rob kistner Jun 25
_

he rolls with a finger-snap jazz-jive strut
don't mess with him 'cause you might get cut

silken french-cuffed ivory shirt
soft as a butter-sweet cream dessert

cuff links diamonds in pure white gold
high fashion treasure - bourgeois and bold

pearl stick-pinned satin tie knotted tight
lookin' like paris on a saturday night

desert-tan gabardine three-pleat slacks
euro-cuffed steam-creased sharp as tacks

snakeskin braces buttoned sterling bright
hip and killer as a rattlesnake's bite

black-patton striders with 'gator spats
steppin' out classy as the coolest cats

red pinstriped linen coat double-breasted
uptown savvy teal velvet vested

full-blocked rolled-brim felt chapeau
in the deepest red of a fine bordeaux

he was crisp and smooth as a dry martini
they all called him ziggy
but his name was - bob

_


rob kistner © 2018
Just a little bit of fun. Should be read with a finger-snap jazz-jive srut!
An emergency macaroon
on a boulevard, in March,

Because my sugar levels dropping,
mind foggy, dopamine high crashing;
because legs aching; I can’t unknot
the multi-coloured tangles this evening;
because yesterday; because I said yes; because.
Because you never said in so many words.

You say there is cloud cover
with chance of rain, but you know there
will be rain because you have a headache.
You can tell but you can’t say.
Submission for the theme 'distance' for The Menteur Anthology
les ombres s’allongent sur la colline
et mon esprit se met à songer
à un monde que je ne connais plus

--

The shadows lengthen on the hill
and my mind gets to dreaming
of a world I know no longer.
Nostalgia upon arriving in north Wales from Paris.
Kuvar May 31
The world is watching  
Little boy dangling
Like a earring
In an over ear piercing
Many hate to see
The future go bloody
Not in their eyes
But still the boy is dangling
Right in the open
Many eyes looking
This is unthinkable
All wishing
Let it be a marvel comic
Hoping to end happy
With a friendly neighborhood
Spider man!
There is no Spider-Man
No Spider-Man
If there is no neighborhood
We have  a neighborhood
Without a Spider-Man
But a mere mortal man
dried up the tears on Paris map
In the hands of Gassama
©️Kuvar


This credit goes rob Gassama who saved that poor soul in Paris...Not all heroes wear Cape
Here by the Beat Hotel near
the St Michel in a cafe with wine
I feel the hum turn to sizzle and
sparkle and overfill into my eyes
too much till they are brimming with
hope that could spill onto the table
and my heart is swelling with a
optimism and I feel it spilling
over I worry I will laugh crazy
for no reason but to release
all the glowing light inside which
is feeling far too obvious for everyone
they will think I am drunk but I have only had a sip but this
conversation is several glasses of something of energy of
fermented anger and worries
and anxieties about the world

turned into wine and we
sip the sentences we sip the
sentences and eyes clink glances
in holistic belief and hope it
is so much but you
say we are free we
are freer than this ramekin
which once held peanuts which
we nibbled between drink
and thought and you say you
can’t believe you are talking of
Sartre here and it is cliché
but the words
ripple like a song we know we
forget but when it plays
we forget we forgot and always
know we need to hear it again
we wish we could record the
feeling the sights the words the
way you say the words so
that we are filled with childlike
possibility when life weighs us
to stare at our feet.
Stream of consciousness poem. Written ad hoc/spontaneously after returning back from a bar after having some brilliant conversations with friends and a university tutor about creativity, philosophers and writers. Felt a magical and inspirational moment that I had to record down the exact feelings and thoughts that ran through my head or felt at the moment. These thoughts overlap other thoughts and tried to leave no emotion spared. well I actually didn't think too much about the words when I wrote, just let the words tumble out and forced no punctuation to help that happen. Probably most honest poem I've shown.

(Written 17th March 2017)
I feel hope I am trying to let
my heart sizzle without the
heat getting too high and eyes steam
up like windows condensation I
am not crying I am just happy and
hopeful and everything is beautiful but
if it sizzles too much my body
shakes fidgets I am not crazy I
just love this universe I am
also scared of it all if I sizzle too
much my heart I will my heart
will I will burn out but if I drop
from this high I feel cold and stone
dead numbness which also scares
me when it makes me careless and
not look attentively when crossing the
roads or feel my body hum in a
muted tone hum like a grey
vibration inside barely moving
Written in stream of conscious style. Edited a couple of aspects to poem but other than that it's all pretty much intact as it rolled off my mind from I don't know where on the day. (more info on part I)

(Written 17th March 2017)
It was today I know I had
reglown a sparkle dimmed
dimmed a frightened dormouse
the frightened dormouse
wearing a mane has begun
the trick to become a lion

practising the self like arpeggios
slipping up on that one note
that one note which rings true
like a fact then the next
slips like a truth which is
history slips like a truth
called history and written in books
which are called true

I sat polished skin like wooden floor
knowing you were thinking
of me and knowing you were
thinking of me maybe willingly made
me glow like the way if you gaze into
a painting long enough the colours glaze
the eyes phosphorescently

Meandering through texts which
give all the answers and none
and take away much more
after the explosion of
letters and words and
noise and traditional orders
of words de-institutionalised
word orders which roam
maverick released from
the prisons the asylums
the phantoms of meaning
phantoms that beat the
old drums again and again
till even the ground aches and
rumbles and trembles with
trepidation we are not so
brave as the ground


I wrote a very long poem on 17th March 2017 after I got back from the bar feeling full of energy to write something (the bar is mentioned in later part of poem). It's in a total stream of consciousness and forced myself not to use punctuation. I edited a couple of things out on here but apart from that left it mostly intact (but separating it into sections so it's digestible). It's a bit of a mad one as I just let my mind ramble.
Aa Harvey May 12
Gold is your soul


The drive there will be boring.
The arrival so momentous!
The disappointing greeters;
The sights not quite as expected.
The smell at times will be rancid.
The art of it all will be lost.
They will say “Welcome to The City of Romance!”
As you sip your hot coffee, whilst you worry about the cost,
Or getting lost…


…as you take in the views you will realise you have been left behind.
Nobody said anything; you were forgotten, not for the first time.
So you rush off to find the tail at the back of the line
And as you return to the flock, unnoticed by all except one,
You will relax once more and at last notice the sunshine…


…the noise of it all will not be music to your ears.
The occasional cliché will ride by unknown to you,
As you are so deeply engrossed in your list of fears,
Of not being what they expect you to be;
Or not enjoying or appreciating what they did;
Or not feeling what they expect you to feel…
What exactly is it this place is meant to make you feel?


Your heart will sink, as you begrudgingly sip your cold coffee drink
And the clouds will arrive overhead.  Merci!
Others will continue to talk,
As you walk hand in hand with your silence,
Through all the streets
And all the halls
And all the endless corridors,
Until you have nothing left…


…as you pass through the musicians like the spirit of winter,
All the accordion’s and violins will call out “Come back!”
Your soul will only paint a black and white photo,
Of a woman alone, in the cold of the night, street lights shining black.
Smoke rising from her cigarette holder and aging her beauty,
Death is called The Taker.
She smiles as The Joker;
She has become The Wrinkler.
Now her make up is running,
Her lipstick has been smeared,
You are staring into the reflection of a puddle,
With frizzy hair all around you,
Wishing just one person,
Somebody!
Anybody!
Was near.


All you will hear are the tears in their voices,
As they whisper their stories; their stories of love,
From beneath the branches of the boulevard of broken dreams.
All you will hear are the peace breaking shouts and screams
And the sound of old cars as their tires screech.
Real people in a real place with their own busy lives to lead.
This is not the Disneyland you imagined;
This is no place you asked to be.
Lost is the face of the love you hoped to meet.
Where do you find your own Rene?


At long last you arrive at the galleries
And further still will ride the disappointment,
As the Mona does not affect you, as they say “It does!”
But it doesn’t.
You think it is nice.  They will say “It is magnifique!”
You don’t think it is…
And you will continue as they speak only ‘their mind’;
Still never speaking, you casually pass on by
And leave Mona to all the tourists.
You are the only purist.


You will not speak your truth because the truth is not heard.
All they hear are ‘their words’.
‘Their words’, without the feeling;
Just ‘their words’, without the hearing,
Which have all been said a thousand times or more before.
There is no more original…
Thought…


But then as you sit there alone eating a beget you brought for lunch,
You will at last find some peace and quiet.
Everyone else will have gone away to discover their own loves;
Their pictures within pictures,
Which they will all duplicate;
So trying.
Second rate, after second rate, after second rate,
But wait!…


…you put your food down, eyes glued to the image ahead.
You will rise to your feet, you will squint your eyes,
Just to be sure; just to be questionless.
But you will still be unable to truly see,
So forwards you will go.
Forwards into the unknown;
Carried along on feet of uncertainty.


Only video eyes watching you forget your phone.
It could have been stolen!
But it rests next to the broken bread.
All concerns have evaporated;
Shot away from your apple head,
For you have seen something nobody else has ever seen,
Within the lines of a Rene Magritte painting
And it is yours.


This moment,
This time,
This feeling has left you agog!
Unable to write anything without consequence in an artificial blog.
Unable to use the What’s-app-messenger-application,
For you have become lost in the spirit of the master craftsman
And the muses in your head are all a-dance!
And chants can be heard, so you pick up your chalk.
Go on take a chance!


So with metamorphosis and the possession of your artistic soul,
You create your own master piece…

…as the silent smiles cast their eyes over its beauty,
You simply say its name is,
‘Gold is your soul.’
It is the perfect reminder of that which you wished to know…

Aren’t you glad you went?
Tell me, what did you see?


(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Alec May 10
Lost in Paris,
But stuck here at home.
Envisioning the cobblestone streets,
Stopping at cafes to escape the heat.
Laughing and smiling in Paris.
The mental trip is a need,
Wanting to be
Lost in Paris.
But stuck here instead,
In Cali.
Next page