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Kurt Kanawa Jun 2014
Dance can't keep still;
she never could.

Music, perhaps the oldest of them all,
is the gracious host:
a voice all recognize.

Acting has a love/hate relationship
with everyone in the room
including himself.

Pottery daydreams
of ancient glory.
(Fashion hasn't got the time for that.)

Architecture and Sculpture
compare dresses.

Cooking tries to decode
the recipe for dessert.

Painting and Drawing
soak up the garden's view,
while Writing goes around
asking what everyone's up to.

Photography stops
and stares for a while.

Video voyeurs the place,
much to Love's embarrassment.

Lastly, we have Poetry:
the lovechild of all the Arts.
He is amazed by the shape of his hands
and spends his time drawing shadows
and chasing cars.
"All art is quite useless."
Kurt Kanawa Jun 2014
pearls of sweat swell on bodies golden
at the dancing heart of pagan Rome;
orgastic stares and touches molten
light the synesthesia pleasuredome.

the gods eat diamonds from the grapevine
while virgins undress their silken shame;
red-faces boast as blood turns to wine:
tonight roam ***** tongues without name.

nymphs hold cornucopia spirits high;
they all hover inches from the ground,
spraying the mob to dew ev'ry eye;
endless voices converge to one sound.

ambrosia, the food of the divine,
is nothing but mortal invention:
to think of pleasure is to make it mine,
all of us in bubbled imagination.
"The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize..."
Kurt Kanawa Jun 2014
climb out of the womb and be born
watch your limbs and fingers grow
let Them manufacture your soul
memorize and become a number

watch your limbs and fingers grow
set the neighborhood on fire
memorize and become a number
stare at the chains on your ankles

set the neighborhood on fire
rally your gods and your lovers
stare at the chains of your ankles
break free, run away

rally your gods and your lovers
let them manufacture your soul
break free, runaway
climb out of the womb and be born
there's a teenage riot in all of us.
Kurt Kanawa May 2014
our lips, are raptors,
talons inter,twined in flight;
the sun, on the sea raptures
and beckons us with light;

we are beak,ed seraphim
entangled in a vic,ious embrace;
feverish blood rac,es and swims
within the snare, of our veins enlaced;

each caged in st,eel feathers,
spine grazing spine, eye slashing eye;
we, a comet tha,t rapidly withers,
conjoined icarus fall,ing from the sky

we will crash in,to electric waves,
flanked by cliffs made, of thunder;
on to our vi,olent graves,
we will tear, each,other asunder.
you are the life of me,
and you will be the death of me,
and when you pin me down with your eyes
i know that i wouldn't have it any other way
Kurt Kanawa May 2014
These hands of mine are yours
You can do whatever you like:
I shall stand or kneel on all fours;
Move me to peace or move me to strike.

You can do whatever you like;
I am your guardian hound.
Move me to peace or move me to strike,
I shall do at your voice's sound.

I am your guardian hound
Who offers eternal loyalty;
I shall do at your voice's sound,
My queen, my royalty.

Who offers eternal loyalty?
I shall stand or kneel on all fours.
My queen, my royalty,
These hands of mine are yours.
my first pantoum yay
  May 2014 Kurt Kanawa
Tom Leveille
kissing you was like swerving into oncoming traffic

i can never tell if i am more haunted by empty picture frames or the ashes of their contents

you taught me that the saying "pick your battles" meant not answering when love was at the door

sometimes when i drink whiskey i swear i can hear your voice in the creases of my bedsheets & i sleep on the floor

i still catch myself running my hands over things you touched the most, looking for the echoes of your fingertips

i practice things i'll never say to you

i remember the day you told me you didn't like poetry, how "everything's already been said" & how "nothing meaningful can be captured without being cliche" you know, i don't miss you like the sun and moon, i do not miss you like tide bent waves crashing on the shoreline, i miss you like a chernobyl  swingset misses children

rumor has it that drowning is a lot like coming home, that drinking bleach can **** the butterflies in your stomach

for your love of cigarettes, i would have been an ashtray

this halloween i want to dress up as the you when you loved yourself and show up on your doorstep

i never understood what you meant when you said i was an instrument, back when you would cup your hands around my chest and breathe through the holes in my heart, i still wonder if the sounds i made remind you of wind chimes

i never paid much attention to abandoned buildings until i became one

in my dreams all the flowers smell like your perfume

i am the only person who has ever wished for the same snowflake to fall twice

if i could go back, and rewrite the definition of audacity, it would be how when we lost the bet of love, you said "we never shook on it"

i love you, if the feeling is not mutual, please pretend this was a poem

the only apology i want from you, is to have you repeat the names of children we will never have in your parents living room until they *****

we are the same person if you find yourself up at 4am dry heaving promises, or if you are kept awake by the laughter of those who've abandoned you

nobody ever told you that goodbyes taste like the back of stamps

sometimes i'm convinced that the only reason we hug, is so you can check my back for exit wounds
Kurt Kanawa May 2014
Jesus.
I have a huge ****
But I don't go around
Telling everyone about it.
"i'm cocky, alright."
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