cromulent called whitewash.

New century martyrs
have risen up to burn books,
and quotes,
and tongues,
and every contrariwise thought,
--is this intuition or inquisition?

What ascends is trapped within
tenebrific clouds,
returning to barren ground
when it rains unholy prayers.

They don't crusade for you or me.
They contest for dominion and mastery.
Those who believe are mooncalf.

This torchlight of intolerance
sends out skyrockets,
and away it goes!
trending on your homepage:

Past generations
burning at the stake,
at the hands of sinners clothed as saints,
in cathedral oblivion,
dismembering their future
in the blood of their own children.


Carlo C Gomez Mar 22
Let's say,
you're an apple,
but you'd rather be a pear.

The internet recommends
phoning the produce gods,
in hopes of being replanted.

However, there's a catch:
it's a collect call
to another dimension.

And so you sulk and rage,
and pretty much bruise your skin,
until it dawns on you:

Wormholes are
spacetime's phone booth,
and it just so happens,
you're full of them!

Yes indeed!
Going bad never felt so right...
Mar 21 · 541
Where Oh Werewolf!
Carlo C Gomez Mar 21
One night
I was a werewolf,
but that got out of hand.
One night
you were a peach,
but I preferred fresh
over canned.

The blood scent was strong
and on your collar,
or was it spaghetti sauce?
We meandered in
the lost city of angels,
but those women
in the maternity ward
were better shape-shifters.

Couldn't see if the moon
was full against
the polluted skyline,
(but I bet it wasn't).

Then somewhere
down the tracks,
the howler (that's you),
half a dream away
on some deserted block,
and flat on your back
like a pancake,
with the nightmares
stacking up,
and dripping
with strawberry syrup.

Or was it blood?
(I bet it wasn't).
Mar 16 · 626
Picture Book
Carlo C Gomez Mar 16
I remember her
in old

she'd been
all her life
in her under-age

like a top
in her head
But recklessness
on her tongue

crusading for
******* summers
in Europe
and all that comes
splendidly hither

when laid down
by the embers
in the groves
close to
the congenial sea

I rightly recall
before the page

electric particles
shooting off
as fireworks
in each of her
copper eyes

and how destiny's
curtain fell
with such
that morning of
the thin blue line
Mar 15 · 922
Sarah's Story
Carlo C Gomez Mar 15
Walking home
at twilight:

the gentle breeze

the lavender sky

the wave goodbye
before the sun
closes its eyes

and the lingering disquiet
of knowing
your all alone
for the next several blocks
For Sarah Everard.
It wasn't her fault.
For many women simply taking a walk can be a gamble, even in a good neighborhood.
That is unacceptable.
Carlo C Gomez Mar 11
This level crossing--

and broken glass,

from naming to numbering,
names tend to define,
numbers are neutral,

they count the roads, follow their shadowside--

and absorb,

dictated by a candle,
I feel nearer to the surface of us,

motion made of visible memories, arrested in space,

mere unorganized explosions of random energy,
and therefore meaningless--

to fall in love with our progress,
and to be outgrown by it.

Mar 9 · 758
First Round Draft Pick
Star soldier with the rocket arm,
you bleed silver, gold,
and product placement.

Smile big for the camera,
the media will sell its soul
for a new bankable face.

Party hardy, Heisman candidate,
******* your semi-steady's
sorority sister,
then ask to see her again
sometime after the **** kit.

It's quite alright,
so long as you have talent
beyond this hemisphere.
Why even the fatherland, ESPN,
will gladly call you "son."
Mar 7 · 629
Coral Sea
"The sea complains upon a thousand shores"

Yet, I miss your current

passing through me

infinitely I tread this water

in the hopes you will soon awaken

like new horizon

"my precious, the sea will never rest"

Inspired by the poem from John Edward Smallshaw:
Mar 4 · 371
Lorelei & the Moth
this once sound vessel
succumbing to agony,
as if scuttled by
a siren at sea,

and in her heart
flutters and sunbeams,
she's not alone
in her dreams,

there's a torch light
with wings, dancing
about her wounds,

it burns of empathy,
but too numb to feel the pain
of her dying rooms,

hereabouts goodbye,
under the silk of anesthesia,
she whispers,
"blade of grass, then away we fly..."

Mar 1 · 1.4k
Origami Girl
pureland flower, always
twisted into someone else's
creation, never of her own
volition, breakable eggshell,
quiet and still, lifeless
from pushing boundaries,
a color without color, lifted by
the breeze, folded up neatly,
no wonder why nowhere to fly.

Feb 24 · 915
History of Cemeteries
Carlo C Gomez Feb 24
The human mind
and the human heart
and the scent of a woman
Omaha Beach
and the poisoned sky
and the rhythm method
Morse Code
and one too many icebergs
Mighty dollar
and what is never laid to rest
The human mind
and the human heart
Feb 22 · 474
Northern Lights
Carlo C Gomez Feb 22
The rosy-fingered dawn
  bleeds excitation
and atmospheric trails
  for seeking out tomorrow

Are these stars like rain?

  Emitting imagination,
  refracting suggestion?

Perhaps a new art form swimming
about as cloudbursts?

In undulating waves
  war and peace
are colliding out from
  the center of the sun

Could they be
messengers from heaven?

  A signal from God?

Perhaps at magnetic midnight,
four horsemen shall ride?
Carlo C Gomez Feb 17
Sun comes up,
she goes down
on some upended main drag,
if i were an archaeologist
i still wouldn't dig this place,
every other day she dwells
in tedious, empty cafés,
but on the weekends she flashes
her "license and registration"
to oncoming traffic,
hoping for grifted furlough
to wear as silken, shiny beads,
and so we ride
this merry-go-round,
because moving in circles
is far better than being trapped in a square,
we've stopped climbing the calendar
in search of higher elevation,
she used to pour it on thick,
stirring drinks inside my head,
i used to shake
worries from her hair,
now with bitter orange marmalade
low in the sky, and stacked against us,
it's home before dark,
lest our eyes open wide to see
we are nothing more
but strangers at sundown.
Carlo C Gomez Feb 10
Living on the toilsome trail
A mere speck
Without flight
Or even the aid
From a friendly leaf blower
I make my way
Upon my belly
Born to struggle
But shaped to endure
Dear Mom & Dad,

I won't be coming home quite as soon as once thought. I have found a place where they really like me; a place like no other. Instead of being shunned and despised, like most places, I'm invited to everything:
and parades,
my neighbors even welcome me with open arms. Suffice-to-say, I finally feel like I belong and plan to stay a while in this country.

Your Son,
Covid-19 Coronavirus, III
Note: this was written as a satirical health warning, and not in an attempt to make light of this deadly virus that has taken far too many lives
Feb 5 · 1.1k
When We Were Subnivean
Pine needles in my head
Snowbird starts to fly
A want of apricity
Enters my blood stream
Like lukewarm sea water
Enters hiemal streams
I'm sprawled facedown
An angel or so
Below the snow
The taste of frost
Technically wintergreen
From your breathy kiss
Hinting at a return
To rays of affection
And the crush of limbs
Feb 4 · 1.2k
Canisters of Doubt
I caught her face
from the window
somewhere far off
like the sound
of trains
and there in the smoke
of her eyes
a signal
we both knew
Jan 28 · 1.0k
Carlo C Gomez Jan 28
The beauty
Of your nest
Lies in knowing
What hides within
Is better than the rest

A glimpse through your foliage
Reveals a soft calyx
The petals of which are
The enthroned souls of the faithful
But a trap door nonetheless

When I enter
You will sigh
When I keep at it
You will know why
Angels sing

Jan 26 · 1.1k
Day of the Scorpion
Carlo C Gomez Jan 26
Strange object at sundown

Brittle heart

Living off the salt

Fighting for survival

Faithful as dogs

Broken as rock

The soil taking its soul

In the blaze of the sun

Stinging itself to death
Jan 22 · 481
A Night in Amsterdam
Carlo C Gomez Jan 22
Whilom seafarers in rapture,
seven minutes in heaven,
then nothing but bathos,
--a woman in bed,
she and Rembrandt quarreling
over fidelity or obedience to her king?

"It is I, Seagull!"

"Everything is fine. I see the horizon..."

Night sky, a blow torch,
a golden rain flowing between her legs,
curled in the veil of imperial lineage and/or arousal,
--ballistic arc,
peering into the hand mirror,
a breach of promise staring back.

"Will the flight
affect your reproductive organs, Danaë?"

and how they shall weep
when things go wrong between us?"
Jan 17 · 422
La Cascade des Prénoms
Carlo C Gomez Jan 17
A sea of names
--the waterfall of praenomen

Nary just a sobriquet
this is who you are, child
or what you shall grow into

Bathe in it
take drink from its fountain
aver your lifeline and identity
to the cascading baptism

It's your birthright
Inspired by Jamadhi Verse's poem "inamorata"
Jan 16 · 350
Carlo C Gomez Jan 16
Flowers lost in measure
At an outstretched hour
Born sightless in the once
Sacrosanct hedgerows
Picked belatedly

--And invisibly so--

Taken from their family
To unconditional surrender
Upon a cold stark table
Where those assembled
Finished off love with their meal

--And invisibly so--
Carlo C Gomez Jan 12
The raging quiet
The innocent curiosity
of touching the red queen
Dreaming of her *******
and their youthful color
Turning greeting cards
into ransom notes
Bridal showers
into bloodbaths

Tell me, my dear?
Tell me, my mother?
Are they lies
my bladed teacher told me?

For here in the moment
of his demise
Having already demonstrated
his humanity
his capacity to love
It is he who earned
the privilege of seeing
everlasting beauty
As I hold on for dear life...
Jan 8 · 338
Marlon Brando
"I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor.
That's my dream. It's my nightmare. Crawling, slithering,
along the edge of a straight razor … and surviving."
–  Col. Kurtz, Apocalypse Now

the golden age, Wally ***?
And the songs
my mother taught me?

We sang about what was.
Or might never be.

Like permanency.
Distinction comes
out of stiff and frozen silences.
Take it with
a spoonful of disdain.
Take it in the eye.
Actors are like breakfast cereals.
They're obvious
and according to taste.
I stopped needing them
long ago.

"less to this than
meets the eye"
dismiss me,
that I may be free
to find Tennessee.

Open windows
and closing doors.
Always a breeze,
but never a way out.
Right on cue
the cards shuffle.

Butter and cotton *****,
tricks of the trade.
I mumble to be heard.
I am legend
to disciples
of the Method.

I wear my friends to bed,
burn them like newspaper.
They call me "Bud"
—cigarettes at dawn
after devouring the night.
And now my song ebbs,
as the stylus hits the leadout groove.

Tomorrow, I'll be better.
Today, I'm just me.
Jan 6 · 1.8k
Girl, 20
Her and higher education:

Those narrow walls

That building
with too many stares

All the talk about climbing
up the flagpole

Just to see
what goes up

And what comes down

It was so much easier
when they just wanted

To carry her books
Note: The placement of stares, and not stairs, is intentional. It is not a typo.
Oh dear!
So sheer!
No coverage
In the rear!
Testing to see if this post gets seen or just disappears into thin air...
So many poems from other writers not showing up on my stream page.
Dec 2020 · 446
Splinter of the Mind's Eye
Carlo C Gomez Dec 2020
Roll right to zero, give your tanks a stir

Fixed star to fixed star, running counter clockwise to stability

Beckoned and bewildered: first move, second chance

This incandescent satellite, so large and bright in the window

Like pieces of refracted light, infinite bulbs turning on

Empyrean, enveloped in moonshine, rendering them fit to recognize God

And should destiny be lunar luminosity and agile reason (or a seller of love)

I'll take to orbit and go for burn, peering through a mental kaleidoscope

To see the altered anima of my thoughts free from the pull of gravity
Carlo C Gomez Dec 2020

The blossom

The flourish

Hitherto the withering

One backward glance

Time ravages beauty
Dec 2020 · 553
Watching the Wildlife
Carlo C Gomez Dec 2020
the veil of
trees, I can
peer into
your window,
and count
the family,
imagine them
gone to bed,
dreaming of blue,
"underwater, unaware."

Those summer
evaporations tickle
my skin,
bring on such
an observational
how you,
freshly out
of the pool,
brightly on
Dec 2020 · 693
Pattern of the Cosmos…
Carlo C Gomez Dec 2020
Moonlit angels keep turning the wheels of the universe

In conversations with God, they placed the Sun precisely in the centre

Alarum and escapement keep the gear train moving forth:

Astronomical clock, armillary sphere, lunar phases in sidereal time

All patterns of evidence -- releasing our impulses, advancing our hands

Dec 2020 · 381
A Life in Receipts
Carlo C Gomez Dec 2020
Target on my back
Wishing my pockets
Were happy pharmacies
And not sad reminders
Of long expenditures
And indiscretions
At night
Here now
In debt
I'm in your sights
Madam Cashier
Take the first shot
Bill me later
We'll call it even
Equal compensation
Or a semblance thereof
I spent freely
Allow me please
To die the same way
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