"avante" poems
3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin)
Something's wrong... you don't belong here.
I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza.
I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni.
I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf.
He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public.
Like I'm a creep. I'm a ******
What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.
You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table.
When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates.
Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion.
After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu.
So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.
Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.
They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.
They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.
They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.
They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.
They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies, if you know what I mean.
In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.
They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes!
I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.
And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.
I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!
I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay.
... except for anchovies, of course.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
|
Cubism brought the
omniscient narrator
into the visual arts &
|
traveling far enough
from the center of the
universe makes the universe
seem actually tiny &
finally, imperceptible,
all that is time-travel, god &
ordinary life: is relativity,
the math of the diameter;
quantum mechanics, that
of the circumference
|
the Russian avant-garde
of the 'teens & 20's
applied these principles
to typography to serve
the supposedly omniscient
Soviet State;
|
an early cold war
project of the NSA
was to fund the arts
as propaganda
|
1950's & early 60's
America saw unbridled
expressions of mass,
individual, artistic &
intellectual
creativity:
facilitated in large
part by the invention
of LSD by the CIA
|
so far the greatest mind
of recent times has been
essentially a disembodied
brain; RIP Stephen Hawking
|
the future points to our brain
being salvageable from the
polluted mess of the body;
|
Under Gretchen Carlson
Miss America is to be judged
on brains alone
|
_That's Avante-Garde, *****
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 8:45 PM UTC
I find myself in a reality thoroughly mired;
Hard wired to this dire strait of a habit: to remain inactive;
Actively, though, I find myself being rendered blunt,
Thoroughly ineffective.
Effectively seeing my being contorted into shapes ignoble;
Progressively rendered moot,
Thwarted by my avante garde a la feeble.
And as I face that reality, really all I want to do is
Relay these reverberations that
Go thump! thump! whenever we meet;
Convey these fizzles that turn my stomach outside and in
Whenever we share an embrace to greet.
Can I rely on my grammar to share my emotions?
Or are her stories old news now?
I guess what I'm saying is:
Can I speak?
Can I, nay, may I deliver my formal interjection?
That my emotion towards you is still a subject;
That I'm hoping in my heart that the idea of "us" does not
Come across as abject;
Or imitate a noun and become an idea that is abstract?
Because what I'm going for here is for our souls to find contact;
And as I fill these blank spaces with hope;
What I hope most for,
Is that my sincerity really comes to the fore;
That you understand that I'm not here selling dreams and lifestyles;
But rather that I want to bring them to life before your eyes.
So can I speak?
Can I tell you of the hope you carry?
Can I tell you of the joy you bring?
Can I speak? Tell you everything?
If not, can I at least tell you
How crazy you drive this thing? (point to heart)
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 11:46 AM UTC
In the murky clots of consciousness
between sleep and awakening
we clung to an icy overpass railing
spitting down on graffiti camouflaged
train cars as their charging rickety
boom carried our uncontrollable laughter
toward destinations unknown
Our spirited tenacity was matched only by
turbulent winds whipping us into submission
Forcing us to brace ourselves to avoid getting
swept away
You tumbled backward off the slick rounded bars
of the overpass rail
and bit your lip so hard
I thought you would need stitches
but you kept on smiling as the blood plummeted
dripping all over the tracks in a sanguinary frost
Feeling arrogant and invincible
like two avante guarde dog soldiers
we marched past our old urban battlefields and
grimy fast food cattle fields
closed in on a ramshackle bar
and drowned our taboos and inhibitions in
foam drenched pitchers until we closed out that
ramshackle bar
We gleefully stumbled
wearing hazy street light halos
back to the
duplexed squalor of my doorstep
Sloppy kisses stained with the scent of
cheap beer completed the night
as we tore into each other and
made love on that ratty creaking mattress in the front
room
All I had at the time to rest on
was that ***** old bed
and you
until several months later
when they confined you to
pristine hospital beds instead
Intravenous deceptions and false hope blood tests followed
but even with all the motions of our modern medical drama
we couldn't avoid you getting slowly swept away
I regret never having the strength or honesty to visit you
just as I regret never telling anyone about you and I
I go hang on that overpass railing sometimes
remembering the knock-down-drag-out-reckless perfection
of that night
knowing that my agonizing love for you should
have been something I proudly proclaimed to the world
Now the trains carry away my atrocious wails
as the weight of my shame
nearly pulls me onto the tracks
and spills my insides in sacrificial testament
to all we've lost
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 5:04 PM UTC
Abstracted Painting
.
print in
.
black and white
,
as if
,
they paint
,
the page
.
hues of blues
.
or of
.
Langston Hughes
.
the page roils the spirits
.
to anger red
.
that fades
.
to shades
.
to purples and blues
Avante-Garde, Hipster, Beat Poet Words and sound of Celebration
Graphic Painting done by me Shamus.Media,Arts
www,shamusmediarts.com © a month ago, SilverSilkenTongue
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 4:47 AM UTC
An anxious amortal
archnemesis
affectionately
allowing an amoral
animosity
achieve an attitudal
agressive and aversion against
any and all
annoying,
aggravating,
afflicting,
and almost annihilating
alliterations,
although all
aforementioned actions
are absolutely
artificial.
An amiable
abomination
and architectural abuse
at an alphabet achieved
after aesthetically
arranging ample
arbitrary
alternatives alone,
amounting an acclamation.
An affinity at
awkward avante-garde arts
arising at
an astronomical acceleration,
aside an archaic
argumentum ad
antiquitatem argument
awfully appraising
an atheistic and agnostic
apparition,
anthrophomorphically
alive and apparently
alright after asphyxiation,
alluding an astral authority
absolving accusations
and all allegations.
An advantageously
astute and adroit assassin
always actively
acting and assaulting
alone, ain't assisted
anyhow,
already
antiquating auxillaries
altogether.
An alliteratious afterfocus:
Aborting all anticipations.
Anticipating affirmative antagonizations.
All are alright.
Already airtight.
Adios, amigos.
Author: anonymous,
an acorn-afflicted,
assassinatrix affiliate.
attributed as Agent Argent.
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
they're fascinated by my
soul's avante-guarde ******
and how much of it i bare.
they don't know that i feel every breeze,
and mere dust particles can adhere to my ****** surface,
muscles operating in constant fear of being punctured
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
I searched high and low to find you a present
But nothing could quite represent to the fullest extent
These feelings that I have for you
That I can only try to construe;
These words:
I love you
So I made you this card
To try and be avante garde,
And though the prices were low
I just want you to know that
The sound of your voice makes me want to rejoice,
The sight of your face makes me want to embrace,
And that this card is to the girl who has such stlye,
Who always knows how to make me smile.
And this is to the girl who plays the bass guitar,
I love the way that you are.
And this is to the girl who is always so nice,
Who never fails to entice.
And this is to the girl who is so pristine,
Who is all about scene,
I hope you have a wonderful sixteen.
Sep 24, 2010
Sep 24, 2010 at 6:35 PM UTC
A noite chega, soturna, calada. Os remédios parecem não fazer efeito. Sozinho novamente com meus pensamentos, embalado pelo som do ventilador e das batidas do meu coração.
Nao sei porque ele insiste em bater, parece um esforço inútil.
As horas passam lentamente, como nos movimentos de uma duna. A areia do tempo descendo vagarosamente pela ampulheta. Se ao menos pudesse ver. Me sinto cego, queria eu estar cego?
Minha decepção só não é maior que a decepção que causei.
Não há lugar aqui senão neste papel para a dor, uma fraqueza que todos tentam esconder - por questão de sobrevivência provavelmente. Os amigos poucos que me restam seguem suas vidas enquanto tento ser feliz, ao menos por eles.
Saudade aqui toma outras formas, como uma tortura ao melhor estilo Stanley
Kubrick em “Laranja Mecânica”, em que as imagens passam repetidamente por minha cabeça sem que eu possa fazer absolutamente nada.
Família, amigos, amores, à distância de uma chamada, uma chamada. Para quem ligar, como?
O cárcere em sua pior faceta, o isolamento social. Conto nos dedos de uma mão as pessoas com quem consigo manter uma conversa. Mesmo assim nao consigo conversar, a cabeça e o coracao nao estao aqui, eles fugiram, estão lá fora, espero que a minha espera.
Outro cigarro, mais um café. Quantos mais, quantas mais palavras? A caneta e o papel são meus melhores amigos, às vezes até me entendem. Monólogos em horas, diálogos em outras.
Me pergunto qual seria o limite entre a sanidade e a demência aqui. Se é que existe um, estou eu ficando são ou louco?
Nao era quando cheguei, provavelmente foi o que me trouxe aqui, agora só me resta um caminho a seguir e tenho que achá-lo sozinho.
Não tenho arrependimentos, aqui não há lugar para eles, há agora um só caminho a seguir, em frente! Adiante!
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
Llovizna abrillanta-asfaltos
de la dormida calleja.
Llovizna canta-en-la-reja,
llovizna arrulla-a-la-oreja,
-escala de los asaltos
(Julieta habita en los altos.)
de Romeo-: historia añeja.
Llovizna moja-que-moja
trovador de Alda o Mafalda,
nocharniego rima-balda
cuyo manteo sofalda
-para colmo a su congoja-
la ventisca, y lo sonroja:
trovero-desnuda-espalda...
Llovizna pica y repica
con su yeloso goteo
por el raído manteo
del aterido Romeo:
si el balcón cierra la rica
-fembra, asaz se simplifica
la acción de Tristán e Iseo...
Llovizna llueve-que-llueve,
llovizna cala-que-cala.
Presto apróntale la escala,
pronto el partido por gala
en dos alista: a que pruebe
tu licor cálido ****
cuaderno-azul-bajo-el-ala,
es decir vate-que-bate,
rimador rima-que-rima,
harpa-al-hombro, laúd-mima,
vihuela-pellizca, o lima
-violín, o teclas-abate...
Campo-de-pluma, el combate,
**** de amor, se aproxima:
Campo-de-plumas, apresta
**** (Iseo, Isolda, Alda,
Julieta, Dido o Mafalda):
trovador-lira-a-la-espalda
apercibe su ballesta
y el dardo certero asesta
que clavar ha en tu guirnalda.
**** (Mafalda, Alda, Dido,
Iseo, Julieta, Isota,
Ulalume, ya remota,
Xatlí, morena-de-oliva,
Eglé, blonda delusiva,
deswertherada Carlota,
Ofelia ofélida ignota,
fugadas en el olvido):
Llega el trovador transido
-rota flámula en derrota,
rota flámula hecha criba,
gonfalón deshecho hecho
girón: pero avante el pecho
trae el trovador maltrecho
pujante: y en su lasciva
boca, el ascua-siempre-viva
que hoguera será en el lecho.
843
At some point
I got really into
this radical
pretend revolutionary
mocking revolutions
trash pop art
where it was about
not writing
beautiful or
compelling things anymore
but just regurgitating raw
thoughts and avante garde musings
onto the page
like careless splashes of paint
red and black -
- black and read
- read in blackest humor
sense in the senseless
nonsensical. -
No hallowed grounds -
no safe spaces -
no trigger warnings -
or safety switches -
No structure
no reason
trash trash trash trash
with maybe
just a hint
that buried beneath
this landfill dissection lab
of grotesque disregard
a muted glint of
grace and hope
yearns to be shared
once more
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC
A week ago I never knew
That an avant garde
music style existed
I also never knew that
it would remind me so much
Of you
With your looks
and stares
always knowing what to say
without moving
But of course all good things
come to an end.
Like when I found out
Avante Garde
doesn't really have to
many bands
and that I never really
liked you.
Aug 4, 2010
Aug 4, 2010 at 2:46 PM UTC
As an oak will not grow in another's shadow,
so too our struggles, solutioning with reality
while as one and three, a couple in harmony,
must also be independent to whatever degree.
Thus, being as water, yin, and as air, yang, we
find a dance gestured by seasons of romance.
The choreographer's mind's path undefined,
like last moment's awe makes way for this one's.
A canvas with frameless frame and reality
as the brush painting us, even it's shadows
speak of light. Beingness as gleaned meanings
for all to share, seen through, if we were there.
A cacaphony, symphony heralding
song of the Universe, Earth and spheres.
From adagio, staccato, through to avante-garde.
Life sung accompanying the abundance of joy's Spring.
As poetry's music fathoms the depths of our heart,
heights of our intellect and imagination,
breadth of our spirit, well of our soul,
alluding to the unknown saliently.
Also, climate crisis demands a bond of Earthlings
stronger than ever before, and he or she
must be at the fore', if they want their progeny
community, partner, humanity to even live.
Jan 2, 2020
Jan 2, 2020 at 1:03 PM UTC
We drank the kool aide
fist pumping to the latest
Pseudo avante avante
Guarde ruse
Proclaiming we were
already there-
that there was something we knew
but could not explain
Something like Jesus
But definitely not Him
You were either cool
or you weren't
A perfect defense
No problem
This was the end
terribly groovy
An absurdity that could not
be factored-
And wow we were there
At the end and it
Was a joke
Way beyond the Beatles
Beyond apology
Like the grasses we were
Obedient only to the wind
and the fire
and the air
was full of the sounds of
the crackling of
An inaudible laughter
Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 2:36 PM UTC