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Amanda Hawk Oct 15
In July, I collect stardust
And text dust
I linger in Shakespeare’s shadow
And who knew
He had a home in Oregon
I walk along his stairs
Finding myself hovering in front
A trio of theatres, tall witches
Brewing a cauldron of magic
Each performance, enticing
Crowds from every corner
And I follow in suit
Getting lost in the magic
That makes me want
To not return home
My favorite place is Ashland, Oregon
Different puppets
Same hand

Or is it

Same puppet
Different hands
Either way, it takes skillful manipulation
annh Sep 14
For as the curtain rises,
So too the curtain falls,
No accolades, no entourage,
No 'Brava!', no applause.

An unrehearsed performance,
By a monodramatist,
A solo show, a pantomime,
An improvised burlesque.

Critics stand in groups debating,
The value of my work,
They gossip in the aisles,
The playhouse now a kirk.

My eulogy their invention,
My obituary the prize,
The best review I've ever had,
A mix of humour and soft lies.

I have played the loving daughter,
The honest aunt *****,
The independent sister,
The true and loyal friend.

The sympathetic neighbour,
I have played the errant niece,
The mentor, guide, and confidant,
The ***** and the tease.

In truth, I am a diva,
Living mostly in her head,
But this remains unmentioned,
In a tribute to the dead.

Once rose bouquets beribboned,
From the greatest and the good,
Now a solitary arrangement,
On a coffin made of wood.

For as the curtain rises,
So too the curtain falls,
No accolades, no entourage,
No garlands, no applause.

But wait, I see my error,
As indeed these things exist,
But not for me to comment on,
Nor as I would have wished.

For my aspect is fair frozen,
I cannot turn the page,
My performance has now ended,
And I have left the stage.

‘Now that he was quite alone, condemned, deserted, as those who are about to die are alone, there was a luxury in it, an isolation full of sublimity; a freedom which the attached can never know.’
- Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway
False Poets Jul 18
Mirrorball - “the fabrication of our performance”

a life long struggle to accept who I am,
of course, lose, and lose again, and
the fabrication of our performance now
inherent in every excuse and mirrorball
revolving asking, no, laughing, at our
vanity, as we endeavor, enabled by the
paucity of ego, the neediness of weakness’s
to catch, keep, hold each single flickering
light spot in our open, slick palms forever

we fabricate our performance of daily living,
modifying our measurements to match output,
only a human cannot wake only to fall within
each daily tabulation without thinking, once:

I am a hero, worthy of acknowledgement, just
look at my hands! see how many spots of
light I can claim as mine! the mirrorball turns
and turns paying no mind to the worshipers
below, until some sorrowful fool confesses,
fools fail, fools fail, turning the dervish off,
the white flag of ego darkened, once more...

we are all false poets, false prophets, occasionally confessing

7:34 AM
Sat Jul 18
The Year of the Virus, Corona
thank you MG for the commission
Simon Jul 14
An impending rate of consequence isn’t about the value of oneself when given the very right to dispose of ALL rates about the consequence that turns into the reigning champion for consequence itself. Since that very champion for consequence is how oneself would then value that very impending rate over itself entirely. Prompting the desires (that at which are forevermore “tempted”) into deceiving itself to see ONLY desires full of the consequence which is full of impending rates that (inconclusively) “shines” every claim you truly desire. Especially if that very desire doesn’t like having an identity for claim to certify it’s right for oneself to be given value over lordship as being its champion of its very own consequence! Showboating something that increases with every impending rate that coasts along without value in an identity that’s meant to be desired upon. Whilst there’s nothing more to be said or shared when there’s NO claim in itself without oneself to actually come out and perfectly express that they are lordship of claims value without a desire firstly. Which oneself is then slowly tempted upon to not see correctly. Hence, thinking they are simply a champion of consequence that performs those very impending rates as their very performance quickens steadily.
The impending rate of consequence isn’t valued upon itself in the service for oneself to simply recognize right off the bat! Since it can ONLY do so, if a desire can ONLY identify the source for a very rich claim to forevermore offer the correct source material away from consequences lining up at an “impressionable” door full of those very impending rates!
Andrew Watson Apr 24
pixel woman
draped in scarlet
strum for the heavens
hang my troubles
from every silver note

my sins lay bare
each stroke
painted fingers
through peroxide hair

false alarms
ring rusted red
she sings my skin

when doubts conceal
the chosen path
her sapphire
ripples settle

melt my adolescence
I am new-born
in bitter
sweet ballad

her song,
my future
peeled and played
by warm-chord haze
of long-gone days
a discussion of my love for watching Joni Mitchell's live performances, particularly her 1983 rendition of 'Amelia', which allowed me to come to terms with a monumental life decision.
Cardboard-Jones Dec 2019
I see myself from the outside.
They observe me as they are.
I laugh.
I smile.
I render a friendly gesture.
But they do not know.
And how could they?
We are tethered together, but not the same.
I grow tired of this place.
I grow tired of this dance.
I grow tired of this stage.
I grow tired of the applause.
I grow tired of this routine.

I await the end of my solitude.
s Dec 2019
i can’t stop thinking about this//
so i was getting ready to do
a performance today,
and i overheard a mom
doing her 6-ish year old daughters
the little girl told her mom:
“mommy this hurts i dont like it”

and the frustrated mom simply said:
“beauty is pain sweetheart you might as well learn it now”

and i can’t stop thinking about how some of the things kids learn about so young, is so sad.

yeah i don’t know,

i can’t stop thinking about how//

beauty is pain
but pain isn’t beautiful.
dance fck with heads
annh Oct 2019
Hire purchase, Hewlett-Packard, hand phones and - just maybe - Harry Potter have got nothing on Hello Poetry. A house party of honey pies, head pixies, and horizontal plotters hot piping their harmonic power from Hyde Park to Hunter’s Point, the High Plains to Himachel Pradesh. Household profilers, home porters, health practitioners and - it may be said - the odd human particulate here to engage in high-priority human performance.

P.S. Heart points and historic preservation aside, what the hoi polloi is up with those hit-by-pitch holding patterns, Eliot?

On Friday afternoon I had a conversation:
‘Got much planned for the long weekend?’ asked the checkout operator clicking the tips of her dark lacquered nails together while we waited for the till supervisor.
‘Catching up on some well overdue reading...HP...y’know?’
‘Do I ever! Mind you take a squiz at the small print. Those repayment schedules can be a real killer.’
Needless to say, by Saturday evening I was snorkelling for acronyms.

‘The machinations of ambiguity are among the very roots of poetry.’
- William Empson
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