"actors" poems
Walking down the street, you catch a glimpse of the most beautiful woman
And in a second, your life flashes by, she’s with you till the end
Your grave is freshly dug, she sheds a tear
You've not had enough of her, you refuse to leave
She goes home and your ghost follows
She holds a picture of the two of you, forces a smile
Dinner seems to be the most silent and most painful
The television helps, at times
The actors fall in love time and again, this gives her hope
They make her laugh, yet your ghost just sits there. Expressionless
She reads, and reads some more
Books seem to be her new love
The pile next to her bed grows weekly as she can’t stop turning the pages
An old friend visits her, they speak about you
She puts on a smile but she’s not ready yet
They drive down to the fields and the grass clears her mind if only for a while
Your ghost takes a walk and leave her be for a while, but it’s not done yet
Weeks pass, your ghost wanders
She smiles a lot more, even laughs time and again
Once again, she has others in stitches
The second passes.
She walks past.
And yet her ghost just sits there. Expressionless
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 8:04 PM UTC
I met a gypsy couple the other day
In the park of course
They were a lovely, beautiful mess
Trucked in right from Santa Cruz
They loved lots
Only four days
Her car stuck in some lot
I laughed a bit
I had to admit
I too
Knew the feeling
Being stranded
Deprived
Wrecked
Solititude
I gladly changed their tune
Convinced them tomorrow
Come noon
They'd notice a chance of attitude
Another chance at eternity
A moment devine
And poetic as the last
There's no such thing as time?
We're all actors in a grand tragedy
Lost gypsy couple and believers of
Tiny miracles
Completing
Relieving
Resolving
Appreciating the tiny moments
Of eternity
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC
May we live in and see interesting times, the old saying goes
another offers that when the mind is blind, the eyes cannot see
for me my days are interesting and the laughter readily and often comes
for the grapes of wrath brings forth mirth filled grapes on grapevine tendrils
As lemmings and sheep enact bellyaching absurdities, as the ridiculous does
Veracity on sojourn and falsehood in residence with doors firmly closed
Hamlet re-enacts hapless role, with Red Robin Hood and vigilantes to a tee
eager audiences, participatory scenes in towns and cities, leaving empty homes
come all and vent your spleen and satiate your prejudices without paying a fee
This land belongs to us, it is our birthright and we will send Hamlet to the catacombs
Nothing is private anymore, rights and freedom nailed, anywhere we roam
Ophelia not only went to Italy, she went to Hull, Turnpike Lane and even Essex
but a joke here, if all these were good, why did she come to me, you simple gnomes
perchance unlike you common goons, she knows distinction has no comparison to thee
Your vacuous hate filled mind cannot see that difference in a Prince, that regally looms
Act two, dim, fooled actors in their Beggars Opera, screaming, 'we oppose' with glee
so called republicans, laughable in their ardent favor, ignorant of their lobotomy botches
we will do Hamlet's head in, totally unaware theirs been done in, for the brains of fleas
in a civilisation, our conscious and stable populace, roots for vigilante and mob rule, yeah
for a man of distinction is a threat reminding you of your insignificance and lack of tomes
Come friends, lets see how the home of Democracy, hounds a citizen for us all and we
lets know that Robin Hood is alive and taxing, and 'Windrush' is still active in dispatches
indigenous people power, meets criminal gang stalking, meets racism and we all drink tea
and in true cowardly fashion, its all done by insidious, indictable, nefarious, malcontents and psychopathic crazies
It is our proud duty that we should all ruin Hamlet, for mediocrity has no distinction for aspiration et excellence
Copyright LaurenceA. JUNE 2018.All rights reserved.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 8:00 PM UTC
We share this theater together
And watch the act patiently.
We applaud those who perform well,
And even louder and harder for those who only had the courage to try.
We watch the dancers on the stage,
Our youth on stage,
Ourselves on stage.
It is beautiful.
It is raw.
It is real.
It is not perfect and some will fall,
But we all feel together.
We lift each other up.
It is love.
We are all together
On the stage as actors,
As graceful dancers,
And brilliant musicians
Performing as one.
We are all connected
In the audience as proud parents,
As loving relatives,
And respectful friends,
Cheering as one.
It is not perfect.
It is life,
Raw and real.
Some will fall,
But we all feel together
And we’ll lift each other up
As one.
For ourselves,
And for each other.
Jun 19, 2011
Jun 19, 2011 at 12:08 PM UTC
It wasn’t supposed to be like this
Never had I imagined this
After I first saw you
Sitting in the corner of the coffee shop
Sipping tea with a hint of hazel
Matching the light in your eyes
I used to love that coffee shop
One we went back to many times
At least at first
You would order the same tea
With the same hint of hazel
And I would adore your acute audacity
Ordering tea in a coffee shop
I had friends who told me many things
They hadn’t been afraid to see the truth
Telling me we were moving too fast
Not really understanding where we were
But instead taking the present to define everything
Perhaps I should’ve listened
I had thought you were what they describe as ‘The One’
But your brilliance in my life
Blinded me of many things I should’ve paid heed to
Placing me on the edge of your storm
Instead of reaching the eye of it
As I should’ve
Maybe this is why the movies are fictional
They only exist in our lives until the end credits
Whereas I lived past them
And witnessed the reality
Beyond the list of directors, producers, and actors
Living in a cycle of after-credits
We went to that coffee shop one last time
And I looked
Looked for that same spark which I had latched on to
All those years back
But this time I truly saw you, past the light
This time you ordered coffee
Black, with no hint of hazel
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 3:35 PM UTC
An enigmatic smile she’s dressed with to chant mystery,
Poets and bards with their magical poesy tried the mystery,
Philosophers and thinkers broke their minds to unravel the secrecy,
Scientists and law makers built hypotheses and verdicts to read hers,
Painters and sculptors fatigued with their colours and clay,
Actors and directors enacted to unknot the thread of obscurity.
Odes and epics, long-written, attempted to sing Lisa’s Smile;
But reflections of their beloveds’ smile read in their verses,
Philosophies and thoughts expressed in huge volumes;
But less understood even the painter’s invention,
Theories and laws built around Science and Law;
But little is the outcome of their propositions sans the mystery,
Colours and clay played on mighty imaginative realms;
But Mona Lisa ne’er spoke of her mystery Smile.
Enactments on massive stages thrilled the collective audiences;
But Mona Lisa hid the mystery of her Smile.
I walked around the garden of poetry with fragrance of mystery,
I saw a poem in her distinctive beauty ruling my mind’s eye.
She smiled at my heart and in turn my heart smiled at her,
Her smile taught me a mystery and it took time to read it;
Yet there was a veil betwixt us, and I took my plume to write.
She took my heart unto her, and I romped in joy.
She’s been decked with melody and rhymes,
And the string of verses stretched beyond the horizon,
Where the mystery of Lisa’s Smile be found.
She took me with her beyond the horizon,
And I followed her with no utterance till our destination.
She laughed at me for my silence;
Yet she smiled unto me; but her smile looked unfathomable.
She smiled and smiled at me; yet she had no utterance for me;
She looked a little bit puzzling unto me, and I had no answer;
Yet her smile dwelled in me, and I invoked the Muse of Poetry.
“Thou art to be a silent lover, and her smile is the answer unto thee,
She’s the Mona Lisa; she can’t speak, but smile and smile.”
I lay on the soil of the kingdom of poetry, imbibing Lisa’s Smile,
I adorn her smile; I worship her smile; I revere her smile,
Let me not move away from the garden of poetry
Till Lisa’s Smile is translated unto me.
I waited and waited and I found the answer:
Lisa smiles and her smile is the love of silence.
My heart rests in silence that her love is felt within.
She uttered into me:”Speak not, but love with smile,
And that the mystery of my Smile and my Smile lasts.”
I know why Mona Lisa smiles.
She loves me with her silent Smile.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 5:17 AM UTC
#
There was a time
within me
I wanted to be
an actor
beaming
on stage
or a screen
big or small
no matter to me
after all
The exposure is nice
I guess
and all that kind of stuff
but that’s not what drew me to it
Just being an actor
was enough
I enjoy performing
and have a memory
for lines
One of those people
who can quote
a whole movie
It plays in my head
can fast forward
and rewind
But it’s easy to recite
the work of another
One who already
searched within
and discovered
what to emote
the affect
and such
To replay like a puppet
That’s not saying much
Could I nail
the scene
and get the feeling right?
When other actors work with me
maybe they might
get inspired
to the point
they become lost in the scene
We’re reliving
the story
A fantastic team
When the director yells
“Cut!”
all applaud and cheer
Tears in the eyes of some
touching memories
they hold near
The performance
The “art”
that’s what matters most
A singer belting out a song
or a comic
at a roast
The thought of it now
gets me giddy
and inspired
but yet
here I sit
In my chair
I am mired
Never took that step
Overcoming
all that fear
My doubts and insecurities
Worry how much others care
That fear
of failure
or that I wouldn’t
“measure up”
A deer frozen
in headlights
I am forever stuck
And as the time continues on
The days, and months and years roll by
Which is the greater loss?
If I failed
or never tried?
#
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 4:20 AM UTC
Life is a movie and men are really actors.
Some get the lead role, while others are just extras.
It's a hierarchy,
you got the over zealous ****** on top and ******* below.
If you can sell your soul, you'll make headlines.
Get paid.
Buy a steak or something.
Care only about yourself and **** everybody else over, in whatever position you'd like ;)
.Fight ***** or don't fight at all.
Sucker punch the Devil for trickin' you and book it.
Run, run fast, like the cops are after you.
Shit's about to go down.
It's Irony, in his emmy winning role!
Shameful that "The laws" are just dyslexic interpretations of petty rules anyways.
Use logic, not obedience
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 3:01 AM UTC
I walk around my neighborhood with my sister
We wear white mask and black coats with hoods
There’s never anyone in the neighborhood
She said
"It's too quiet."
Yet you could hear the sink left on
From houses people forgot they had
Maybe they lost their house keys
"Did you know that before that house was bought, there were squatters ?"
"How do you know?"
"I know because they were teens like me, but they ran out of luck.”
“They had no money, did they?”
“No money for what? Oh, they had money, but not enough.”
“Enough for what?”
I said “Making dreams come true in reality.”
I remember telling my mom what I wanted to do for others in life
Once I got done she asked me
“But what do you want for yourself?”
I said
“To be known.”
She said
“What if your not known like singers, dancers and actors?”
See I hadn't thought that far.
Maybe that's why they became squatters
In a house with broken blinds
There was not a place for them
My sister said
“Maybe their dreams slipped through a crack in the floor of their old house.”
Of the house in which they prayed for things to get better.
Paid light and water bills
And barely made it
She asked if they were lovers
“If they were, I wouldn't know. I doubt it.”
We wipe the condensation from the insides of our mask
With the ends of our sleeves and adjust our hoods
As they adjust their blinds to the outside world.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 1:52 PM UTC
An enigmatic smile she’s dressed with to chant mystery,
Poets and bards with their magical poesy tried the mystery,
Philosophers and thinkers broke their minds to unravel the secrecy,
Scientists and law makers built hypotheses and verdicts to read hers,
Painters and sculptors fatigued with their colours and clay,
Actors and directors enacted to unknot the thread of obscurity.
Odes and epics, long-written, attempted to sing Lisa’s Smile;
But reflections of their beloveds’ smile read in their verses,
Philosophies and thoughts expressed in huge volumes;
But less understood even the painter’s invention,
Theories and laws built around Science and Law;
But little is the outcome of their propositions sans the mystery,
Colours and clay played on mighty imaginative realms;
But Mona Lisa ne’er spoke of her mystery Smile.
Enactments on massive stages thrilled the collective audiences;
But Mona Lisa hid the mystery of her Smile.
I walked around the garden of poetry with fragrance of mystery,
I saw a poem in her distinctive beauty ruling my mind’s eye.
She smiled at my heart and in turn my heart smiled at her,
Her smile taught me a mystery and it took time to read it;
Yet there was a veil betwixt us, and I took my plume to write.
She took my heart unto her, and I romped in joy.
She’s been decked with melody and rhymes,
And the string of verses stretched beyond the horizon,
Where the mystery of Lisa’s Smile be found.
She took me with her beyond the horizon,
And I followed her with no utterance till our destination.
She laughed at me for my silence;
Yet she smiled unto me; but her smile looked unfathomable.
She smiled and smiled at me; yet she had no utterance for me;
She looked a little bit puzzling unto me, and I had no answer;
Yet her smile dwelled in me, and I invoked the Muse of Poetry.
“Thou art to be a silent lover, and her smile is the answer unto thee,
She’s the Mona Lisa; she can’t speak, but smile and smile.”
I lay on the soil of the kingdom of poetry, imbibing Lisa’s Smile,
I adorn her smile; I worship her smile; I revere her smile,
Let me not move away from the garden of poetry
Till Lisa’s Smile is translated unto me.
I waited and waited and I found the answer:
Lisa smiles and her smile is the love of silence.
My heart rests in silence that her love is felt within.
She uttered into me:”Speak not, but love with smile,
And that the mystery of my Smile and my Smile lasts.”
I know why Mona Lisa smiles.
She loves me with her silent Smile.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 3:07 AM UTC
THEY all want to play Hamlet.
They have not exactly seen their fathers killed
Nor their mothers in a frame-up to ****
Nor an Ophelia dying with a dust gagging the heart,
Not exactly the spinning circles of singing golden spiders,
Not exactly this have they got at nor the meaning of flowers-O flowers, flowers slung by a dancing girl-in the saddest play the inkfish, Shakespeare, ever wrote;
Yet they all want to play Hamlet because it is sad like all actors are sad and to stand by an open grave with a joker's skull in the hand and then to say over slow and say over slow wise, keen, beautiful words masking a heart that's breaking, breaking,
This is something that calls and calls to their blood.
They are acting when they talk about it and they know it is acting to be particular about it and yet: They all want to play Hamlet.
7.4k
It started with a pen,
and wound up in English.
No diction, addiction, or
ambition,
to get published.
“Don’t scream and you’ll look normal.”
Screaming “MISOGYNY!”
if screaming at all,
I’ve seen the great minds of
my generation
addicted to Adderall.
Some friends who get wasted,
and I remain sober.
Cheap ‘03 cars, yet,
no ones coming over.
Actors without work now,
no one with opportunity.
Suicidal crazies now,
crafted from 80’s and 90’s responsibility,
and A is for Adderall.
Sugar coated heroine,
designer drugs.
Poor blacks, whites, mexicans,
and asians swept under the rug.
“The father, the son,
the invisible hand.”
Crack in prisons, *****
holy ******* in a BMW,
Feminism, becomes communism,
becomes atheism becomes you.
You so counter-culture,
you forgot about us,
“She’s not an angel friends,
throw her under the bus.”
Politicians in purple now,
blessed American royalty.
Slaughter the disenfranchised,
poor, socialist regime,
and A is for Adderall.
Don’t shoot the police,
shoot the children instead,
or send them to war,
but the war had to end.
“In god we trust, but
in the market we invest.”
So occupy Wall Street,
and get called a hippie,
or occupy college,
and become a dead beat?
In high school you’re told,
be what you will be.
Cancer is still a…
“…”
…Hereditary disease.
Actors without work still.
Politicians lying still.
Suicidal crazies.
Ecstasy filled crazies.
Counter-culture conformist.
Culture conformist.
Eco-terrorist.
Mindless consumer.
Junkies, addicts,
soldiers, students,
leaders, followers,
murderers, democrats,
conservatives, liberals,
republicans, child molesters,
sexists, racists.
No more labels.
It was every single individual.
Individual failure.
One by one, we were all found guilty.
You are guilty. I am guilty,
and
A is for Adderall,
and the new marginalized.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
Income is an intangible,
Taxes are an intangible,
Neither exists right now,
Only the promise of it in the future...
That's what credit is... a bet against a promise.
Which means all of nothing,
since it hasn't happened yet,
all credit is risk of one degree or another,
...based on tolerance or gumption.
If all people are, "risky,"
then all credit is risk,
none can be more credit-worthy;
less risky...
So why not turn future liabilities into income,
instead of future income into a liability?
Hmm...
Impossible?
Yeah, ...since anything that gives ordinary people power must be impossible. Jesus must not believe in individual power. The Founding Fathers must not have believed in individualism. No, ...only the state backed by a selected wealthy few should determine everyone's fate by economy.
Only a few should have it all....
...no opportunity for anyone else; the weak, poor, untalented, ugly, simple, ordinary, dumb, handicapped; those ones don't matter.
Just NFL players count.
Only singers and actors count.
Only bankers and doctors matter.
Jesus would agree.
Makes so much sense?
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 11:58 PM UTC
Authors and actors and artists and such
Never know nothing, and never know much.
Sculptors and singers and those of their kidney
Tell their affairs from Seattle to Sydney.
Playwrights and poets and such horses' necks
Start off from anywhere, end up at ***
Diarists, critics, and similar roe
Never say nothing, and never say no.
People Who Do Things exceed my endurance;
God, for a man that solicits insurance!
6.7k
There is magic in live theatre
It can't be understood
For even watching a bad play
Is really something good
The footlights and the curtains
The sound of actors on the boards
Of orchestras and the sound effects
Of cheaply painted swords
The theatre is a special place
It excites me to no end
It's a long lost brother coming home
It's a warm and welcome friend
Sitting in a theatre
Waiting for the overture
Is an illness I suffer happily
And one for which I wish no cure
Good theatre is transporting
Takes you where the actor lives
You sense it in the speeches
That every actor gives
You get lost in what's going on
You feel hurt and you feel pain
And when you get another chance
You splurge and go again
Live theater is hypnotic
It's a world that stands alone
It's a place inside your being
You learn how love is shown
It's where you listen to great music
Played by artists never seen
Where you hear the actor's heartbeat
Unlike on the silver screen
Live theatre is true magic
I can't tell you how I feel
when I see a live performance
I know exactly what is real
The lights are slowly dimming
I hear them closing the lobby doors
Shhhhh....the orchestra is ready
Here comes the overture.....
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
The actors are outside smoking
and discussing ideas they only know
through fiction. I’m not amused.
I’m in a band that’s falling apart with wit,
and some not-eclectic, or odd,
but still strange type of grace.
There’s a message on the table when I get home.
There’s a piece of me that wants to be jealous.
I’m desperate for an escape.
I’m desperate.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
The day you died I went into the dirt,
Into the lightless hibernaculum
Where bees, striped black and gold, sleep out the blizzard
Like hieratic stones, and the ground is hard.
It was good for twenty years, that wintering --
As if you never existed, as if I came
God-fathered into the world from my mother's belly:
Her wide bed wore the stain of divinity.
I had nothing to do with guilt or anything
When I wormed back under my mother's heart.
Small as a doll in my dress of innocence
I lay dreaming your epic, image by image.
Nobody died or withered on that stage.
Everything took place in a durable whiteness.
The day I woke, I woke on Churchyard Hill.
I found your name, I found your bones and all
Enlisted in a cramped necropolis
your speckled stone skewed by an iron fence.
In this charity ward, this poorhouse, where the dead
Crowd foot to foot, head to head, no flower
Breaks the soil. This is Azalea path.
A field of burdock opens to the south.
Six feet of yellow gravel cover you.
The artificial red sage does not stir
In the basket of plastic evergreens they put
At the headstone next to yours, nor does it rot,
Although the rains dissolve a ****** dye:
The ersatz petals drip, and they drip red.
Another kind of redness bothers me:
The day your slack sail drank my sister's breath
The flat sea purpled like that evil cloth
My mother unrolled at your last homecoming.
I borrow the silts of an old tragedy.
The truth is, one late October, at my birth-cry
A scorpion stung its head, an ill-starred thing;
My mother dreamed you face down in the sea.
The stony actors poise and pause for breath.
I brought my love to bear, and then you died.
It was the gangrene ate you to the bone
My mother said: you died like any man.
How shall I age into that state of mind?
I am the ghost of an infamous suicide,
My own blue razor rusting at my throat.
O pardon the one who knocks for pardon at
Your gate, father -- your hound-bitch, daughter, friend.
It was my love that did us both to death.
6.6k
Is it really this hard
to find people I can go back and forth in discussion with
about Buddhist and Hindu theology compared and contrasted against Christian and Yoruba
I want to scream and shout and dance with somebody over Janet Jackson's new album
and at the same time
feel the heat and talk with somebody about how extremely sad and depressing
but oh so good Giovanni's Room was
I want to be able to speak with somebody whom can quote Malcolm X and Kafka in the same breath
Somebody who could see the logic of Pac and Immortal Technique on the same piece
with the Budos Band or Mulatu on the back track
I want to know people whom know
just exactly who
Suki Lee and Bayard Rustin are
can we talk about Jacob Kinohoor's ***
at least for a moment
then get into some B.B. King or Johnny Cash
have you seen Dune
the one from the eighties
James McAvoy shirtless
as well as John Goodman’s acting
were only good things about the other
if you read it
even better
what about the ***** that sat by the door
Or
killer clowns from outer space
let's be shady and point out all the inaccuracies on the history and discovery and channels
praying for that day
that's not in February
They show Shaka Zulu in full
without commercial interruption
Or maybe a documentary about native American people
with actual native actors
that do not depict them all as either
plains people
Or Inuit
Cause you already know
not everybody is Eskimo
then let's put on our own private production of legally blonde
followed by encore presentations of the classic scene
Of Miss Celie and miss Ofelia going in over Harpo
can I discuss with you
how the Patriot act nullifies everything in constitution
And the bill of rights
even though they never were intended to be permanent any way
It would be nice to not have to explain a Corporatocracy
all my life Ive been into Egyptology
You do know that Imhotep was the actual founder of medicine
by a good 2000 years
not that Hippocrat
the thing is
I'm still learning
when attempt to delve that deeply into people
which I don't even consider that deep
They often misunderstand
They often concluded without thinking
maybe
just maybe
©Christopher F. Brown 2015
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 11:30 PM UTC
I remember the first time
I felt panic, I
Had been raised in a beautifully-constructed world of my mother’s making where I could
Take my time and step from subject to subject like hopscotch or skipping rope because I wanted to know it all
Drinking it all in, soaking in knowledge like a bath
Learning everything there was to learn
Leaving no stone unturned
No one told me I couldn’t
Swirl my fingertips in acrylics, read books on horses having *** at age seven because I wanted to be a veterinarian, hit the soprano notes though I was an alto, crush dandelions into healing potions, create a world on a stage with crying child actors, nick cardboard boxes and clocks because I knew I could move time backwards
Then I grew up and
The grown-up world was not so forgiving
Examinations, papers, time clocks, meetings, expectations I could not meet with the excellence my soul craved
I can’t breathe
Fear had a choke-hold on my throat
My mouth would dry, then wet as my stomach swirled and groaned with nausea
My hands turned into ice picks
My heart screamed like a jackhammer in concrete
Every possible worst-case, best-case, win-win, lose-lose, lose-win scenario would rush and overthrow my amygdala like a union mob besieging an abusive factory that never closes, never lets them rest
I didn’t realize it was because the only way to do it all and be it all and hit every deadline and finish every task was to sacrifice perfection, to become average, mediocre
Assimilate
And I learned the truth
That that was all the world expected of me anyway
You see there is no patience for anything else in the real world
I can’t breathe
I have no emotion, only thought processes
Paralyzing, debilitating clash between suppressed desires to take my time, create, innovate, learn and the overwhelming need to
Focus, decide, move faster, work harder, be on time, be better, please everyone, be everything
Be nothing
To where the only choice is let go of that part of yourself or go insane
So I shed my skin like it was a sin I was leaving behind
Just to survive
Without the headaches, the heartbreak, ripping my hair out over stupid little mistakes
It’s taken this long to find it in my closet again
To not be afraid
Of the soul it takes to
Perfect
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
its just that i’ve never loved a wild heart like yours before
and my favorite part -
besides your curly, bleached, dead hair -
is you in that pub with that wild eyed stare
dipping your head side to side
hand slowly moves over my shoulder
“i’m happy to see you. i’m happy to see you.”
and i walk alleyways like runway a model too drunk for her heels
and we say goodbye like actors who never made it big
soap opera goodbyes
i get in a cab and say goodbye goodbye goodbye!
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 8:55 PM UTC
Come friend,
I have an old story to tell you-
Listen.
Sit down beside me and listen.
My face is red with sorrow
and my ******* are made of straw.
I sit in the ladder-back chair
in a corner of the polished stage.
I have forgiven all the old actors for dying.
A new one comes on with the same lines,
like large white growths, in his mouth.
The dancers come on from the wings,
perfectly mated.
I look up. The ceiling is pearly.
My thighs press, knotting in their treasure.
Upstage the bride falls in satin to the floor.
Beside her the tall hero in a red wool robe
stirs the fire with his ivory cane.
The string quartet plays for itself,
gently, gently, sleeves and waxy bows.
The legs of the dancers leap and catch.
I myself have little stiff legs,
my back is as straight as a book
and how I came to this place-
the little feverish roses,
the islands of olives and radishes,
the blissful pastimes of the parlor-
I'll never know.
5.6k
I once almost cursed
the final performance
of a wonderful play I
had the fortune of being
a part of it
The play was Romeo and Juliet on Verona Street
Set in the 1930’s
I didn’t do anything important
Carried two bodies
Got in a fight
Smuggled some beer
Called a mob boss
Delivered a package
and
Investigated two dead bodies in
mime
but waiting on my final role
during the final performance
of this oh so wonderful
production I reached out to
a friend of mine (his name was
Paul but he played the Prince)
and told him
“I’d love to direct
MacBeth”
He did a double-take
Asked me what I said
I said again
“I’d love to direct
MacBeth”
“You mean the Scottish
Tragedy?”
I held my mouth in shock
I knew better
That name was cursed
Paul told me all was not lost
there was a way to reverse the curse
just listen close he said
Take your fingers in a peace sign
Spit between them
Swear (I said “son of a *****
Turn around one,
two,
three times
Then leave the dressing room
And come back
I did all
and Paul was relieved
but Romeo chimed in
“well you know we have to circumcise you right?”
Paul added
“Yeah, with a Claymore!”
Don’t ever wish me luck,
I might break my leg!
I still want to direct MacBeth
and to show I’m serious I even
bought the script!
All that’s left is to get a stage,
and some money, and some
actors and maybe some talent
to go with my almost obnoxious
amount of luck
May 3, 2010
May 3, 2010 at 5:13 PM UTC
It was supposed to be
The dawn of a new age;
A new set of dialogue
On a more balanced stage
With better lines for
The actors to deliver.
It was supposed to start in
The sixties and last forever.
We didn’t really know for sure
What this Aquarius stuff was
But it seemed to us to be
A metaphysical enough cause,
To change the way we acted
And to shout down the rest;
To face the demagogues
Then put them to the test.
We stopped wearing uniforms
That said we went along
With the hard-assed leaders.
We put a lot of it in our songs.
We called them what they were
Greedy warmongering ******
We protested and picketed
And promised so much more.
We spoke out loudly on TV
And in crowds in the streets
That we were through will genocide
And would not accept defeat.
We cried out that our government
Had assumed the role of villain
And was murdering for no reason
Not just men, but even children.
But, we let it all die down;
We let the government slide
On investigating the truth
And keeping the truth inside
A carefully chosen batch of
Criminals in public office.
We let them go on making war
And making money off us.
We let them cheat and lie
And re-write acceptable laws
To support their bloodthirstiness
And we gave up on our cause.
Maybe all that protesting gave
All our marching feet limps.
Or maybe it’s because all along
We were just a bunch of wimps.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 9:38 PM UTC
Fingers cut palms as hands turn to stone
And a catapult hurls the projectile home
Knuckles collapse from bone meeting bone
Down in the alleys where miscreants roam
Suggestions of violence fill gutters with blood
Fill heads with the sense of nefarious thrill
Their skin turns to ash and their brains into mud
Rage in the kingdom of eager to ****
The children are soldiers who train everyday
Cowboys and Indians, Robbers and Cops
****** is plot and the actors will play
Portraying the place life will come to a stop
Violence is cancer, and love is no more
Edge of our seats waiting for the next war
Dedicated to the deceased and forgotten, Love and Peace
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC