"allo" poems
under this suburban sky
red stain on the dull gray, when you move away to your elsewhere
you revive
as a fish returning to the water after a short yet intense pain
for you I'm the bait
and the hook
and the fisherman too,
not in that order
in the order you decide
since you decide
you are elusive, you always look away and tighten your eyes
your words are lashes
I feel weak in your presence,
at the same time your fragility confuses me and it moves me
as a boat adrift in a lonely sea
...................
sotto questo cielo suburbano
macchia rossa su grigio opaco, quando ti muovi nel tuo altrove,
tu rivivi
come un pesce che ritorna in acqua dopo un'agonia breve ma intensa
per te io sono esca
amo ed anche pescatore,
ma non in quell'ordine
nell'ordine in cui decidi
e tu decidi
sei inafferrabile, distogli sempre lo sguardo e stringi gli occhi
le tue parole sono staffilate
mi sento debole in tua presenza,
allo tempo stesso la tua fragilità mi confonde e mi commuove
come una barca alla deriva in un solitario mare
..................
bajo este cielo suburbano
mancha roja en gris opaco, cuando te alejas a tu otro lugar,
tu revives
como un pez que regresa al agua después de un dolor breve pero intenso
yo soy cebo para ti
y gancho
y también pescador
pero no en ese orden
en el orden en que tu decidas
y tu decides
eres evasiva, siempre mira hacia otro lado y cierras los ojos
tus palabras son latigazos
me siento débil en tu presencia,
al mismo tiempo, tu fragilidad me confunde y me conmueve
como un barco a la deriva en un solitario mar
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 9:05 AM UTC
Una nuvola arriva e copre,
Un ombra davanti al sole
Dalle tenebre
Diffonde la luce
Ha le forme di un tocco angelico
Forse un dio, premuroso,
O un suo messaggero,
Che abbaglia gli indifferenti
Ti avrò pensata una, due volte,
O forse cento o forse mille
Ogni volta era pura magia
Con le tue braccia a me avvolte
Ti avrò pensata urlando,
Piangendo e mentre ero felice.
Allo specchio mi son detto,
Rifarei tutto quel che andiam sognando
Apr 23, 2023
Apr 23, 2023 at 8:14 PM UTC
i will become extinct now
because the cows that i love
to eat and drink will have
no more grass to mow
leaving machine processed
foods for nourishment. eliminating
the use of my four-thousand dollar
orthodontic pretty white pearls and
find worth in the five-thousand
dollar allo-derm gum implants.
i will become extinct now as
my forty-year-old digestive
system in which has been pumping
iron exercises three times a day
testing it’s strength with an
8 ounce filet mignon will have
no use any longer so long
to my habitual adult grape
juice for the vines will have
no place to grow. soon they’ll be
powderized. they’ll capsulize my merlot.
i will become extinct now as
the sun sets but only
because it’s manufactured
like pirates of the caribbean
ride you don’t know you’re
inside. fake flames. fake heat.
fake sunsets which provoke my
deepest feelings. artificial now
emotions controlled to it’s
purest form snowboarding
on snoopy sno-cone creations.
replacing our creator with the
lastest inventions. i will
become extinct now.
for i cannot live this way
because my heart is real.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 6:04 PM UTC
Yea, I'll bet yr thrilled to see, me yo read me
Cool
Ya read peas? Maybe a spool.
Wow. That's callee da burn grab the allo
I pop right b aka up on the trending poems , player and hat ears see me and go noooo,,,,
But I fight back, I don't retract my neighbor my neighbor I
Eat his cat rack jv,. Owe
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 9:40 AM UTC
Delle volte mi concentro su particolari lontani e totalmente irrilevanti come la posizione delle dita delle mani appoggiate allo stipite della porta o su un bicchiere e io penso sfiorami sfiorami sfiorami.
mi ricordo casa di mia nonna, il suo parquet, la luce che enTrava dalle grandi finestre, tutta la lista di cose che mi era vietato toccare
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 9:38 PM UTC
Apparently, it is my societal rol
e to once a month (or once a wee
k, or how may you) succumb to
all the indignity, to the crushin
g blue of broken hands, and allo
w the swell of eternity its coarse
st way with me. And swallow lik
e a sieve the strands of all the flu
id universe.
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 6:27 PM UTC
I
quel giorno, quando mi hai lasciato sola sul prato bagnato, sono morta per ben 13 secondi & tu non te ne sei accorto neanche.
** lavato la mia faccia con whiskey scadente & tutto è andato per il meglio.
II
se dovessi scegliere un'altra vita vorrei tanto che fosse un'esistenza fatta di cristallo & acqua ghiacciata, penso al profumo della lavanda e a lunghi, lunghissimi nastri blu.
III
passo il mio tempo a graffiare con le chiavi la vernice delle auto e a raccontare in simboli tutto ciò che non so
il mio tempo perduto in cambio del tuo primogenito.
IV
vivevamo in una casa bianca & tu sparavi ai conigli davanti ai miei occhi & io ti amavo ma allo stesso tempo speravo di poter sparare in faccia te, faceva caldo, a casa nostra era sempre giugnoluglioagosto, esisteva solo una stagione, nelle altre dormivamo.
V
io sono viola scuro, sono polvere, sono sostanze luccicanti, sono fumo, sono nulla, sono tutto ciò che intasa i tuoi polmoni, tutto ciò che ti rovina il fegato.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 7:53 PM UTC
the day near finished and
the night aglet as if day;
what came first -
cliff richard's devil woman
(chicken) or the eagles'
witchy woman (egg)?
cockerel via ****** already took
the opera seat, and the soprano
slit open the larynx of the castrato...
just so the chandelier and windows
shattered in practice...
if your poetry isn't musical, not rhyming,
just write about music,
that's what bukowski conveyed...
make poetry an interest in music,
don't make it this trollop-cod-whipped-turd
self-interest... if you can't sing because
an elephant stomped on your ear
or you never had enough money to buy a saxophone,
don't make complex musicology of symphonies
cute with "adoration" using the rhyming technique,
forget it, it's not cute, it's damnable...
true virtue isn't afraid of critique...
write about what you love so i can look it up
and share it, don't write self-love walking sticks
of decrepit fidelity of marathon runners
that wheeze out after the 100th meter in
goldfish dollops of addictive lungs gulping for
breath... no technique in poetry will ever be music
in terms of actual music...
ever heard tenacious d's one note song?
most poetry sounds like that:
sound
around
orange peel
foot massage that turned into zest of extra
sound
around
a tambourine tabernacle
with st. thomas ********* a rib cage
kangaroo pouch
cunt's ouch
five multipliers mono
********
softy
doughnut
peach;
'bitch where's the cream?!'
'oh boy it's coming, coming with the flying scotsman's
steam;
choo choo!'
puff up you puffing puffin ************
well, i was always going to be an extension of her
doing the triceps choo choo dangle motion;
morph into a church bell uvula
morph into a church bell uvula...
of a-ding-along-for-a-ding-dong of st. ursula's
interpretation of english police officers
deviation from the standard:
'allo 'allo 'allo.... n'est-ce pas pas ce comme ce?
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 11:28 PM UTC
Nulla di ciò che accade e non ha volto
e nulla che precipiti puro, immune da traccia,
percettibile solo alla pietà
come te mi significa la morte.
Il vento ricco oscilla corrugato
sui vetri, finge estatiche presenze
e un oriente bianco s'esala
nei quadrivi di febbre lastricati.
Dalla pioggia alle candide schiarite
si levano allo sguardo variopinto
blocchi d'aria in festevoli distanze.
Apparire e sparire è una chimera.
È questa l'ora tua, è l'ora di quei re
sismici il cui trono è il movimento,
insensibili se non al freddo di morte
che lasciano nel sangue all'improvviso.
Loro sede fulminea è qualche specchio
assorto nella sera, ivi s'incontrano,
ivi si riconoscono in un battito.
Sei certa ed ingannevole, è vano ch'io ti cerchi,
ti persegua di là dai fortilizi,
dalle guglie riflesse negli asfalti,
nei luoghi ove l'amore non può giungere
né la dimenticanza di se stessi.
1k
Sarah Mclachlan - Plenty - the one time you told me
i was Eastern European, of long-forgotten Europe....
and you were Irish, then i knew.... time to breed
a knuckles's hello.... should i really mind reality?
you, godforsaken paddy skin-head?
throw a ******* paddy / potato
at me i'll get clued in at where
Chelsea gets tribalism of Hammer-smith...
oh lucky you, the Irish tentacle...
maybe the next Irish in me ought
ti dance the ******* leprechaun dance
for new years'... cos' that had to be minded
in newspapers...
i'll the be ****** of goth to mind
enter the dragon, starring the ill fated Brandon...
an you be the anonymous *******
pardonable journalist with angst prescription
when mommy ****** the
milkman and daddy said: huh?
or shave my head and become a fake *******
or the atypical Irish-head...
some said Celtic, but some said: Sale-tick-ticking-blah...
the meat-heads bashed their heads together...
wedlock northern:
every Mc-Noodle.
later read Mac. tosh
or Celtic
in the Glasgow curriculum, as said: Mac. arched Ranger...
for the clover leaf brigadiers
aye... spoon the
shovies! banknote worded:
two pence a punch...
some call it a London mo-cheese-sum
(mohican - heir to a higher phrasing: cannot but
will do) - and so the Australian banknote came
sooner than the migration points system:
as ever, plastic first, spooning baked beans
and later the "trouble": as Glasgow estate shimmered
the saying: concrete does two blues,
Hertfordshire horseradish:
alter. marketed green slime: or: guacamole...
god, i wish i was soppy sometimes...
at times when it was least
explanatory to mention Vaughan Williams...
perfectly now...
snotty curiosity ever went as far as
a hanky... or later read: a chappy chopping
wood with echo, blistered with
e-oh e-oh and the faked yawn, done, repeatedly,
for purpose of a masquerade:
or Apache tribalism etiquette
saying: oh... h'allo'h h'allo'h h'allo'h;
pompous blues and said Peter to mind
while some geezer did the beat
for the slang while regurgitating an attack
of the Zeppelins.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 11:20 PM UTC
I want to sing and shout my happiness
Being woken up at 7am to the sound of your voice,
Right from the 'Allo?' I heard down the phone,
I knew today was going to be a brilliant day.
I want everyone to be a little happier,
Who cares that they sky is grey,
Who cares that it's spitting down with rain.
Than the thunder is on its way,
I have done everything I needed to do,
Even snuck a "french" kiss or two.
The sunflowers are yellow,
The maize is growing tall,
Lucy is just feeling happy.
Lucy will conquer the world.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 8:38 AM UTC
7 pm wake up call
Today I had the strangest dream.
There was you and I, working side by side,
In a café down the street.
I guess we were on equal pay.
I started work and there you were,
Sat with me until it started to rain.
I think it might have been in France;
Maybe Paris, maybe right where we are.
We were just talking and having a laugh;
I hadn’t been there long, but lovers find their car.
You knew the café like the back of your hand;
I knew right then and there, that I was becoming your man.
One day I heard you singing a song;
Since then you and I were getting along.
Another round table served, on another day;
We had not yet fallen in love.
There was another room, an outdoor room, beyond the main café.
A place for him and her to sit and talk and find their way.
It had extra tables, with umbrellas
And stacked up chairs against the wall,
For when it was busier than it seemed today.
There was the boss who said “Allo, allo.”
His wife, the owner, I saw here around,
I guess that she would come and go.
Another waitress was cleaning up
And you and I were just talking and falling into love.
You were sitting on a bench
And as we talked, I kept you warm, by holding you next to me.
I think we had always been destined,
Because as I looked at you and we each knew,
You began to lean on in…
I think this could have been our first kiss;
I’m not quite sure I remember it all.
I’m painting pictures as I speak.
I am afraid they will all soon disappear,
So before they do, my one last view,
Of our café will be spoken of here.
You were dressed in black and white.
I was waiting on your words.
We were sober, but we were becoming us;
We were so happy in this moment, so drunk on love.
I was sat smoking a rolled cigarette,
In a wooden wheelbarrow that fitted two.
This wooden statue was our bed;
A feature of the outdoor room.
The wheelbarrow grew in time, as did our love;
By the end of that night, we were true.
It was the middle of the eve;
The moment was right, to say it right,
I think you were made for me.
Then later our boss and his wife they spoke.
He was annoyed at the young couple treating the café like a joke.
“When are they coming back in?
There is work that needs to be done!”
She said “Relax darling, they are having fun
And can’t you see that they are in love?”
And with that, the boss he simply rolled his eyes;
She rolled her eyes too and then they both smiled.
“Oh my love, it has been a while,
Since our old café had a new romance.”
You and I were sat becoming one and the same,
In our oversized wooden wheelbarrow,
Hand in hand in the rain.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 2:32 PM UTC
È riapparsa la donna dagli occhi socchiusi
e dal corpo raccolto, camminando per strada.
Ha guardato diritto tendendo la mano,
nell'immobile strada. Ogni cosa è riemersa.
Nell'immobile luce dei giorno lontano
s'è spezzato il ricordo. La donna ha rialzato
la sua semplice fronte, e lo sguardo d'allora
è riapparso. La mano si è tesa alla mano
e la stretta angosciosa era quella d'allora.
Ogni cosa ha ripreso i colori e la vita
allo sguardo raccolto, alla bocca socchiusa.
È tornata l'angoscia dei giorni lontani
quando tutta un'immobile estate improvvisa
di colori e tepori emergeva, agli sguardi
di quegli occhi sommessi. È tornata l'angoscia
che nessuna dolcezza di labbra dischiuse
può lenire. Un immobile cielo s'accoglie
freddamente, in quegli occhi.
Fra calmo il ricordo
alla luce sommessa dei tempo, era un docile
moribondo cui già la finestra s'annebbia e scompare.
Si è spezzato il ricordo. La stretta angosciosa
della mano leggera ha riacceso i colori
e l'estate e i tepori sotto il viviclo cielo.
Ma la bocca socchiusa e gli sguardi sommessi
non dan vita che a un duro inumano silenzio.
870
Non è Amore. Ma in che misura è mia
colpa il non fare dei miei affetti
Amore? Molta colpa, sia
pure, se potrei d'una pazza purezza,
d'una cieca pietà vivere giorno
per giorno... Dare scandalo di mitezza.
Ma la violenza in cui mi frastorno,
dei sensi, dell'intelletto, da anni,
era la sola strada. Intorno
a me alle origini c'era, degli inganni
istituiti, delle dovute illusioni,
solo la Lingua: che i primi affanni
di un bambino, le preumane passioni,
già impure, non esprimeva. E poi
quando adolescente nella nazione
conobbi altro che non fosse la gioia
del vivere infantile - in una patria
provinciale, ma per me assoluta, eroica -
fu l'anarchia. Nella nuova e già grama
borghesia d'una provincia senza purezza,
il primo apparire dell'Europa
fu per me apprendistato all'uso più
puro dell'espressione, che la scarsezza
della fede d'una classe morente
risarcisse con la follia ed i tòpoi
dell'eleganza: fosse l'indecente
chiarezza d'una lingua che evidenzia
la volontà a non essere, incosciente,
e la cosciente volontà a sussistere
nel privilegio e nella libertà
che per Grazia appartengono allo stile.
720
so, i'm on this page, and i meet my ****** pusher,
sure as hell he's pushing ******
although it's digital, the site / street corner?
allpoetry.com i get to publish 2 poems,
but can't publish more, i have to comment,
and comment positively,
'allo comrade Stalin! then comment on
2 poems, and get this message:
*Congratulations, you've achieved level 2,
and are now an "emerald cat"!
To reach the next level you need:
7 x comments, 1 x enter a contest, 1 x favorites,
1 x edit an item. • What are levels?*
i am not playing candy-crush saga!
i'm not! i'm not even kidding you,
what is this ****
we've been ****** by paedophiles
anonymous?!
please get me off
this ****** grid of the Cyber Pavlov Experiment...
likes and comments and saliva and cookies...
or premeditated minority reports -
akin to Orwell's thought crime gestapo -
god it sounds **** when said: g'eh'sh'tap'oh.
or how to use the internet
akin to deciphering and censoring established
media outlets...
obviously social media
can't replicate socialism, it's a media outlet,
but it can for sure **** off with
all the little capitalistic mind games that lead
to nothing but the Pavlov experiment -
and that was with dogs...
try that with a ******* Gorilla and i'll watch you
cradle prosthetic limbs while
he rips your original limbs off like he's playing
a harp:
then you can rhyme: twinkle twinkle little thumb,
how i wished you were attached to my hand to my arm
to my torso...
that's the same story
we had recently concerning a Mr. Kumbuka...
who escaped enclosure, and proved the a.d.h.d.
complex correlation with exposure to
sugar... ****** drank 5 litres of concentrated blackcurrant
squash replying: i'm mad at the keepers for keeping
me on a diet! i do king kong and you do the frenzied
blonde maiden.
it's still a concern for me that they herded the poets
into an area worthy of zoological inspection,
meaning that they base their worth on
deplorable points system: like they're immigrants
waiting for visas to Canada -
comment, like, blag and blabber your
way into that new country, known to all of us present
as Si S / Silicon State... by my count that's
the 51st, or the secular version of the Vatican.
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 9:12 PM UTC
But one of the times,
the lake
s w allo w e d us when we’d been
reckless, swore too hard, acted out, it
gobbled
us
up with its ‘YOU’s and its ‘CEDE’s
!
On cursed days,
I wake up
!!
I caught a glimpse of your face as we drowned,
nacreous skin over your willow tree bones, you,
weren’t looking at me, you
may have been dead
!!!
Still, you ossificate as you rust
and spill at me with unintentional toxins,
continue to quote Bradbury, self-comatize with rain-
tainted sunsets and suffocating darknesses
!!!!
Of course it’s unjust
That I must adhere to these chains of flesh,
marinate in my own foamed misdoings
!!!!!
*******
!!!!!!
I will be whole again
I will be whole again
I will be whole again
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 12:21 PM UTC
Tu, burattino speranzoso,
inutili sono le tue lacrime,
prive di senso,
travolte dal suono del cucù, ora.
Oh pupo,
ti deprimo,
ma leggo in te le stelle
e le ambizioni
che non raggiungerai.
Tu, carcassa macchinaria,
affogate sono le tue grida,
laggiù negli abissi,
natie d’un assassino seppellito.
Oh superbo,
ti disgusto,
ma vedo in te la cenere
e l'onore
che cela la sua paura.
Tu, spirito magistrale,
fittizie sono le tue glorie,
immense e spettacolari,
dal desiderio d’infestare i sogni altrui.
Oh dannato,
ti inorridisco,
ma percepisco in te il teatro
e il potere
di un applauso solo cortese.
Io, universale, infinito,
superiori sono le mie trame,
io che tramuto in lazzi
lo spasmo ed il pianto.
Oh folle,
m’illumino,
mentre distrutto mi guardo allo specchio urlando:
ridi, mostro, ridi!
Ridi, bestia, soffoca nel sorriso!
Ridi!
Ridi!
Ridi!
///
You, hopeful puppet,
useless are your tears,
without sense,
swept away by the sound of the cuckoo, now.
Oh puppet,
I depress you,
but I read in you the stars
and the ambitions
that you will not reach.
You, mechanical carcass,
drowned are your cries,
down there in the abyss,
native of a buried murderer.
Oh proud,
I disgust you,
but I see in you the ashes
and the honor
that hides his fear.
You, masterful spirit,
fictitious are your glories,
immense and spectacular,
from the desire to haunt the dreams of others.
Oh ******
I horrify you,
but I perceive in you the theater
and the power
of only polite applause.
I, universal, infinite,
my plots are superior,
I who turn into jokes
spasm and weeping.
Oh madman,
I light up,
while destroyed I look at myself in the mirror screaming:
laugh, monster, laugh!
Laugh, beast, suffocate in the smile!
Laugh!
Laugh!
Laugh!
Apr 17, 2025
Apr 17, 2025 at 4:52 PM UTC
la isla bonita
&
material girl
FIN
caam sigh....
say
letto....
ISRK FINN!
LOP LA LOOPS
LETTO!
AYE FIN!
ISRK FINN!
DE HUND
no..., fervor, you're
not welcome,
nein! nein! nein!
nicht ich lüge für sie!
gemacht durch haufen!
hello!
'allo!
doppelt-deutsch(e)....
kommen alle sie:
alle sie
deutsch(e).
die letztebefreier:
was kann
kommen
kann gehen....
oh, oh what?!
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 10:52 PM UTC
Io amo un uomo fantasma
insediato nel mio cuore,
alle urla e allo spasmo
che mi provoca tanto dolore.
Lo strapperei se potessi di dosso
per non morire di sofferenza,
mi son bruciata fino all'ultimo osso
dal freddo nordico d'indifferenza.
Feb 16, 2022
Feb 16, 2022 at 11:10 AM UTC