"bauhaus" poems
She is as lines to Bauhaus, oblique
In category yet commanding in form;
Her mind a pool of wealth and Grace,
Allusions to illusions, omega to
Alpha’s strongest gaze. I stand
Failed, distraught, lacking the
Dexterity of voice to call her name,
The temerity of will to regain her fair
Charms and affirmed charisma.
Lost I am within a cascade of
Superlatives and tribulation.
Were only she to have conquered
My mind, I would be of sound spirit to
Elicit some tempered comprehension;
Yet alas, I have been taken in soul
And I can do naught but wait
To see if she will one day return.
Jul 6, 2011
Jul 6, 2011 at 3:39 AM UTC
"Make lots of noise ~ Stamp your feet!"
Garlic is the new black, all squares are red, so dance the colour blue, and leave your prejudices at the door.
It's not just wrapping paper, yellow triangles or wallpaper,
it's radical art; challenging the norms and provoking change!
"show me how you party and I'll show you who I am!"
14 years of faith, form and function;
designed to unleash the utopian spirit,
a space for drinking, laughing, loving, dreaming and creating.
We built the Bauhaus as a sanctuary, not as a prison, a monument, or a museum, but as a springboard for something new!
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 7:13 PM UTC
This is the fourth time it's happened this winter
The fire is sparking
("Put on another log to dull the flames")
The wind, whipping up chaos outside, conspires with the moon
to plaster open our eyes, and
tangoes with the red of the streetlight to foreground the terror, the dramatic pull to this scene like the beginning of a barfight.
But all you notice is the snow.
Captivating Slush, like the wondrous stupid glow of children's television
("Close the door quickly, it's below zero outside!")
My chest wakes up to the sleeky bitterness of it, gentle but rousing,
like the critique of a crush taunting the back of your neck, but in reverse.
You've said that last line, and it's the response of everyone who can't savor what they most anticipate, the arrival of the thing itself cast aside for something mundane like safety.
The thing itself for you is watching snow,
and now you gladly push it away.
Life is so unpredictable, yet so callously routine.
To live in seasons is to be constantly surprised at things exactly how you've seen them before.
It's not emotions that frighten us, emotions are hand-me downs, the old favourite band t-shirts of experience, often ones we've worn before.
It's the feelings that surround emotion that we shunt out, that we tipex over in our journals of memory, our synaptic splints.
The tears of children who never turn back
to confront their tormentor with their tears.
And so now I'm walking upstairs as a means of brushing off these notions
("For the love of ... make sure the bathroom window is closed")
And I check my phone while debating how to spend the rest of my evening engaging with my phone while you rewarch American sitcoms, so cosy, your contentment as reliable as Irish wind
Then I sigh and look out the Bauhaus insulting bedroom window
Again I see the circus coloured tarpit the weather has made of our street
And wait a minute, trying not to feel anything
Because this is the fourth time this has happened
This year.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 6:52 AM UTC
Un-belonging
Undressed from teenage rhythm.
It’s a yearning for
The lost birds
Whose wings you rode
In talkless flight,
Til the silence got thicker
And woke up
Under the acupuncturist’s shadow.
And it needled it’s point as
Chinese wisdom, or as a well-meaning homeopath.
It dawdled all the same.
And you’re all sat right there.
Submurged. Happy as reflections.
Like an underwater photograph,
Mermaid’s song, gargles
Like the frog in my throat.
Almost Bauhaus, Picasso,
Almost watercolour, a mockingbird’s
Impression of a rock.
It was just
Undiagnosed sickness and I’m
Wading slowly into the sea with
my parents stones in my pocket.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
The poetry
It has spilled
Like the blood of a great massacre
And it has diluted
To a near transparent film
Over the 21st century
Over Miley Cyrus' ***
Over grotesquely distorted salaries
It lingers in the grey concrete behemoths of utilitarian cities
It's on your cat
It's in your parents hair
It's in Angela Merkells teeth
And this omnipresent film
That only few can see
Is evaporating into a backdrop incandescent beauty
It's vaporising into an intoxicating nectar
It's what slavery was to the blues
Or the reconstructions of war to bauhaus
Or what the crusades were to the renaissance
So twerk on Miley
Your artlessness
Makes art stronger by the day
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
once again we falter and return to our apocalypse
with our Bauhaus bread and lipid pools of dread
and we swallow the ink of the night sky, howling
discreetly with our mute trumpets in the flower bed.
but if you love me... how can it be too late ?
our sundial is the moon
but how can we ever forget there.
on time ?
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
If you need a place to pick your nose,
Eat contraband &/or beat your meat,
God bless the child that's got his own,
That's got his own bedroom,
His personal Reichstag bunker,
His private Junker Bauhaus,
If you get my drift?
If you don’t, “Get Bent!”
I am not here to entertain you.
So I am coming in from garden hosing--
Not lederhosen, you Aryan punks!--&
I'm on my rear patio thinking to myself
I couldn’t get any higher,
Even with Jackie singing:
Search Results Jackie Wilson - (Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher And Higher (Best ... Aug 11, 2011 - Uploaded by jakebucknall 123 Jackie Wilson - (Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher And Higher (Best Quality). The Staple Singers -I https://www.youtube.com/watchv=mzDVaKRApcg.
But I digress.
A spot of hose magic,
Watching my garden grow.
Keeping things moist & fertile,
Leonard Cohen (RIP) on the airwaves,
A fat blunt betwixt my lips,
"Curling up like smoke above my shoulder."
“Don’t get me started,” I said,
Paying tribute to beloved Joan Rivers (RIP)
Lost so senselessly, so humorlessly,
To some whack-job-wonder boy,
Who just happened to score perfect 800s
On his high school SAT exams, &
Later worming his way into Med School,
Which rather begs the obvious question:
Those 11-year old Frankensteins,
Why did their Bubbes give them a
Chemistry sets for Chanukah?
Later earning state Medical licenses,
Licenses to practice,
Licenses to **** & just say
“OOPS, I did it again!”
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
From Bauhaus to Beiderbecke
records
on the record deck,
art hangs off the walls.
I stood with Baron Munchausen
in the secret garden and
watched pixies while at play.
It was my wish to meet
Miss Gish
alas it was not to be so
Hollywoodland
was far to grand
for a famers boy and his ***
Different strokes like sturdy spokes
keep the wheels going round
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 11:44 AM UTC
If you need a place to pick your nose,
Eat contraband &/or beat your meat,
How blessed thou art with
Your own bedroom, Adolescent;
Your personal Reichstag Bunker,
Your private Junker Bauhaus, if
You get my drift?
If you don’t, **** YOU!”*
I am not here to entertain you.
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 11:04 PM UTC