"aficionado" poems
Gusto ko ng panibagong balat.
Iyong maputi at makinis.
Mala porselana,
Na halos kuminang tuwing masisinagan ng araw.
Kabisado ko ang bilang ng araw,
Na ginugugol sa ilalim ng araw kakabanat.
Ngunit,
Ang panibagong balat,
Hindi nito ako kayang protektahan, alam ko.
Lilimitahan lamang nito ang mga nalalaman ko.
Ngunit,
Sa panibagong balat, nais ko magsimula.
Kilalanin at kalimutan ng halos magkasabay,
Ang imahe ng nakakadiri kong balat.
Bilang ang peklat.
Sukat ko kung gaano kalalim ito,
Noong sugat pa lamang.
Kaya ko gusto ng bagong balat para pagtakpan ito.
Baka sakaling iwasto ng bago kong balat,
Ang mga naimali ko.
Makikilala kaya ako ng ibang tao,
Sa bagong balat na suot ko?
Marahil hindi,
sana hindi,
panigurado hindi.
Nais kong magtago,
Sa paraan kung paano ako lulutang ng hubo't hubad.
Nang hindi ko na itatakip,
Ang aking palad sa aking dibdib,
Dahon sa ibaba ng puson.
Isisigaw ko ang salitang "PUTA!" ng napakalakas,
Halos magsisilabas
Ang mga putang mismong makakarinig,
At yayakapin ko sila.
Dahil bago ang balat ko, ito'y mainit.
Kumpara sa nahamugan kong balat kagabi.
Malinis,
Kumpara sa balat kong may dampi ng mabahong laway.
Mabango,
Kumpara sa mumurahing aficionado na nahaluan
Ng pawis ni Ricardo kagabi.
Bagong balat.
Ibebenta ko ang luma kong balat,
Sa gabing ito.
Bilhin mo ang aking balat.
May panibago bukas,
Pag-asa, hamon,
Mantikilya sa loob ng pandesal.
Gamit ang luma kong balat,
Makakabili pa ba ako ng bago?
Magkaiba ang bagong uri sa bagong palit.
Ang balat ko, nalaspag na.
Tulad ng puti kong damit,
Hindi na ito puti.
Marumi ang titig ko.
Marumihin ang aking naisuot.
Ang balat ko ay puno ng mantsa,
Ngunit bago ang aking suot ngayon, bagamat,
Iisa parin ng uri.
Balat na nakalaan para ulitin ang pagrumi at
Yurak sa puti kong suot.
Bagong balat, kulay puti.
Wala na akong maisuot.
Hubad na ang aking puri.
Hindi ko masuot ang salapi.
Magkano pera mo? Tara?
Nais mo bang makita ang aking balat?
Dec 13, 2017
Dec 13, 2017 at 10:01 AM UTC
My girlfriend
Recently
Moved in with me
So she decided
To call her friend,
Who was also
A close friend of mine,
For a couple of beers
In the now 'our' house.
Carmel Scotts
Arrived, knocked,
At around 9,
And girlfriend let him in
And his motorcycle
Sat outside near my
****** old car.
He was a skinny
Ill skin tone guy
Due to his being a
Poppy aficionado,
And he dressed
Like he belonged at
A London punk rock
Concert in the early 80s.
He came in
With his huge mohawk
Flipping God and the system off
And his boots
Knock knock knocking
On Satan's roof.
'Sup' 'Sup' 'Beer?'
'Yeah man, of course'
And we drank and drank
And the now 'our' clock's hands
Moved and struck
12.
We were quite drunk.
I put on
That record
By The Stooges
That we loved
And went to take a ****
When I came back
Iggy was moaning about
Some Deathe Car
While on the now 'our' floor
Carmel crouched
Like a tiger
Above girlfriend's opened legs
As she too moaned
Being eaten alive by
the now 'our' friend.
They were really going at it
And didn't notice I was back.
I was mad,
Really ****** mad.
I was about
To slam him
Off girlfriend and beat him
To a pulp
When suddenly, I woke up.
I remembered
That I don't have a girlfriend,
(I never have had one)
And I don't have a punk friend
(Or any friend really).
So from mad
I turned sad
And got drunk without both of em.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
a quote from the movie "The Big Short"
~
*a screen provocation,
you laugh out loud,
mime hating yourself
that you are joiining in
tacitly acknowledges the truth
of abbreviated wisdom
you,
disguised minority of
modest disagreers,
c'mon, admission submission,
more truth in it
than deserving of argumentation
a one liner throwaway,
neatly designed,
leaves you disturbingly
probed,
thoughtfully tormented and
aroused
poetry just a vehicle,
your vice for revelation,
the critical door to open is this:
do people hate the truth?
inescapable reality
ironical probability,
truth well disguised,
in plastic shell of lying
from the Hollywood's would be poets,
an escapade from the escapists
let us not pretend
that you and I
uncaring, for by virtue of
your reading this, you are
poetry aficionado,
required to deny the lie,
and yet,
accept
the
granular view
that we are rising writing thru the wronged end of
a telescoping microscope
so I scare scar a tissue sample from my tongue
and the cells spell
this rejoinder:
all your lies are poems,
incomplete truths,
and that's why people hate poetry*
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 11:10 AM UTC
I am an aficionado
Of the Jazz band
That you are
The innovative music
That you are
The sense of freedom
Harmony,
Intensity
That you inspire
In me
I am a groupie
Of the jazz band
That you are
The passionate music
That you are
The sense of exploration
Improvisation
Syncopation
That you inspire
In me
I am an instrument
In the jazz band
That you are
The cool jazz music
That you are
The sense of connection
Metaphysical
Transcendental
That you inspire
In me
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 6:51 PM UTC
They made an elephant paint,
using reward and punishment, method
marvelously created paintings!
that success made world headlines!!
******** yet another folly of human creation,
let me tell you the truth, kept hidden.
Angry for not getting coconut fronts,
generously supplied in other occasions,
the elephant just pretended the brush was palm front substitute,
the paint kept in front, to him was dung to play with.
The shapes of his hunger turned to accidental art,
it wasn't his fault, poor guy, his canvas cries out!
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 7:29 AM UTC
i
In the snowbroth, in the chill of the eve'
Mine aficionado inamorata shalt swoon me;
Under the gloss, of the ancient moss
Under the golden shower, overhead albatross.
ii
Thou art the apricity, when the wind bloweth cold
Thou art the castle, wherein is mine abode;
Thou art the rose, with none Thorn's attached
Thou art the night and day, a movie, stage, angel hatched
iii
Gorgonized, thou hath done to me
Directing me under thine foretoken;
Thine voice is quiet, though so captivating
Thy locution is so spiritual, liberating.
iv
Thou art a snoutfair, angel wing's, oriental hair
Freed I am, from the world of man, a perfected pair;
Thou maketh me want to do better in all of mine way's
I shalt loveth thee tommorrow mine queen, and more today.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 9:26 AM UTC
Forerunner asked
“Can you assess how much water is
there in the mountain and air?”
The aficionado of deconstruction said,
“Yes! It is not complicated;
If you drain everything through a conduit,
It is easy to measure!
So, model it and run the model!”
Forerunner enquire,
“Are you going to build a conduit
as a signifier of your existence?”
The addict of ember to exhibitionism replies
“Display the ability of tools and skill you have,
Put up the silhouette and blown up shadow,
Then wreck up when underway to allegory,
Deconstruct, search and measure!”
Forerunner smile and
Stroll away and murmurs
“Everything relative, go by the way of nature “
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
1.. A man obsessed with self-improvement. He only falls for women who make him "want to be a better man." He becomes that better man, then leaves them.
2. Horror aficionado who's obsessed with death; falls in love with women who are dead on the inside.
3, 4, 5, 6. A gay man falls in love with a straight man.
A straight woman falls in love with a gay man.
A straight man falls in love with a gay woman.
A gay woman falls in love with a straight woman.
7. A ****** falls in love with a **** star.
8. A strategic genius falls in love, then treats every action and word as maneuvers in some elaborate game that she has no idea is even being played. He loses.
9. A drug addict falls in love with anyone.
10. Momma's boy who hates his mother; only falls for women he can't stand.
11. Bored sociopath/criminal moves to a new town and tries to convince the locals that he's afraid of everything (so that they won't suspect him of doing anything remotely dangerous). A woman who actually is afraid of everything feels bad for him and tries her best to comfort him. He falls in love with her.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC
After my plan ended
I turned to seriousness,
like an uncluttered aficionado
I persisted with slide film,
treating them as an unfurnished enrichment,
for although not mounted
their sleeves were of equal impression
that captured the many verdant gardens visited,
holding them to a light box;
torn between being an Artist and a collector,
a feeling seemed to be conjured,
like a tentative transition
my heart wanted change,
tall shadows of people
cast contra jour,
a new benchmark for Autumns
dry like thatch.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
I’m a fanatic when it comes to finding ways to **** myself
A zealot of self destruction
Addicted to pain
The knife pulls me closer
It promises happiness
It shows me ecstasy within my blood
The bottle beckons
“Come in, have a drink. Forget”
It wraps me around it’s spindly fingers
Twiddles me around it’s thumb
“Forget”
My music
It tells me of worlds far away
Promises peace
A quick escape from anything
…
But now The bottle makes me remember
The music brings me closer to everything
And the knife no longer feeds me
It simply bleeds me
Because nothing compares
To my addiction
To you
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 6:18 AM UTC
Check the yellow pages
And the funny papers
We gotta find those contact lenses that will change our brown eyes blue
Then promenade to the place
Whatchya got on tap?
Lemonade?
Give me the recipe
That's a odd catch phrase you got there, "I'll **** you with a railroad spike!"
Tell me how the worldwide aficionado only got the bronze metal
She cries at the drop of a hat
Now they've revoked her drivers licence
He's eating flower petals, that man in the corner over there
He's in for a rude awakening
That's poison oak or is it poison ivy?
Either way that's his lot in life
The man from the nuclear power plant comes in and tells m to get welded as he slaps some roadkill on the counter with great hubris
He told the cook to fry it up so no one here would have to eat processed, pasteurized, homogenized, hydrogenated genetically modified food with an appeasing garnish on top
Mmm tire marks
Tastes like this thing has been through the marsh
Some kind of wetland
Before I leave someone yells from the back, "You want the weather? Look up an hope for the best!"
Help Wanted
Inquire Within
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
the piano keys
will be rocking
in heaven
to-day
rhythm and blues
being played the
Fats Domino
way
quite the session of music
booming out from the
amplifier
a catalogue of tunes
charming the aficionado
admirer
"I'm Walking To New Orleans"
a song of
emotion
delivered by a soul
with such
devotion
a welcoming on
high
his mortal coil spiriting
up to the good Lord's
sky
a crying and a
wailing
of his heartbroken fans
as "Blueberry Hill" echoes to a
tailing
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 6:03 AM UTC
I think there’s something you need to understand, I’m not half the man, you want me to, be. I am but burning embers; that is all that is left, of a time that was blessed with love, life and forever afters. I watch you lie whilst you are asleep, never have I seen anything so sweet as just to see you quiet and at peace. And when you awake it is as if, you never were here, and I long for the girl I saw dreaming of blind nothings. I want to see your sun, rise. I want to breathe freely with you. I want to sit with you and think of nothing, at all. I don’t want to hear your queries or handle your questions. I don’t want to be your placebo or neutered affection.
You have the capacity to bend and break, to give and take. But it’s like a language you don’t understand. Your fragility to me is something you cannot see. You believe in a faith I see is unkind, you believe but I think you are blind. But this is just my observation. And I have been proved wrong many times before. Who am I, to think that your words are wrong and don’t make sense to my heart? I listen with great in trepidation to what you think you are saying. I wish I could understand you. I try my best. Sometimes it’s not good enough. I am deemed weak to your tough. I am too heady, living in the clouds. And yet I do not doubt, you; rather you should doubt me, and I be less in your eyes, I can see them, benign with distaste, at something you don’t understand.
I think you look pretty. Your eyes sparkle with anonymity to their shine. To me. Sorry for what I have done. A million times before; to think you are something more. Too many expectations blur my vision, to give you too much to aspire to and the let you feel my derision. Here is peace. In my arms. I wait for you. I promise. I take off my grief for you, my hat is laid on the bed, for here I am at home. Turning your head to the east, I look to the west, I watch you put on your Sunday Best. For you would never show yourself naked to me. Never undress fully for me. Never look at me, except in a moment of passion, when I can see you. And I mean the blinding beauty that you hold within you.
I turned off the telephone, because I was waiting for your call. For I could feed you a thousand times a day, and still your hunger would not be fulfilled. So here I am left here, wondering, what is your exact use for me? I am not your mirror, nor your aficionado. Maybe you should come with a list of instructions because I am as lost as I was found before I met you. You look beautiful tonight, in that dress, in those shoes. And I thought you were going to leave. Me. I think I kinda like it. Because although you can’t see it, I am smiling, at you. That your beauty is only skin deep, it seems.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 5:24 PM UTC
The
Amateur
The
Expert
The
Rookie
The
Aficionado
The
Freshman
The
Maestro
The
Dabbler
The
Craftsman
Poet
There's a place here
For everyone
With a passion
For words
Apr 10, 2020
Apr 10, 2020 at 12:27 AM UTC
Joy so constant we took it for granted
plugging jukeboxes with quarters
loading those noisy machines with B-sides
that only we had ever heard
Van Morrison's "Blue Money" bounced the skip
from station to station in the AM static
we loved that doowit dooey doop, doot door dooey doot, do doot
but the mystic sang of sweet things on the other side
"Saturday Nights Alright For Fighting ", tough ol' Elton John
worth a quarter to hear that song
flip that ***** get your money's worth
two songs there for the price of one
The Stones rocked "Brown Sugar" like slavers in heat
too young I was to understand
why the controversy, so many offended
I rarely chose it, though, cuz I loved "Sway"
"Sweet Hitch Hiker", CCR
sounded more like a razor than a tuned up car
do you remember "Door to Door"?
didn't think you would
"Children's Heritage" over "D.O.A."
"Generation Landslide" over "Hello Hooray"
"For Emily Whenever I May Find Her" over "Bridge Over Troubled Water"
yes, even
B-sides whenever possible
because the A-sides were all on the radio
why feed money to the jukebox for a song you can hear for free?
such are the economics and logic of the 10 year old music aficionado
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 12:54 AM UTC
I once took a trip to Colorado,
consuming edibles by a grotto.
Trees began to squiggle,
as I started to giggle.
Now I'm an aficionado.
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
even for
the non aficionado
when you say
such trite things as
step up to the plate
knock it out of the park
they can still feel
the solid oak of the bat
smell the oiled
leather of the glove
and hear the crack
as the ball soars
higher into the sky
past the cheap seats
and beyond
and I wonder
how could I
have dismissed
these words
and turns of phrases
so raw
golden
sweet and bardic
Whit Howland © 2019
Jul 8, 2019
Jul 8, 2019 at 2:09 AM UTC
I walk alone in the sea of crowd
I push through the tumult of thoughts
Amidst hopeless hope and painless pain
I bring down the cloud in my heart
In hope of thunder and rain
I bring down the rupture in nature
In hope of autumn and spring in barren plain
I shake my shadow
I drape my motto
I hate my bravado
Twirling its tantrum
Like a Shakespeare aficionado
I am the beloved of a tinkering flame
So, myself never wade through
The triple Gems of enlightenment
It always smirks with ghastly disdain
It keeps performing like a broken glass
Pieces there and pieces here
Crack, crack and split
Like a tormented ice
To be reduced into a bleeding blade
Curving and cutting, zigzag and straight
Always It tends to be a frightening block
To terrify the sly raccoon and blind hawk.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 4:27 AM UTC
If only had the world allowed me, to be myself..
I didn't have to sit alone, besides my shadow,
didn't have to hide from the world my true aficionado
If only had the world allowed me, to be myself..
my eyes would have been filled with shimmers and not tears.
my nights would have been filled with dinners and not lonely beers;
If only had the world allowed me, to be myself..
my arms didn't have to wrap around to hug my shoulders
my sanity wouldn't have been judged by apathetic beholders
If only had the world allowed me, to be myself..
I would have had the courage to express my love for you..
life would have ended up colorful and not in blue..
Jul 22, 2019
Jul 22, 2019 at 1:30 AM UTC
~ for the grandson of an extraordinary man~
<>
the supply chain, which unless
you’re a logistics aficionado,
is
alot of ve-hicles, planes,
trains, ocean going monster ships,
& shaking hands of humans, of a
Heinz variety of colors,
who give nary a moment to what
it is they are moving across a planet
all miraculous in the ordinary
schema, but when you slump
in the recliner, and think about
chains, and the reach extraordinary
you issue a curse of admiration and
lean back and think, with luck,
I’ll never have to move ever again,
and more moment’s preserved,
to serve and be served,
for all us deserving,
to let words and visions get
passed around, and the supply
***chain unchains
the human soul for
the best thing us you~mans can truly
produce,
the art of new creation***
4:07am
Dec 15, 2024
Dec 15, 2024 at 4:12 AM UTC
another morning
another chemical coating
another narcissistic lathering
soaping my hair, face, body
antiperspirant, lotion
sunscreen, hair gel, eye drops
toothpaste, mouthwash
there’s nothing real about me
I am fake, head to toe
plastics, aerosols, fragrances
trying to preserve the real real
or mask it or hide it or fix it
as the mirror snickers at me
in 2d flat-screen mockery
I’m a stranger, a hitchhiker in
a borrowed body, a rogue
uncovered, this facade
bared down to its natural
stench and style
is something unpublishable,
something never in vogue
May 23, 2021
May 23, 2021 at 8:15 AM UTC