"barber" poems
( i )
I lucked out
on table 4 last night
window seat
baseboard heat
with intimate passages
from Ginsberg
in his purest
and most evident form
Cover-all Carl was draped
in his usual garb
(turning pages
of yesterday's news)
animating, culturing, bantering
on the fate of the
Greek barber
(in an accent of which
I'm not so sure)
His cronies
looked on
(with a twisted conviction)
countering
with their own tales
of ingovernance and woe
*did you know that Panasonic
lost 5 billion last quarter?*
The evening moved
in time lapse...
with painted winds,
streaming lights
and a host of
high school girls
running cold
Maleah passed
on her late shift
(checking the pile and trough),
patronized the boys
and called it a night
( ii )
The bald man
is back at it again
bickering at the till
(something about
a cold free coffee
or 99 cents
or the coloured guy
behind him who got it hot)
a kind Filipino
is trying to get it done
(at 8 bucks per)
losing her cool
and shedding a quiet tear
Wonder what the Purewals
or Haitians or Cossacks
would have to say
about this grim public reminder,
wonder what
this sad f*ck
will do tonight...
without his
bus pass
or sling sack
or broken Turkish stems
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 2:37 PM UTC
(one!)
the wisti-twisti barber
-pole is climbing
people high,up-in
tenements talk.in sawdust Voices
a:whispering drunkard passes
22.6k
Of death
the barber
the barber
talked to me
cutting my
life with
sleep to trim
my hair—
It’s just
a moment
he said, we die
every night—
And of
the newest
ways to grow
hair on
bald death—
I told him
of the quartz
lamp
and of old men
with third
sets of teeth
to the cue
of an old man
who said
at the door—
Sunshine today!
for which
death shaves
him twice
a week
14k
"Back from vacation", the barber announces,
or the postman, or the girl at the drugstore, now tan.
They are amazed to find the workaday world
still in place, their absence having slipped no cogs,
their customers having hardly missed them, and
there being so sparse an audience to tell of the wonders,
the pyramids they have seen, the silken warm seas,
the nighttimes of marimbas, the purchases achieved
in foreign languages, the beggars, the flies,
the hotel luxury, the grandeur of marble cities.
But at Customs the humdrum pressed its claims.
Gray days clicked shut around them; the yoke still fit,
warm as if never shucked. The world is still so small,
the evidence says, though their hearts cry, "Not so!"
13.4k
Got it buzzed
back to GI days.
A quarter inch
all over, I said
to the dubious barber.
It took some
getting used to
when passing
mirrors.
But now I love it!
I call it
my Monk's haircut.
No maintenance.
Wake up, perfect;
Swim, perfect;
Stroll about
in hurricane,
perfect.
Now I love
to feel
the wind
in my hair
that is
no longer
there.
~mce
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 10:17 AM UTC
The wind wants to comb my har but gets tangled in its snare.
my wooly bend of kinks and bends has now got them all to stare.
i didnt ask for this texture but its the only one i wish to be next to.
i can braid it , blade it, grow it hide it show it , its always there.
right in place , it doesnt fall into my face.
my barber is the best barber he can cut it into shapes.
i can tape it fade it wear it long shave it.
but it will always be my **** ***** curls black hair.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC
There the merry hologram glowing blue purple blue
Cactus human cherry on a stool
Beyond the window he would not look
Inside the sky made of wood.
The barber talks to his ferns
The flowers he understood
The living they earn
Sparkling its rough nails of your barber.
The breath and life he will spruce with apple-pie order.
He listens to
Each one story
Always about a time
A time which was cheery.
He looks piercingly to all their prickly
What he touches intently
To turn the time that latches onto your head which started feeling heavy.
Lifted into glee so jolly and carefree.
A man
Or the boys
They finally stand up easily.
Capes dusted
Top hat powdered
Their voice of fears collected as tips
For pricking up his ears.
The door that opens in the end
The swirling light that beckons
Hair became a way to lighten ---
When times get rough and belligerent
Cut it off, rugged and ruffian.
The barber hears him and all
The others like soldiers
They share their laughs
Troubles leaving shoulders
Leaving like a waterfall.
The barber knows everything
The barber knows all.
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 10:54 PM UTC
You won't believe what I went through when I went to a black man's barbershop.
He was a racist **** and when I left, I called the cops.
He forcibly strapped me in his barber chair.
Then that punk shaved off all of my hair.
As I looked at my bald head in the mirror, he laughed at me.
He laughed and said that I deserved it because I'm a ******
But he stopped laughing when the cops slapped on the cuffs.
He said that he didn't want to go to jail and I said "Tough!"
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC
An Amish elder named Mullet,
And some of his ****** clan,
bore hatred deep in their gullets
for their Amish fellow man.
****** seemed out of the question,
It’s rare among Amish, folks say,
(It may be that a horse and a carriage
doesn’t make for a quick getaway.)
So Mullet and some of his minions
Invented a new sort of crime:
Shaving their bearded opponents
one Amish man at a time.
Losing one’s beard among Amish-
A disgrace before God, it’s been said.
Mullet spared no woman either
choping the hair from their heads.
His victims are speechless with anger,
denuded of both beards and hair.
Leave it to someone named “Mullet”
To offend using a Barber’s chair.
Mullet’s in Federal custody;
charged with a crime, not a sin.
He refuses to answer the charges
By the hair of his chinny chin chin.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 8:29 PM UTC
the barber and the bald man
and the ubiquitous philosopher
are travelling in ancient Rome
Here below the tree at night
they rest and take turns to keep an eye
on their luggage
Now it is the turn of the barber to keep watch
and he gets bored
and he takes out his shaving kit
and he gives the sleeping philosopher
a free shave, so now you have two bald men
And now it’s the philosopher’s watch
and he wakes up
and he feels his smooth head
and he muses to himself:
*“That stupid barber!
He has woken up the bald man
instead of waking up the philosopher!”*
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 7:29 AM UTC
this peculiar notion transmigrates into a startling potion,
one that creates, not slakes human thirst,
a consequential first position for those who are in possess
of a direct line to gods who hide in the pitch black,
perforce one must make discrete deferential inquiries
avec une politesse indirecte
just in case we are wrong
(honest aside:
as composition proceeds, ear buds fill me with
Music of Transmigration, notably Op. 11, of S. Barber making
contradicting souls passing through me tenable and malleable)
naturellment,
loud radio silence, was I naive to expect otherwise?
perhaps god is not the subject of this poem
but perhaps the author(!) who's
just keeping his "hand" in the poem game,
spoofing human memes,
with a spot of fun even in
New Z--l-and-other domiciles
after all who has more
nominalistic titles,
is cursed and blessed,
by almost everyone
at least once a day, and in
a thousand different names
with an impishly
cruel sense of what this human gig
it created.
is about
tonight
I am a composer,
tomorrow’s decomposer,
or just a funny named follower
ah,
the answer is in the
data
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 4:55 PM UTC
The fisherman’s swapping a yarn for a yarn
Under the hand of the village barber,
And her in the angle of house and barn
His deep-sea dory has found a harbor.
At anchor she rides the sunny sod
As full to the gunnel of flowers growing
As ever she turned her home with cod
From George’s bank when winds were blowing.
And I judge from that elysian freight
That all they ask is rougher weather,
And dory and master will sail by fate
To seek the Happy Isles together.
3.8k
The barber asked "what would you like?
Quiff?
bun?
Mohawk?
slicked back?
side parting?
centre parting?
greased?
permed?
straightened?
skin head?
bald head?
spiky?
A comb over?
pony tail?
pig tails?
curly?
frizzy?
dyed?
mop top?
French crop?
blue rinse?
purple rinse?
step?
undercut?
shaggy?
dreadlocks?"
"No thanks" I replied
"I'll have a short back and sides and make it messy on top please"
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 7:20 AM UTC
The Road To Utopia
I made a left at the stop light
when I should have made a right
now I'm left holding the bag
and I'll be strung out here all night
the road is paved with many turns
and you must stay alert
the horrid smell of rubber burns
as you swerve off onto the dirt
not every answer will be correct
sometimes your gut is wrong
someone will steer you off the path
for the cost of a simple song
Utopia is a state of mind
not a place found on a map
to always keep your razor sharp
you need use a barber's strap
to offer yourself for the good
feel pride in the art of giving
Utopia is not a place of dreams
it is where you are living
Gomer LePoet ....
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 7:10 AM UTC
True Stories #1
This is the first of what will be a series of little vignettes.
When I was fourteen,
I was the alienate hipster rebel
In a private school hellhole.
Hair long, tie knot never pushed up,
Unbuttoned button-down shirts,
Camus lover,
Siddhartha disciple,
Small acts of disdain,
Expressions of teenage hell-pain.
One day, the principal
Threw me out to get a haircut.
Went to the nearby barbershop,
Which was in the underground,
Subway stop.
Returned to school where It was
Pronounced unacceptable.
Twice more this charade-escapade,
Went on, till the barber cried and would not
Charge me anymore.
Shorn like a lamb,
My mother roared like a lion.
The next day, the man in charge,
Who would marry my second son,
Three decades later,
Called me in and sort-of-apologized.
From that day, I never respected authority,
Only learned to fear tyranny.
See photo of my latest protest!
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 7:40 AM UTC
Let's dance in style, let's dance for a while
Heaven can wait, we're only watching the skies
Hoping for the best, but expecting the worst
Are you gonna drop the bomb or not?
Let us die young or let us live forever
We don't have the power, but we never say never
Sitting in a sandpit, life is a short trip
The music's for the sad man
Forever young, I wanna be forever young
Do you really want to live forever, forever and ever?
Forever young, I wanna be forever young
Do you really want to live forever, forever, forever?
So we livin' life like a video where the sun is always out
And you never get old and the champagne's always cold
And the music's always good
And the pretty girls just happen to stop by in the hood
And they hop their pretty *** up on the hood of that pretty *** car
Without a wrinkle in today 'cause there's no tomorr'
Just a picture perfect day that lasts a whole lifetime
And it never ends 'cause all we have to do is hit rewind
So let's just stay in the moment, smoke some **** drink some wine
Reminisce, talk some **** forever young is in your mind
Leave a mark that can't erase neither space nor time
So when the director yells "cut," I'll be fine, I'm forever young
Forever young, I wanna be forever young
Do you really want to live forever, forever and ever?
Forever young, I wanna be forever young
Do you really want to live forever, forever, forever?
Fear not when, fear not why, fear not much while we're alive
Life is for living, not living uptight, see ya somewhere up in the sky
Fear not die, I'll be alive for a million years
Bye-byes are not for legends, I'm forever young, my name shall survive
Through the darkest blocks, over kitchen stoves, over Pyrex pots
My name shall be passed down to generations
While debating up in barber shops
Young Slung hung here, Shorty, the ***** from here
With a little ambition, just what we can become here
And as the father passed his story down to his son's ears
Younger kid, younger every year, yeah
So if you love me, baby, this is how you let me know
Don't ever let me go, that's how you let me know, baby
Forever young, I wanna be forever young
Do you really want to live forever, forever and ever?
Forever young, I wanna be forever young
Do you really want to live forever, forever, forever?
Slamming Bentley doors, hopping out of Porsches
Popping up on Forbes lists, gorgeous
Hold up, ****** thought I lost it, they be talking ********
I be talking more **** they nauseous
Hold up, I'll be here forever you know I'm on my fall ****
And I ain't waiting for closure, I will never forfeit less than four bars
Guru bring the chorus in, did you get the picture yet?
I'm painting you a portrait of young
Forever young, I wanna be forever young
Do you really want to live forever, forever and ever?
Forever young, I wanna be forever young
Do you really want to live forever, forever, forever young?
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
So my hair
was getting
really long
so I went
to the barber shop
with the lady barbers
and told her
to give me
a businessman's haircut
which I used to call
normal style
and she cut off
most of my hair
and shaved my neck
with a straight razor
and I thought
that it was great
but now
my hair stands up
in the back
so I look like
Alfalfa
(if you remember him)
without the grease.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 12:17 PM UTC
Fire Walker
Angel Talker
Tree Hugger
Technicolor Dreamer
Imagination Jumper
Long time Barber
Recent Photographer
Twisted Big Sister
Missus of the Mister
Wicked Stepmother
to Some
Auntie of Others
Armchair philosopher
Always a Poet
and my Friends
mostly think
a Know- It-All
but in a nice way:)
Karen Newell
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 6:10 PM UTC
She sat outside the barber shop
In a silent plea
A statue blowing 2nd hand smoke
Into the faces that be
Almost threatening the men
To cut their white hares
The powerlines hissing as she glared
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
Walk in the door
Notice all the sports themed wall
The barber shop full of gossip
Waiting your turn
The barbers says next
Sit in the chair
tell the barber how do the hair style
He covers you
Snips and trims
Razor cuts and high fades
Shows you the work with a mirror
Pay your fee leave a tip
Dusts you off sends you on the ways
Come back haircut can fix you any day
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 3:34 AM UTC
Dear Little Lyle,
Please forgive me for the things I have done to you. For too long I have been kept you hidden and protected and numb from the world.
I know I hurt you by keeping you away from all the beautiful things life has to offer. I know you're afraid, scared, hurt, and injured by what I have done.
I kept you in darkness where nobody can see you, I kept you quiet so no one can hear you, I kept you bounded so you don't hurt yourself or others, I kept you alone so others don't have to bother you, hurt your, or make fun of you.
I spoke to you before that it be okay but I was wrong I kept on hurting you, I lied to you, forced you to do things to you that injured you and hurt you.
I made you cry, I made you hurt, I made it so that i wanted to **** you, so you don't have to hurt anymore.
I am so sorry for almost taking your life, over and over and over again. I know you were laying there whimpering, alone, and terrified.
I know you just wanted a hug and kind attention.
I am sorry for not giving that to you.
You just wanted a hug, a simple , "I Love you!", just a feeling of a little bit of okayness.
I know you're screaming, yelling, crying, hurting, all alone.
You just wanted someone to talk to, to play with, and run around the playground playing.
I am sorry I keep ****** you and hating you everyday.
I am so so so sorry. I am so sorry I keep lying to you and denying you any kind of kindness, love, and comfort.
Those people that hurt you, yelled at your, touched you, hit you, and made of your are now gone.
I am so sorry for trying to **** you everyday of every second, I am so sorry. I know you want you just want a hug and someone to tell you the monsters and clowns are gone, they are, I know made it impossible to love me again, but please find it in your little heart, little hands, and little self to please forgive me and to love me again.
I didn't know what else to do but to hide you from all the monsters, pain, tears, and blood.
In the dark nobody could see you but me, I am sorry for keeping you there for so long.
It will be okay, you will be okay, all the monsters are gone. You don't have to be afraid of me. I am kind, gentle, fun, energetic, and helpful.
I am so sorry for hurting you, and for allowing others to hurt you so. Please believe me when i say it will be okay, the monsters are gone, you don't have to hide anymore, you don't have to run away anymore. Remember when we were little we'd always asked god for special powers, he gave them to me to protect you and keep you safe, but it was my fault for failing to do those things, but the monsters are gone.
The monsters are gone, the screaming, and hurting is gone.
We don't have to fight anymore.
You don't have to hide anymore.
You can come and play in the light and in the dark, nobody will hurt you.
Nobody will hurt you!
I will care for you, love you, and teach you.
I will still protect you and make it safe and comfortable as much as possible. It's okay, It's okay, the monsters are gone.
with love,
Lyle K. Barber
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 9:54 PM UTC
the neighbor has just started to mow
cutting grass is his favorite pastime
he manicures the lawn nice and low
the sound of the mower's droning chime
seems to be sweet music to his ears
cutting grass is his favorite pastime
his lawns kept tidy over many years
the grass not allowed to get too long
seems to be sweet music to his ears
he's oft heard singing a barber's song
as he trims the lawn with his old Rover
the grass never allowed to get too long
he takes pride in his patch of clover
the blades of grass never look mussed
as he trims the lawn with his old Rover
about his yard he's meticulous and fussed
the blades of grass never look mussed
the neighbor has just started to mow
he manicures the lawn nice and low
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 5:51 AM UTC
(For S. A.)TO write one book in five years
or five books in one year,
to be the painter and the thing painted,
... where are we, bo?
Wait-get his number.
The barber shop handling is here
and the tweeds, the cheviot, the Scotch Mist,
and the flame orange scarf.
Yet there is more-he sleeps under bridges
with lonely crazy men; he sits in country
jails with bootleggers; he adopts the children
of broken-down burlesque actresses; he has
cried a heart of tears for Windy MacPherson's
father; he pencils wrists of lonely women.
Can a man sit at a desk in a skyscraper in Chicago
and be a harnessmaker in a corn town in Iowa
and feel the tall grass coming up in June
and the ache of the cottonwood trees
singing with the prairie wind?
2.1k
exit bag
It's easy enough to peer through the underside of a hearse-
easy enough to **** those gears.
Easy enough to try it once or twice or give up or spit it out like a bad fruit.
Easy enough to shiver in bed
Easy enough to last it out and sleep all day
puff on the bag and go somewhere else
A quick, easy blur. Negation
hand in hand loyal love with sleep. A handshake, low,
tossed about with a final farewell, a quick gulp
in the arms of a surrendering light- a face-mask.
It's easy enough to stick it and last.
So level out with a spliff, take another chance-
a homespun remedy will extract the saccharine
days and take out the "too sweet" sweat of a poison
milkshake-
it's easy enough to do it quietly.
It's easy enough to have a pay-order-death.
Spit-up, a final Sampson barber drain. You'll never
sleep through another day if you put on
that exit mask and breathe
slowly until you can't
until the surprises stop coming
until the wounds stop laughing
until the only obdurate straight man will stop his act and take you home and lay you on a couch and drape a clean blanket over you like a white sheet
and cover your eyes with cloth and pennies and
gently weep when no one's making a joke anymore
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
Adios England's Venus flytrap
May you ever overflow inside our rectums
You were the ornament that inserted itself
Where spunks were pelted to pieces
You ********** in the open air to our promontory
And you squirted to those inside ********
Now you reciprocate to Abraham's *****
And the black holes crack spew out your barber's pole
And it seems to me you tasted your *****
Like a cigarette lighter in the diarrhoea
Never drooping with knobs on the cherry lips
When the ooze congeal within
And your smells will always regurgitate here
Along England's juiciest blast—offs
Your cigarette lighter's exploded spew out long before
Your whiff ever go the whole hog
Voluptuousness we've jiggled
These frenzied wombs of time needing your clenched fist
This lava lamp we'll always get pregnant
For our breed's fair—haired brats
And even though we have a finger in
The clean breast seduces us to moistness
All our foghorns cannot ****
The ecstasy you stimulated us throughout the age groups
Apr 2, 2010
Apr 2, 2010 at 3:21 PM UTC