"accordions" poems
“i’m done with furries”
i.
i can’t dream your dreams,
but you’ve told me about them.
you wear an owl mask
shaped by fists and transgression;
a laceration splits your side
from a skin split
to your rib splits.
your love,
Bill Clinton or Donkey Kong
(whoever populates your thoughts),
crack your bare skin
until makeup
leaks out of your pores.
you dream of emulating art;
O hanging from a ceiling claw,
clicking heels against drywall
until leg muscles give up
and her diaphragm accordions close.
but who is your sculptor?
who is your artist?
ii.
alas, i am only
a paper mache bird.
i flinch when it rains,
i flinch when i move;
my paper skin
could cave in
from lip crack to *** crack.
(i hate
Inside Out.
but, i’ve only watched it once,
and i’ve been told
my eyes would adjust
on the second viewing.)
i dream of emulating art;
Marat in an ice bath,
tragedy and love and death
captured
without conflict.
but who is my muse?
who won’t break my bones?
iii.
you don’t know my dreams either,
but we could dream together.
two reveries in polyphony
of an owl and bird *******
making love
before they
make art.
our love
is ******* weird;
a childhood seesaw
we’re trying to
find the perfect balance
to with our weight.
we dream different things;
**** fantasies and intimate kissing,
but that doesn’t matter.
at this point in two years,
we can see through each other.
i can’t make art without you.
you aren’t done with furries.
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 11:15 PM UTC
Asylum
In the madhouse
on beds of daggers
we slept like crickets
chirping to ourselves
while they tried their best
to make us cannibals.
The nuns were worse than
lawyers, praying like accordions,
tracking their sins into our soft
wax skulls, wheezing like roosters
when one of us cried, laying the greasy ribs
of Jesus on our plates.
They kept you behind
door number six. I'd go to you
with a stolen key, when the noon
smelled bright as carnations,
when the nights were
more purple than the jacarandas.
You spoke of your father
dead of snakebite,
a clockwork marvel with
his million-dollar suit of skin,
of your mother
with the viper between her lips.
I remember your kiss
astringent with reason
as bitter lemons, and the way
your hair blew back from
your dog-brown eyes like poisonous
smoke from the oleanders.
I thought these things
as beautiful as angels
whispering in the dahlias
when I was lost in the asylum,
when the doctors did all they could
to see that we ate each other
down to the bone.
April 2022
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 8:54 AM UTC
Customers have torn open the Christmas
chocolates. Shoving it in mouths,
shopping bags, children’s eyes.
Quiet. We are shopping. as. a. family.
Smoke accordions out of Santa’s mailbox. The sprinkler system
hisses stale air. Custodians ride by on their metal cart laughing,
sanitation chemicals flickering out of buckets.
The 80 year-old piano player is hammering out Schoenberg.
Customers shove lamps into their shopping bags, shove children
into them.
Turn on the light Jimmy.
The ninth floor is barricaded off by old woman. They
have turned the clearance divans on their sides
and are throwing toasters. Down in the basement,
the security staff have locked themselves into 2’ by 2’
cells. Fetally-positioned, their panting echoes off stone walls. Static
sizzles on the array of sixteen camera screens. Customers
have begin to bow in the reinforced door next to the two-way mirror.
A fat man is leaning against it. He has been dead
for over an hour. Restaurant staff are tearing
down the great tree. Ornaments funnel down pop-crashing
upwards from the floor. Three pound ceramic dinnerware crashes
into the walnut bar The customers are putting mattresses in their bags,
they are putting the offices in their bags. Human resources
are backed into the employee orientation computer lab. Customers
have poured Starbucks on the circuit-breakers. The lights are dimming,
Escalators are jamming. Children scream
I want to see Santa.
Santa is dead. Employees calmly walk over his protruding
belly. The velvet and fat feels good on tired
feet. An inhuman voice garbles
The store will be closing.
Families grab onto shelves, racks, other
families. Employees pick up the registers and slam
them on granite counters. Coins explode out like bells. The rotating
doors are not spinning. They are stuck, crunching on limbs.
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 5:16 PM UTC
Sunday-empty Auckland my pre-breakfast escape,
Sheep-spotted mountains in early morning mist,
Whangarei marina for a cauldron of cappuccino.
Shop of metal sheep starts a day of Kiwi weirdness,
Of customer requesting glassblowing lessons, and
“All Blacks” silk boxers, unworn by players I hope.
Driving to Dargaville for Mr. M. Ujdur museum treat,
That late gum-digging, Esperanto teaching, vintner.
Beside a colossal collection of accordions with muzak,
Playing an instrument-impossible Whiter Shade of Pale,
Plus coins and buttons and stamps and Scotsmen,
Left feeling stunned, like I was tripping on acid.
The possum cull with prizes seemed almost normal.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:29 AM UTC
Perched motionless
Gleaming among the catkins of the oak—
with toy accordions for leaves
And a heron—watching
Neck pleated
Head resting in feathery shoulders
Sharp-eyed, beak brutal
Watching—
where below
that beer can, squashed and stabbed
...And did he see her?
by the naked window
Did he see the lace that bloomed?
No—fell
like spring’s full flakes
to coat the hills in white
for an hour at best in its cool damp?
Did he see?
the way her hair lapped
the spine and blade of back?
Bent the night—so darkly
red from black
as she pulled her blouse above her head?
And did he want!
the flesh of warm yellow lamplight
the smeared press of spit and sweat!
YES!
Squash and **** that beer can!
Sculpt your loneliness!
and stick it through
with any hard implement handy!
Grind your teeth on dumb regret
and **** yourself!
You know you don’t—love her?
Be jealous of her sheets, her springs, her sunsets!
on their ways to frost and moonlit sleep
turning forsythia of day
to fuzzy falls of glitter-gray
spilling down thick hips
of the river’s dungeon banks
so steeped in heat
to the dizzy roar that follows....
Be jealous of the River!
who always goes to her
when you will not...
And if—you really loved
I mean—loved!
who you saw...
you would have seen
the tired tears—roll than linger—Years
forsake their bones
defy the need for sleep
Defy everything!
Except—
the moon’s cloister...an owl’s call
And if you had loved her
you would have made the distance!
crossed the lawn!
skipped stairs!
Fought the Night of Time!
taken her porch like a champion!
Heart pounding near—the door down!
And if you had really loved
who you had seen
I MEAN—LOVED HER!
You would have—
You would have done—
ANYTHING!
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 9:28 PM UTC
I drank musty ale at the Illinois Athletic Club with
the millionaire manufacturer of Green River butter
one night
And his face had the shining light of an old-time Quaker,
he spoke of a beautiful daughter, and I knew he had
a peace and a happiness up his sleeve somewhere.
Then I heard Jim Kirch make a speech to the Advertising
Association on the trade resources of South America.
And the way he lighted a three-for-a-nickel stogie and
cocked it at an angle regardless of the manners of
our best people,
I knew he had a clutch on a real happiness even though
some of the reporters on his newspaper say he is
the living double of Jack London's Sea Wolf.
In the mayor's office the mayor himself told me he was
happy though it is a hard job to satisfy all the office-
seekers and eat all the dinners he is asked to eat.
Down in Gilpin Place, near Hull House, was a man with
his jaw wrapped for a bad toothache,
And he had it all over the butter millionaire, Jim Kirch
and the mayor when it came to happiness.
He is a maker of accordions and guitars and not only
makes them from start to finish, but plays them
after he makes them.
And he had a guitar of mahogany with a walnut bottom
he offered for seven dollars and a half if I wanted it,
And another just like it, only smaller, for six dollars,
though he never mentioned the price till I asked him,
And he stated the price in a sorry way, as though the
music and the make of an instrument count for a
million times more than the price in money.
I thought he had a real soul and knew a lot about God.
There was light in his eyes of one who has conquered
sorrow in so far as sorrow is conquerable or worth
conquering.
Anyway he is the only Chicago citizen I was jealous of
that day.
He played a dance they play in some parts of Italy
when the harvest of grapes is over and the wine
presses are ready for work.
2.3k
(repost)
Perched motionless
Gleaming among the catkins of the oak—
with toy accordions for leaves
And a heron—watching
Neck pleated
Head resting in feathery shoulders
Sharp-eyed, beak brutal
Watching—
where below
that beer can, squashed and stabbed
...And did he see her?
by the naked window
Did he see the lace that bloomed?
No—fell
like spring’s full flakes
to coat the hills in white
for an hour at best in its cool damp?
Did he see?
the way her hair lapped
the spine and blade of back?
Bent the night—so darkly
red from black
as she pulled her blouse above her head?
And did he want!
the flesh of warm yellow lamplight
the smeared press of spit and sweat!
YES!
Squash and **** that beer can!
Sculpt your loneliness!
and stick it through
with any hard implement handy!
Grind your teeth on dumb regret
and **** yourself!
You know you don’t—love her?
Be jealous of her sheets, her springs, her sunsets!
on their ways to frost and moonlit sleep
turning forsythia of day
to fuzzy falls of glitter-gray
spilling down thick hips
of the river’s dungeon banks
so steeped in heat
to the dizzy roar that follows....
Be jealous of the River!
who always goes to her
when you will not...
And if—you really loved
I mean—loved!
who you saw...
you would have seen
the tired tears—roll than linger—Years
forsake their bones
defy the need for sleep
Defy everything!
Except—
the moon’s cloister...an owl’s call
And if you had loved her
you would have made the distance!
crossed the lawn!
skipped stairs!
Fought the Night of Time!
taken her porch like a champion!
Heart pounding near—the door down!
And if you had really loved
who you had seen
I MEAN—LOVED HER!
You would have—
You would have done—
ANYTHING!
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 11:06 AM UTC
Last night I watched in silence
At the end of the road in forest deep
I hid amongst the trees watching in awe
As gypsies dance while others sleep
Under the violet hue of evening sky
Haloed by evening's golden moon
I watched gypsies dance and sing
As flames from bonfires leaped high in the air
Dark haired women in shawls and beads
Happily dancing and twirling without care
Casting their spells of magic and enchantment
Performing their honeyed seductions
Blended with aphrodisiacs of scent and sound
Gypsy men with kerchiefs around their necks
Hoops of silver adorning their ears, singing joyful songs
Children laughing, dogs barking
As if they’re singing right along
Oh, I so wanted to join them as I stood watching in awe
Envious was I of their freedom and joy
Caravans painted in bright images and colors
Tambourines jingling as velvet shadows danced in the night
Skirts swirling, gold and silver bangles on their arms
Dancing 'round the bonfire's fiery light
Accordions singing, with happy notes from a fiddler's bow
As they sang and danced barefoot under evening moon
In the coming dawn once again...
It will be time for them to pack and move on
With a last meal served...
The caravans are readied to make another journey long
"Gather yourself up gypsy girls
Wonderful as it may seem…
A gypsies’ life is never their own
Time to move on
Time to find another home
You must have gypsy blood
In order to survive"
As their wagons move along dusty trails
They'll be looking for a place to camp
A place to call home... at least for awhile
A place to hang their colored paper lamps
Until...
Suddenly- a cry rings out
"Stop the wagons, ring the bells
We've found the perfect place
The perfect place for magic spells
Tomorrow brings a brand new day!
Let's feast, dance and make merry
Come on let's get things underway"
And so...
The journey goes on
And never ends!
"Gather yourself up gypsy girls
Wonderful as it may seem…
A gypsies’ life is never their own
Time to move on, time to leave
Time to find another home
You must have gypsy blood
In order to survive"
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 6:17 PM UTC
and no you dont understand when i
tell you i want you to hold me a certain way it's not because
your elbow hits my
scapula in a way that makes it
impossible to sleep
and when i ask you to kiss me it's
not because i really need the
validation or
comfort of lips pressed hips ******
together and heartbeats
knocking like
opportunity at the door & my knees
and when i ask you
to make love to me it's not because i can't
take it ***** i mean you could just
shoehorn it in there but that's not the
point and what do you
get when you ask for
twenty pages of love notes and dust scribbles in cobwebbed
corners where you'll never look twice and
how do years curl up the way
pillbugs do when they die
accordions collapse and ribbons
lie shredded on sawdusted floors
above us you know lately i've been begging every man i meet to tell me fifteen stories
high on acid low on fuel
the fire when i knelt to feed it cedar explodes in embers writhing syllogisms of love
the way that moths feel like featherpaper shadows when you turn off the lights where do they go
on and on and on andon andonandon&onampersand;
storm and locust breeze might be the only thing we have to eat
until you can't stop
.
if i drive back to colorado tomorrow it's
not because i cant take the heat and lord
knows it's not the rain thats keeping me rooted
even if my
boots are covered in mud
it's because
right now i'm a little
fragile &
that doesnt mean dont
touch.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 3:05 AM UTC
sinking
won't get you the sky
as much as not sinking
will never happen
to a boat
tipping the scales at three hundred pounds and a guilt complex
an invisible lump in your throat.
on a happening wave. in a storm season
of unreasonable
Questions...
an amusement for sick angels
Did You Know ?
On Jupiter !
the accordions sound like crap
so noooooobody plays accordions
and everybody's so very very Happy
all the Time.
they look crazy.
Did You
Know
That ?
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 2:13 PM UTC
In a town just up the mountain
straight out of an old John Wayne movie
where there's no parking lots
just places to tie up your horse
and the jail has one cell
and you'd expect to see Billy the Kid
breaking out of it any minute now
joshua trees
and tumble weeds
and all the bars have swinging doors
and there's a coffin leaning up against one of the walls
of the bar with the swinging doors
that's where you took me to your favorite place in the whole world
a restaurant
where a different band plays every night
with a different sound and a different look
from ones composed of old hippies and cowboys
playing their accordions and mandolins
singing old folk songs that everybody just knows
you don't know how you know
you just do
and then to the band of kids
straight out of suburbia
singing songs about ******* and heartache
with their hair slicked back
and their pants rolled up
and their moms are sitting right there
in a table right in front of the stage
eating burgers and salads and talking about the burgers and salads
then there's the girl from New York
she spells her name real weird and keeps her hair long and flowing
just like her dress
and she sings about empty motel rooms
and the Bhagavad Gita
and she tells stories in between songs
and there's writing all over the bathroom walls
little gems like
"what would Joan Jett do?"
or
"punks not dead, punks sleepin' drunk"
but mostly
just names of lovers in hearts
sometimes just initials like a secret code only they know
and the dates that they became lovers
there's paintings on all the doors
horses and hookers and cowboys under the stars
and all the walls around the stage
are covered in license plates
one from California from 1939
one shaped like a bear from Canada
one from Saskatchewan
wherever that is
and all the drinks
come in mason jars
and all the candles on the tables do too
and none of the chairs match
but that just makes them all unique
you're sitting in a one of a kind
but the whole place is really one of a kind
and that's why it's her favorite
she finds all these things to be just beautiful
not to mention the bartender keeps giving her free drinks
because it's her birthday and they take her word for it
and she's making friends with all the hippies
and she's dancing under the strings of lights
and we're kissing under the dark black sky
and I've never seen her so happy.
s.mndi
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
milk skin taut on bones, the colour of calcium,
today the milk is dotted with sun blots, but it hasn't gone off yet.
further down the milk is purple and bruised. but
you never want to go further.
drowning in milk skin isn't different from drowning in milk,
the blood of the cows staining your eyes.
red in your eyes,
eat out my eyes.
picket fence eye lashes;
one day we will make them stand so tall,
one day i will stand tall, so tall that you won't see me,
i will be a cloud,
and a bird,
and a whole aeroplane.
there is a war. and it is happening underground.
if you are an overground soldier, your milk skin will drown you.
if you are deep underground, you are purple and bruised.
but for the LAST TIME, you NEVER
want to go further.
dogs yelp. and it sounds like accordions.
but secretly it is accordions. and they are made from lions.
according to the yelping dogs,
of the purple underground.
i like the idea of skeletons walking around,
but not skeletons covered in muscle.
the underground well they are coated in muscle,
strapped firm to their skin,
like suicide bombers.
and you are a cause worth dying for;
according to the world leaders with their picket fence eye lashes,
according to the yelping dogs of the yelping darkness.
you never want to go further.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
10/04.
I.
tonight
she finds herself
left behind, choking
on ashes.
the light on the shelf
where her picture used to be
is burning out.
and names left,
here, to fade away.
long ago, the river
found its way to
this house's front door.
one year ago,
a spirit departed
not forgotten.
in swollen memory,
it's girls singing night
thru the halls &echoes;
behind a white door.
(another voice has found its
way into the resonance.
the broken harmonies
provide reassurance
to the stories inside
these walls.)
II.
girl stands in halflit doorway,
singing songs of invention and disbelief--
candles on dim porches,
tired cars,
tired slaves.
inside -- the walls breathe
like accordions
alive with her story.
glory fades into whispers
into silence, into dust.
her heart radio (racing)
playing the same track
repeatedly.
voices underwater,
steady (harnessed) scent
of black roses.
don't tempt me, the
silence.
o sunstruck night, beaten.
"it's here, follow."
do you follow?
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 7:11 AM UTC
Okay, so it's technically already the seventh but I haven't gone to bed yet, so this counts.
My heart is an accordion
Inside it's many folds
are notes
from past lovers
one says
"I told you I loved you, i promise I didn't mean it"
one says
"why are you such a cold hearted *****
and one says
"you give the worlds best back rubs"
together, these notes don't amount to much
they would make a ****** poem
a reflection on my innocence of how
to untangle the functionality of a relationship
a perfect precise image of my attempts
to figure out
how to be
and how to be with someone
I still can't figure it out.
But the thing about accordions is,
they sound beautiful with others
but just as awkward and lovely alone.
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 4:37 AM UTC
baby birds collapsed on concrete
i wonder if she gave them names
before they fell & became jelly
drenched in their own **** & shame
with limbs bent like accordions
after bursting from a broken egg
their infancy spread evenly
across the sidewalk's face.
& when the flies came floating in
to feast on bloated intestines
filled with food undigested
exploding out of rubber ribs
i wonder if the mother sits
watching from a skyward limb
mourning for her fallen kids
or if she's flirting with the worms
& already forgotten them.
Jul 9, 2010
Jul 9, 2010 at 6:47 AM UTC
oh so well the frame So delicate my brow
And such delicious branches like an elephant grasping for air
On the sidewalk where
hookers courage add with
ferns and accordions
on my hand
like the mist of love or
the fall of a feather
nothing on sight but
hunger
still young
where the tires,
with their beautiful song
Oh my lovely youth
My future
My lasting hate
The deepest agony and then
To become me and
Lovers on forgotten kisses
Where the moon and the cheeseburger
Laugh without time
All for my self
My lovely charming self
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
The floor is warm.
Outside is still for once.
Notes of French accordions
swirl in my ears’ soul.
And there is a lost expression
searching for the tears within
that say: “You never meant a thing.”
Surging with unexpressed frustration
the Pain comes alive;
Reporting that all activity
points to a truth I’m terrified to see.
My mind drags itself around these walls;
only to return to the centre of it all.
Within four walls there is no escape.
I cannot allow myself release,
until I see the sunshine of my truth.
Every 12 months it comes to this:
Now I have no reason to feel or believe
this might ever be any other way.
The bed is too far for comfort;
The world unknown to me for refuge.
My company is sliced open
with dreams of you telling my heart
its better this way for now:
All this time the dead trees
flower with soft, cold snow.
Dec 4, 2010
Dec 4, 2010 at 3:07 AM UTC
The February winds blew through the field,
Morning silence dominated the Marsh.
Never did I think that their love would yield-
Parent separations can be too harsh.
It became my turn to give it a try,
Holding hands wondering if its true love…
I only saw lightning flash in the sky,
Feelings of fear I couldn’t get rid of-
Started running then & I have not stopped,
Created distractions to get away.
My plans for love would soon have to be swapped,
For cobblestone roads and red chardonnay.
Accordions play and sing through my ears,
The magic of love without all the tears.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
At the heart of the city,
place where there is already a beat
already a steady pounding of secret music to dance to,
there are places for us to move
to see our heroes standing up with a bold bird flying off one hand
and a microphone in the other
guitars, violins, accordions, horns, and oh yes,
drums
to pound our ears into a joyous submission.
Last night
the sweat on my body can as thick as the beer that was dumped on me
the only place I can stand *****
and the bodies pushed against me,
slowly twirling,
quickly churning,
a maelstrom of people that a weaker girl would have avoided
but I left my umbrella at the door
and dove in.
When that happens, the only thing that is real is the music
it's what is controlling the waves
some mad conductor at the mouth of a symphony
made of shrieking hyenas
the order that occurs in chaos
the smiles on people's faces
the punches thrown
the glasses lost
and found again
my God
This
is where I belong
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
I wait in the sunset garden as planet grows
it's auburn scarf.
s
u
d
d
e
n
l
y
I hear
heart monitors slowing
down.
Everything receding.
People come home from universities tapping their feet
to tenor conclaves, palms
rubbed together for a spark
because clouds have become
air condition systems.
Layers are now a necessity.
Soft sheets glow to those enlisting
in another year of the continental war.
We ENTER A TIME OF WAITING
the moon is murkier and light thickens like
EPHEMERAL AUTUMN VAPOR.
Masayoshi Fujita makes Victoria
seem more methodical at night.
(the one man xylophone orchestra)
There's non conventional furniture everywhere!
(Candle in a fishbowl)
But isn't that us all?
especially this time of year?
wax
to
water.
Comfort is rooftops under
HEAVYRAIN.
Spurs of ((isolation)) can be therapeutic.
On another note,
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN AND CHILDREN OF ALL AGES"
Think hard on that, just think is all I ask.
As a poet, I am blind in the same way you are not.
Accordions are the instrument of the universe.
I'm personally a fan of elevator
m
u
s
i
c
TOKYO seems an appealing place to visit
as any.
I crave a certain spontaneity, an abruptness
S L O W L Y.....................
soaking
thru those leaves
who's moment has come
to pass.
Alarm clocks fizzle
where the weary lay,
letting their hair go it's own way
(to enter a new era where sunglasses serve no purpose)
......I'll wait for that time, like a true Buddhist that holds his
patience in front of him.
A daisy wilting into gold.
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 4:01 AM UTC
because she’s still wearing her diamond earrings
and they still bloom
reflections in flour-coated sunsets
in pre-dawned hospital windows at dusk and beyond
they don’t come off
obtrusive and quiet and every spark
bright where her eyes haven’t been
lately she’s not all there so i should be
holding on tightly
because her hands are battlefields
her eyes are blizzards
and she ate half a scoop of strawberry ice cream
just last week it was just the other day
she said my name
because i can see every jolt
her heart now beats
tsunamis that slam her ribcage and there’s no higher ground
because she still sits up in bed head in palms
and asks what day it is like the churches aren’t shut
like her hallways aren’t gathering dust
because when she sleeps she dreams of a lovely ghost
with a shovel and pre-technicolor dirt on his cheeks
and he wants to be with her again
because when she wakes
she wonders before
she remembers
she forgot
because we remember we sit in the living room
we flood our eyes with laughter
and dead lambs and fish and loaves of bread and wooden spoons
and chicken cordon bleu
and i want her to hear and taste and see and smile
again against homemade wine the singing in summer the accordions i never got to hear
because she still asks me what i ate for dinner(though it’s only lunchtime)
and until she can no longer speak--
Sep 22, 2024
Sep 22, 2024 at 11:05 AM UTC
For the first time in my life
I want to see her colored
Stand on tiptoe
Wait for my thousand tales of kings
Navigate the ocean
All year long just to see her swimming
Oh My life don't stop following the road
Keep walking the alleys
Maybe they can follow you ...
For a long time lived without time
For many seconds lived as a secondary
For many lists lived without being protagonist
I want to be on tiptoe
Get close to your hand
And I will give you my heart
I want to go through the steps
Live in space and abandon myself in my own hug
Knock on your door
I wait for another time
To tell you, look at the time
I want to run through the rain
I get wet in the bunches of grapes
Twirl on the posts
Create new clippings
Ah ...
I want to spend winter with you
Knowing I'm already in my shelter
I want to walk hand in hand
Knowing that my heart will only have wings
I want to get on the big wheel
Speak, I love you with a thousand speakers
Just not to lose you every moment ...
Ah ...
Young people know how they feel
As incredible as it sounds, they've seen a shooting star
The desperate write poems
Lovers write books
Drunks Write Flyers
Writers write about themselves
Ah ...
The lunatics write for you
Not knowing if in any universe will have you ...
Already me?
I can't dream without delighting in the words
I can't drink without remembering you
I can't see but I feel the feeling why
Oh gosh!
Maybe dive into the sea of illusions
Waiting for the sound of beautiful accordions
The one of "s"
Sofia's "S"
Sofia of Paulo
Paulo of Sofia
And there she went ...
Already me?
For now I suffered
Sep 9, 2019
Sep 9, 2019 at 5:58 PM UTC
They talk of data,
seeya later
what do
I need to know?
The sisters of the holy cross
gave me up,
I said, it's
your loss
but
in the end it
was mine
date stamp
blue lamp
data
crime report
caught on camera
seeya later.
I operate a first come
first served,
parole on application.
In the olden days
we all had
accordions
mouth organs
flutes
but these days
we got
data at a rate of knots
spots before my eyes
lie detectors
truth inspectors
digital
toothbrushes for Christ's sake
and they make dental
impressions
free form soft ****
and
false confessions
I drown in the data stream
**** in the powder keg dream
and explode.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 4:05 PM UTC
None of us are home
Unless we walk the road
Where we find ourselves
In love
Never settle into buildings
Made of just wood and stone
Travel well on bricks
Of gold
In carriages with throne
Flowing with gypsy
Blood
Russians know best
When writing stories from love
Singing of passion
Over the breath of accordions
None of us our home
Except when dancing
Around hearth and flames
Pulsing with gypsy
Blood
As Russians sing best
With fiddles and violins
Poems of life
And love
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 11:53 PM UTC
*storms take you by surprise
catch you off guard
when your garden is dry
please water it
plants are tiny continents
whose minds feed your soul
inside resides the universe
destiny is dry
so undress the wet lawns
and grow tomatoes
in moonlight torn
the madness overtakes me
as does your honey scented silence
tunnels of diamond studded waterfalls
the salmon colored halls
realms of all the worlds
old owls sour like lemon drops
tease me with some colorful splashes of your voice
accordions are strung out children
pulled and pushed together
for whatever reason
they no longer can dance
rest upon tiny lily pads like frogs
without legs we leap in broken rhythms
sifting a pile of seeds larger than one’s body
i effect the water
as your daughter affectionately calls you forward
storms are stars
taking their vacation
instant agitation is elemental play
imply nothing with those eyes
the way you move is dynamite’s alibi*
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 6:35 PM UTC