"autobahn" poems
Fiat lux and
Then I stand and see how it looks out on
Gnothi seauton psychologies of a naughty automaton he is
Out speeding on the autobahn while she is
Now sleeping on futons in peace it's
Not pieces that need to be re-ordered yet
Since he's reckless but wrecks less when he's courting it's
A sport, you see a ticket's his master trophy in-
Deed endorsing his Porsche-speed matrimony down master row and she's
Driven to this racer who makes her en-
Force things, they later make her take her lead like lead's erasing then vanishing
Banished from whatever it is they're drinking and it's cleaned
Running from the pitcher as if it's her fantasy
Love who's the catcher who has her and
Now you see
It's not lack-lusting but luck-lasting because lastly
Down the street
Is where I swear we're running faster from crashing, finally
Into this dreamcatcher's hazard
Our dreamcatcher's hazard
Oh have you heard
It's absurd that the whip cracked
Yeah the Porsche was hacked baby transformed back in two and back into a nat-
Ural rural state where the horse power level was more morally sta-
Ble biblically faith-
Ful foolishly a-
Ble but yeah we take over whatever we face-off and baby we're faster so we'll have to chase after our
Dreamcatcher's hazard and
That dreamcatcher's hazard's a
A madness that is learned
And it's absurd
So say the mattress is glowing it's holy
Matrimony, so don't look lonely it's only
Master Roshi, to say to chase your dreams
It's you and me be-
Cause for you my blood is flowing
For you my blood is glowing
For you this blood is flowing
And too the flood is blowing
It's true our love is growing
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:22 PM UTC
When we were seventeen
you plotted and planed your death
"21 year old racer dies on the German Autobahn"
You planned to break the speed limit
with your recklessness
in the fastest Ferrari
or a black BMW, perhaps.
Looking back,
we'll laugh at the thought.
There are no speed limits
on Autobahns.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 6:14 PM UTC
March in the streets
But I urge you beware
They’ll still butcher the sheep
With the arms that they bear
Private properteers part with
No slave cropper’s share
So this Northern aggression's
Like Freeman’s red scare
All the colors of wind
Through the head-shavers’ hair
The Guevara adventures
These pigs wouldn’t D.A.R.E.
The Arabian knights
In the grand wizard’s lair
The denaturalized dreamer’s
Recurring nightmare
Of the Stalingrad ghost
Still witch-hunting like Blair
The projects to the precincts’
New modern welfare
The post-trauma disorderly’s
Empty screen stare
The savages they thought
Were waaaaayyyy over there
The debt clock ticky tock
In the heart of Times Square
The 1st world problem-children
Who commonwealth care
Because some barely EAT
And we’ve so much to spare
But these cowherds still like their calves
Medium rare
And the bulls try to sell you
Their laissez-faire snare
Till your trapped in a minimum cage’s
Last prayer
And the only escape
Is upgraded software
Like automaton autobahn’s
In disrepair
In this fascist facade’s
Fragrant breath of fresh air
Just as toxic as stocks
Of the mock billionaire
So I shock ‘em like Tesla’s
Bolt-action Voltaire
And I leave it to you
To go **** it out there
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 6:27 AM UTC
****
mit ein(e)
gernierung
of... ******
MACDONALDS
for the protestants
MCDONALDS
for the catholics...
and **** the rest of it
whoop di do d'ah
whoopsie!
**** it...
i always called the IRA
the ginger ninja brigade...
******* *****
ha ha!
is that even permitted?
like...
oopsies?!
oh ****
the steam-roller is
giving it a shot at reading
the earth,..
flat...
map on paper?
**** me... no app....
****** you ever navigate a car
through the German Rhine roundabout?
what's in it?
Dortmund.. Essen...
you know that constipated
part of the road map of Europe...
ever navigate that trippy
conundrum ******** of navigation?
beside me...
can't speak german,
won't navigate in german,
no matter how many
Mercedes-Benz they pump out
from the Henry Ford institute of
the reclining chair,
supposing
die krupps to be squidgy clean...
i think the european translation
reads:
die Dortmund Ringe...
das Rhine Ringe...
**** allocating yourself to a rally car...
navigate through that sort
of German ********
achtung achtung...
autobahn ende!
vorwärtskreis
might as well salute for a second
coming of... hítlear!
shaking Stevens?
huh?!
knee on the no contra
the know: bother...
the english won't know...
isn't that nay?
i listen to too much lawyer
jargon...
i'd love to listen to
poetry...
but... i figured...
lawyers play the slight of
the sly of hand that poets
exasperate into toying with words
to accomplish art...
lawyers? the impasse of
judgement?
**** me!
apparently the argument
goes:
down syndrome...
psychopaths...
'ere by god's grace...
much grace, my lord...
too much grace...
two salvation pointers:
(a) i won't drink with them...
(b) i won't eat with them,
(c) there is no "c" that isn't
a "d" that isn't an "e"
"f", etc!
you get a zebra...
you get a null bonus!
a ******* safari of an automated
anti hamster Boston outfit!
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:23 PM UTC
Everyone dies
Story’s always the same
I just wish I could tell it
Some new, different way
To revivify life
With a vivid description
Instead of this atmosphere’s
Toxic constriction
Malnourishment kitchen
An infant mortality
Failure to listen
To self-absorbed, carbon-based
Standard emission
Way passed overfishin’
For likes on the social de-human condition
Automaton autobahn
Trickle down neocon
For-profit prison bomb
Boomin’ like radical
Islamic martyrdom
Unemployed masses
Of back of the classes
The masking of innocent
Voices in ashes
An **** of power
And greed wretches *****
Mother Earth out to fuel
Their big engines of war
An insatiable thirst for more
Curdled blood screams
As I rot to the Corps
Of America’s Dreams
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 4:13 PM UTC
Rapid Eye Movements
cruise down the Autobahn,
driving dreams of soldiers
slaying the Beast in the East:
seeds hidden in the cuff links
that return home for the victory parade.
The victory parade of the new millennium
is a mirage: desert sand creeps
through the streets of Basra;
spray painted slogans of “Aryan Nation”
are left behind on pock-marked walls.
High level terror alerts
scroll across the Fear o' Dome,
breeding paranoid glances
from commercial-class passengers
while they fly above fenced camps
where centralized secret service agents
watch the unloading of another train.
"Son, do you forget the sacrifices?
Have you lost all your respect?
Okay, it’s possible that the Feds
were influenced by the Purebreds—
a minor repercussion
of maintaining our national security.
It isn’t even about racial purity—
you are all mixed now, anyway.
Whether female, black, jew, or gay,
we must unite together as a nation;
raise its flag with pride,
and fight against a common enemy!
This enemy is trying to disintegrate
the cornerstone of our free society!
Son, can you not see! Not see-notsee-notsea-notsi-notzi-natzi-nazi-natzi-notzi-notsi-notsea-notsee-not see!"
_____
—cold sweat.
I awaken to remnants of nightmarish images
sifting through my mind:
flocks of carnivorous sheep
with invisible shepherds.
The dream had felt real—
solid, like flesh-out reality.
I rush out of bed,
just to make sure.
From my bedroom window,
I see the neighbour’s Iron Eagle weathervane
goose-stepping towards the west.
A lawnmower growls in the background.
Everything appears normal here
on the corner of 4th Reichstag Blvd.
2016 Neu Berlin Remix, July 13th, 2016
(original version was written on March 29th, 2010)
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 6:14 PM UTC
This is Detroit
and we ignore
what the rest of the world
has to say about us,
we wear our stink
like a badge of honor
and we laugh
at the fear on your face
knowing where you are
and what youve heard.
This is Detroit
the motor-city
which means
you better own one
because our public transportation *****
our roads aren't much better
and our gas prices are high
which means
the speed limit is unacceptable in the fast lane
in fact,
anything thats not 10-15 over
is not acceptable
treat our highways like the autobahn
This is Detroit
and any Coney Island you go to
you shouldn't see any fries
underneath the chili and cheese
regardless how small It may be
This is Detroit
and its a city that refuses to die
because of its artistic output
from Motown
to Eminem
and our failures
that catch the eye of the world
yet we live on
through the hardship
that builds our character
as they scoff
This is Detroit
and every pothole
every decaying building
every makeshift
into a new business
is a character trait
where banks become pizza shops
and theaters parking lots
This is Detroit
where we still show up and party
for a football team that has never
won a Superbowl
This is Detroit
we are dangerous
we are lawless
we know our own
and we wouldn't want it any other way
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 7:13 PM UTC
Heathens -
in heaven's lobby
flock
to barter
for Magic 'Shrooms
with pop rocks... and pancakes
and leaf-green brownies.
new to the scene;
the Son of Man
holds a motley court,
then wanders off
to fetch Picasso - Lassoed
from his cups, his Love that must Love
his genius... doubtless,
cloud-scrawling
huge pendulous *******
in Elysium; for no one at all.
better Pablo
should tend bars that set mobs free
than one god's toddler, with long odds
against Bacchus - should ever
small-talk-speak
to the godless
or worse...
preach.
" Better Sins to love.. " The Spaniard once taught...
A Lover's Urge is born in forms of weakness.... adorned in all Might -
bathed in blessed contradiction,
a Lingam for a Yoni's dream of stiff drinks
and pliable men, with strong arms.
a blue fiction on Calvary -
nailed to the softest
cross.
Between thieves,
an honor, double
parked
with bucket seats brimming with moonlight,
and her knickers
tossed.
Picasso asks for absinthe
to be sent
post haste
and polished off -
by all
his better angels he had guillotined
with dull snails,
and fallen
harps
ones - he stole, to de-tune
a flat fifth of Cuttysark
for a deaf
**** [but no mute ]
a portrait, ****
and is soon
bought...
lust
sleeps then -
with both Eyes;
Locked on
One of
God's.
like a deer
in a Head-light's
Gospel...
now, a Minotaur on the
Autobahn -
stalking
it.
II
Heathens
in heaven's lobby
recite ' Howl '
as Ginsberg, walks over hot coals
and spicy psalms; glowing wanton
in white grass; with a very
cherry ****
And a wise throng, cobbles...
****** -
they rob
Peter of his toga,
leaving nothing wrong.
but no less ' On '
they laugh hard; and wake the dead
asking them for new songs
to set their false alarms
in lofty Tic' Tocks
of Eternity's
clock.
Bible on a snooze bar
for at least that long
or someone
knocks.
As if "Hello."
Spoke the Whole World into Being -
And " Goodbye."
misspoke, and
trailed
off...
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
So I’m sitting in this dark room, smoking cigarette after cigarette after cigarette. Staring at the pile of mail on the table. Left behind junkmail, junk that I have to answer, his junk. But then again I am wearing his clothes, his shoes, Christ, This might even be his bathrobe. Moved in on another mans turf, or am I just keeping the seat warm? So he can go sow his oats, sleep with some secretary or ****** do fat lines of whatever, never having to check in while checking out . I remember I think , what that used to be like, to be free of things, things like commitment, things like meeting your obnoxious co workers at the bar, And not the cool downtown bar with its dim light, backbooths and jukebox full of blues, The uptown one with the yuppies and their bluetooths and never ending vain chatter. Things like love, things like forgetting that your favorite color is yellow, not mustard yellow but bright ******* canary yellow. The yellow that reminds me of bathroom stalls and jailhouse walls, and all those, late late night trips to the E.R.. Things like time , Remember that time when You said “lets take it slow “ Then the next morning you wrote I love you on the mirror in Red lipstick. Should have been a stop sign, a flag ,god **** warning, right there. Things like Freedom, The freedom to fly away, To escape, to set sail. To be free like that B.M.W. on the autobahn, in the commercial, aimed at the friends, with the Bluetooth surrounded by yellow walls that sing those blues, To be free But then who would be wearing our clothes ,our shoes ,Christ, even our bathrobe, Hell who would even answer the mail.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
.
Even after visits to apartments in self-named cities to see soccer stars swathed in orange tuxes,
Swerving off country roads in berating fits of tenderness,
Sputtering 'i love yous' in ditches and river canals;
Even after chais with Ye Ye Elders,
Messenger powwows with ancestors, and
holding the hands of comforting Harmonies, I
Never got it right.
.
It was a pathetic attempt to join a traveling circus; a passive means for an escape. Who were the Elephant Man, the sword swallower, or the contorting twins?
****** if I know.
Buddy had his hands wrapped around my neck in a nihilist noose so tight that it bubbled up amaurotic visions within my retina.
I couldn't see or feel a ******* thing.
Lost consciousness on his cold bathroom tiles, sprinkled with ***** confetti, **** all up on my cheek.idonthavetimeforthis!sleeponthecouch!
Watching 'Teach Yourself Circus!' videos at circus camp, I learned to juggle,
albeit groggy and disoriented. Only brightly coloured ***** at this point but I was up to seven tosses! While the freaks and geeks headed to carousels in the big top tent, I headed back to my dilapidated den leased on a broken Concord.
getoutbitchgetoutbitch
Back at camp ( hazy lazy crazy ) rivets affixed so I could only stare forward at the wall.
An e.ch-o-y sound in my
left ear
voice reverberating down thru
t
h
e
w
e
l
l
past
t
h
e
b u c
k e t
I turned my head,
slo-mo tracers flashed in warp speed,
glacial stares softened into slushy moss.
A buttery soft cashmere reply,
i'm sorry? what did you say?
you seem nice...
.
Infrastructure collapsed.
****
Gone.
Crumbled in a heap of rubble.
Impaled by rebar and rebar erections.
Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab.
Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab.
in a black plastic sack
And....then....
Who's to say about the linear sequence of events, anyway?
.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
She clung to his waist as if the last fisherman pitched around a lake.
She was not gonna let go until evening
fell,
until they’d made their hotel;
eyes on the autobahn ahead.
They'd once trickled into terraced tributaries hankering after hidden
held waists on corners, continuously,
as they learnt of not letting go,
kept the sense of cologne pecked necks,
fuliginous chimney pots
and the fume of hollowed out leaves on rain soaked trees
stacked next to each other on the latent apothecary's patent leather shelf,
safe in the old factory of a shell.
Their single cylinder sang along the road,
and she did not hear him singing.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 9:23 PM UTC
.Daylight rolls off sequestered petals of the rose,dewdrops smile with guilt in their teeth.Shoulders of the road bend, aching withasphalt arthritis.A blind dog crossed the autobahn at high noon,kidneys and intestines criss and cross the double yellow line-like skull and cross-bones. Fur knocks down butterfliesas archangels drop a line into the river Styx."Come sail away!", I heard one say as a small fish escapedthe wrath of hook-in-mouth hell. Amen!Goodbye jolly roger. That has to hurt.I've always said,"Peeling paint only looks good to the professionaltrying to make a buck repainting." Honestly.Yet, a bucket full of fragrant flopping fishsits out back of an abortion clinic,( or was that fish?)while only static played on every FM station.The world wasn't prepared forMozart's misery.
Feb 25, 2010
Feb 25, 2010 at 10:48 PM UTC
My neon-hearted one,
vibrating throbs shining through
the soul-soaked night. It
is an endless ride
on this forlorn, pebble-skinned
autobahn; I still
can feel you out there.
Your heartstrings are like distant,
radio waves; such
beautiful white noise
attached to the senses of
mine anchoring me
into a godspeed
velocity just to safe
and sound; here and now reach you.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 3:20 PM UTC
we are burnt inside,
full of old straw,
tar and wet ash,
passing trucks lift my hair,
wash my eyes with diesel
trees and fields behind the stop
are fenced and grubby,
they darken,
we are lost in direction
between two nothings,
untied to our kin ;
seekers of line and light
down the way of a savage god,
the cruel autobahn.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 5:32 AM UTC
I like seeing kilometers left behind
And smile at rear-view mirror from the left side,
pressing the gas pedal a little harder
to see in the dash board how my car is running faster.
Looking further on my left,
I see cars flying in opposite direction from me,
and it strikes me right away,
next year I'll be on that side of the highway.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
In the DeLorean
down on
the autobahn
out in the fast lane
with a girl named Berlin.
She's riding shotgun
on the eastward bound
carriageway
And then fancy makes us
and we take a hiatus.
But we always remember the ending
not
the battles we lost on the way.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 12:26 AM UTC
The most ardent kiss which the asphalt will ever know
Is when mother nature bows her head
Purses her clouded cotton lips
And gently drops a trillion kisses on a square stretch of highway
Until they puddle up in joyful memory
And the autobahn is lost in a contented, smitten, bliss
Oct 3, 2019
Oct 3, 2019 at 8:04 PM UTC
*civilised people keep forgetting that their people have made me half-human, i'm a mutation of what's expected to be the mined concern for revenue of a charity - then i better bake in the same hell as a **** because your defence of Israel just doesn't work / bother me as ****** York, or ****** England... and let's all turn into spectacular hurrah! cos the cheer is all the helium we'd ever ingest having our teeth removed; oh **** i've already been blamed for **** crimes as a Pole... the Irish knew the decisive polling ergonomic against us would benefit their chance to potato-farm a clean-sheet without famine fears: ratatouille roulade (r'ah-t'ah-two-e rue-lard).*
i wanted to go to this festival,
but instead i got
relegated as potato...
churn our the charring
and choc charcoal -
cos they really mind where
the r.f.a. comes from...
****** encore! drop another bomb!
and the bomb drops... another!
Autobahn! Autobahn!
die männerstahl -
deutsché text(e)
geboren als erbe eines titans -
i die,the idiots remain,
i live, the idiots provoke a hive;
i live, the Irish pretend they're Anglos;
the world goes round;
i die, nothing changes,
and that's truly promising
as any change at all.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
it terms of orchestration, wiring latin to english using the latins' alphabet, and advocating a different movement of the knight to the queen in placement, biased on the chequers given the |, it might be that in latin the grammatician would say postponed words were designated the categorisation of adjective if trafficked purely on the right... but in english interpretation of latin, with the surviving alphabet... and the missing burnt out eyes of balthazar seeing written hebrew like king chalres iii seeing cyryllic... what if... what if in terms of | alice decided, through the mirror, that adjectives became nouns and nouns took on the noumenon form of being omni-grammatical in terms of allowances of usage to trans / to transverse?
this is how sophistry happens on the “sly:”
the crusades... eh eh eh... em em em...i i i i...
such eloquence for the proper elocutions
before the world actually revolved...
it’s called the onomatopoeia of thought...
it should sound like it’s scripted...
but it’s not scripted...
instead it’s a scarred thought that might have
sounded an octave above the mezzo;
well... at least both of us sung the song...
whatever medium was discriminated at less
whether that be kareoke
(the japanese word for mime) or poetry;
anyway... i learned to stutter and think of
toes like twinkle twikle litter star... how i wonder
what you could articulate with einstein cracking the nursery rhyme
for an equation that dazzled everyone
in the symphonium of ceaceless ahs and sighs
before red october
revolved into the futures of the november
revolution of '89 /
grey november they called it...
they gave us treaties for the autobahn in colour...
and it turned out to mingle the echo black and the voiced
white... in a medium that only desired quies genesis.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 9:37 PM UTC
It will fade eventually...
It has to fade eventually!
Neuron paths used less frequent fade, right?
The road less traveled will become an overgrown stony, bumpy path instead of this autobahn in my mind, this highway of thoughts you have created.
I'm sure it will fade eventually...
I'm sure it HAS to fade eventually.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 6:19 PM UTC
A single bullet was all it took
And I needn’t have wasted that,
He sat alone in that dismal cave
In an old Field Marshall’s hat,
His eyes were sunk in that pallid face
A demented cast to his jaw,
He didn’t move as I knelt and aimed
And put an end to the war.
It was getting late, it was ‘68
When I ventured into the cave,
My friends said going spelunking was
A bit like digging your grave.
‘Expect big rats, and giant bats,’
They said, before I’d begun,
So I added that to my haversack,
Just to be sure, a gun.
It wasn’t a normal cave I sought
But one by the autobahn,
Where I’d seen a crevice opening up
That nobody else had done,
It seemed to lead deep down in the earth
Could easily close, if found,
So I took a pick, a dynamite stick
And burrowed into the ground.
I had a lamp on my helmet, like
A miner’s, casting a beam,
And climbed on plenty of rubble
That had collapsed in a steady seam,
It led to a concrete tunnel
Plenty of rock strewn passageways,
A giant work of construction that
Lay hidden in former days.
I seemed to go on forever
Then ran into a barbed wire cone,
Blocking one of the passageways
And a sign, ‘Halt! No Go Zone!’
The wire was rusty and fell apart
As I pushed it away to the side,
But then the sound of scuffling rats
Brought the gun out by my side.
Then finally it had opened up
Into what would appear a cave,
With flags and banners arranged about,
The glory of former days,
A corpse sat propped in an easy chair
In a uniform from then,
And there, attached to the shirt front was
A nameplate, ‘Bormann, M.’
Beyond, and under the banners was
A barely human form,
Who stared at me in the darkness there
As if I’d not been born,
The greatest conqueror of our time
And there’s no disputing that,
Lost in pain in his vast domain
For there der Führer sat.
David Lewis Paget
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
i’ll eat you.
my mother...
that’s your mother’s answer...
whether it be mutterkreuz
or simpler autobahn...
versus how you love your mother;
and father,
and how your society loves divorce!
murderer loved up ****
there’s a love for you... it takes normandy
to catchphrase it and you’re the tag rather than
the catch line.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 12:58 AM UTC
In the expectation of some conjugation of verbs
I walk slowly run to the window and look outside
on the street for some.
Grammar puts its spell on me
inaction cannot dwell in me
I look again to find some sympathy and all I see
is fast cars on the autobahn
****
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 4:45 AM UTC
the rumble of autos on our town's biggest thoroughfare
will never come close to the static roar that emanates
from those few centimeters between your ears
i can't hear your thoughts but their volume is deafening
and the evidence of their shouts shows in the strain in
your eyes
i've never really found washed-out irises beautiful before
but in their emptiness i see the fossils of a voice
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 5:22 PM UTC