"belgian" poems
I am from Canada
drinking Guatemalan
coffee in a Belgian
cafe established by
Americans.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 4:06 PM UTC
Two fine films: The Lost City and Blood Diamond.
I joined Blood Diamond during a village massacre
and said to my wife A gun in every home.
Those devils would think twice
before razing the village and seizing the boys.
A well-regulated militia.
The local militia the most interesting moment
in a strong film with motive (economic, emotional), action (chases,
fights) and a **** sexless love story.
Use of violence by the local militia for a limited purpose: protect the
community, the young
from the janjaweed. The crop from the ****
Limited scope and defensive posture
but armed and coordinated, cooperative, the men (and the women)
side by side.
Warriors at the gate, you will not run, you will not bargain.
Just violence = limited scope, defensive posture.
Great music. Cuba, Africa.
The Lost City, when the communists tell the club owner under threat
of violence
No saxophones in the band. The saxophone!
Invented by a Belgian--Look what the Belgians are doing in the
Congo!
When the state's violence is turned against the citizenry
for non-violent acts.
This quiet neighborhood, July,
undergirded by violence, force. That's a given--
any farmer, custodian, EMT will tell you that.
Without just violence
Gandhi's scope, and King's, might be vanishingly limited,
negligible (but not non-existent)?
Regarding King
the matter is simple -- he was non-violent but dependent upon
federal force to counter the South's violence.
No doubt without the larger force, the non-violent would be
overwhelmed by southern violence.
Here, non-violence was a tactic, not an ethic.
Gandhi, however, had no violent partner to protect him from the
British. Or did he?
1. There was the potential violence of the population, which Gandhi
restrained but could release which the British feared, and
2. It was the restrained (limited scope) violence of the British that
allowed Gandhi to exist rather than be extinguished--this restraint
was a (British) cultural imperative (limited scope) as well as
emanating from Britain's view of India as a protectorate and
valued citizen of the United Kingdom (defensive posture).
What about violence or threat of violence to compel compliance with
community
as in mortgage foreclosure, driving without license, drug possession.
Perhaps it is necessary violence to maintain orderly commerce, the
common space, and preempt bad behaviors associated with
otherwise neutral, private acts.
The defensive posture is the common good; the limited scope is
forgoing deadly force.
But the citizen, too, must maintain a disciplined, armed non-violence,
in case the state (the janjaweed) engages in an unjust, autoimmune
violence.
Hence, a gun in every home.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC
Third weekend in July
I love canoeing out on Northwood
Lake, early morning hours melting
into the pines, as I head toward the
island where the wild blueberries
lie. Tiny morsels, abundant and packed with
the taste of summer and beepollen and freshwater
and snow. Minnows nibble my toes, each one
a solid worm for the biting, as I slowly
fill a one-gallon jug, berry by berry,
to use for breakfast pancakes and
Belgian waffles cooked golden from
the waffle iron. Some of the ripest
berries plop into the lake. I swipe
them up before bass or sunfish
see them; always leaving the
green berries behind.
Pausing to taste some, they
split between my incisors;
I marvel at the flavor
while a loon’s haunted red
eyes stare at nothing.
Blueberries split like
relationships
occasionally do,
sour at times, always
leaving a taste on your
palate. Families, young
lovers picnicking on the
beach lake, confused couples;
they branch off, moonlight
silhouetting their outlines;
silent elegy softly blossoming
downward as their paths skew.
They won’t cross again.
My jug filled, I oar
back to the dock,
ears filled with
humming of birds,
insects, boats;
brimming with
the bream from berries
splitting apart,
and the intense
silence of blueberry
picking in late July.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
I want to live in Europe.
I want to run in the Bavarian Forest.
I want to be left in the English rain.
I want to feel the Russian Frost.
I want to skate in the Alps.
I want to feel the French Luxury.
I want to taste the Belgian Chocolates.
I want to sleep in the European Palaces.
I want to feel the Papacy Monastic.
I want to feel the taste of French Cheese and Scottish Whiskey.
I want to hear the Italian Piano.
I want to read English Poetry.
I want to hear the Spanish legends and don't forget the olive there !
I want to feel the magnificence of the Parisian Events.
I want to swim in the Danube River.
I want to be inspired by the fascinating paintings.
I want to be amazed by the beauty of the churches there.
I want to read about the greatness of the European History from there.
I want to search in The Vatican Stores and Warehouses for answers I was looking for.
I want to dream about reading the books that have been hidden in the Invisible Palace of Books in Berlin.
I want to walk among the shelves of The National Library in London.
I want to go shopping in the streets of Paris and Milan.
I just want to be European,
I want to live in Europe.
- Shilo
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
We are a global society
When we want oranges in the fruit bowl,
When we want out of our rut
Just long enough
To brown in a patch of Spanish sun.
We are a global society
When the Japanese car breaks down
And we are in need of a cheap fix
To keep food on the table,
Some Latvian mechanic
Who helps us find our way home.
We are our own nation,
An island nation,
When the zeroes run low
And there are spaces,
Foreign faces,
To which we can point
And blame.
We are a global society
With our sweat-shop chic,
American coffee chains
Selling Colombian ground beans,
Frappuccinos in plastic cups-
Made in China
And served by a Romanian barista
In Italian heels.
We are a global society
When the demand is high
And the payment is low.
We are our own nation,
An island nation,
When hands reach out for help
And our pockets are too shallow,
Our time, too brief
To commit to a unity
We feel is dragging us down.
We are a global society
When the football is on,
When the lager is Belgian
And the supermodel, Greek.
When we cradle that bag of Cheetos
After smoking too much ****
We are a global society
When oppression is overt,
Caricatured in bulletin posters,
Threatening to land
Upon our own front door.
We are our own nation,
An island nation,
When poverty seems contagious,
When we have to clean up
Someone else’s mess,
Still we scar the Middle East
Only half-interested in an exit.
We are a global society
When we get sick,
When we borrow another doctor
For our ailing NHS.
When cities of white people burn,
We are a global society,
When Africa is divided,
We are nowhere to be seen.
Prime mover of the commonwealth
Yet we fall beneath the breadline
And living easy is so rare.
We are our own nation,
An island nation,
Under the false flag
Of a golden age
We were conned to believe in.
Our nation, our island nation,
Lost amongst a sea of misinformation.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
THE SAXOPHONE STORY
BY RAJ NANDY
The Saxophone is perhaps the most expressive
instrument next to the human voice.
Was made by Adolphe Sax, a Belgian, through
a deliberate choice!
He wanted to offset the tonal disparity, -
Between the string, wind, and brass instruments,
with musical clarity !
He felt that the strings ones were overpowered
by the wind instruments.
While the wind instruments got overblown by
the brass ones instead !
Now what would happen if the best qualities
of these three instruments types,
Could in a fusion blend and coalesces into a single
instrument type ?
So finally at the age of 20 years, in March Eighteen
Hundred and Thirty Four,
Adolphe Sax created a magical instrument for the
World to hear and adore!
It had the power of the brass, the flexibility of the
strings, and the woodwind’s variety and tone;
Which got christened after Adolphe Sax as the
SAXOPHONE !
Adolphe’s famous composer friend Hector Berlioz
in Paris City,
Gave this new instrument wide publicity!
In 1844 the Sax was presented in the Industrial
Exhibition at Paris;
And subsequently got patented on 20 March 1846.
It soon got adopted by the Bands of the French Army.
Making other instrument makers to become green
with envy!
The Sax was 80 years old when it became part of the
musical instruments of the Jazz Band.
A small bore mouth piece was created to suite the
varying tonal qualities required by Jazz.
Initially, 14 different sizes of Sax was created by
Adolphe.
Today only five types are in use for us to hear and
see;
The Soprano, Alto, Tenor, Bass and the Baritone
Saxophone.
They now form a part of our Jazz music's backbone!
- By Raj Nandy
FOOT NOTES :
Adolphe Sax (1814-1894) , son of famous musical instrument maker
Charles Joseph Sax of Belgium. Woodwind Instruments = Flute, Clarinet, Bassoon etc. Brass Instruments = Trumpet, Tuba, Cornet etc. String Instruments = Violin, Guitar, Harp, Banjo etc. The Saxophone today has become the very backbone of Jazz Music!
** ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY: - RAJ NANDY **
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 11:06 AM UTC
/ as i am pretty sure all americana
feels about "us":
oh 'ook, 'ere comes old man
europe,
no hemmingway,
and no so: as the casual english
expression solidifies exchanges:
just across the atlantic:
the, pond...
haven't the foggiest...
i'm "new" here,
and even i find these english prims
& pomps and idiosyncracies
a bit debilitating...
today i walked from my home
with a knife in my pocket...
why... why?!
apparently it's worse
than new york,
a belt as a qusimodo boxing
glove won't cut it,
given that that:
requires a formal introduction,
prior to a fight...
guns guns guns...
over 'ere we 'ave knives knives knives...
and politicians can't exactly
ban them... no, not really...
ban knives, soon you'll be banning
forks, then spoons...
and then...
the whole ******* kitchen...
we'll all be eating out,
in public, cheap cheap cheap,
cheap restaurants
like the slovakians eat in...
can you even imagine that while
in st. petersburg i didn't see,
not one mcdonalds...
same so in moscow:
not a single mcdonalds...
it was like a: relief...
a bit like only seeing africanos
only, but not elsewhere other than warsaw;
erm: afro-saxons?
sure! we have them in england,
plenty of afro-saxons...
so now afro(x)
is not pop-up frizzy hair,
bundled into a french bun...
type of... "thing"?
**** yeah!
hit the spot!
oh old man europe...
tired and yet, and yet tired
of his riches,
how craving the old trenches
of Ypres...
the belgian mud, the rain,
the rats and crows...
europe: lament over libya...
or even pseudo-neo-rome
lamenting over carthage being destroyed...
in reverse -
abbrv. into - orior carthago!
was it cato the elder
who persisted counter to this?
as heidegger would have put it:
that's not even question-worthy.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 7:26 PM UTC
today i will look for
chocolate and flowers
and find a pound of
belgian dark in my
pantry, and wilted
tulips on the counter.
i will hand write a
poem because it's
just so much better
on paper, and i will
serenade my darling
with bright eyes
on a scholastic field
after the last bell rings,
for at last i can stop
musing on possibilities
and begin to dwell
on solidity.
today i will bring you
a rose, for the petals
and lines and worn
down world-weary
ravines contained
in you; i will bring
you sweet darkness
in a plastic wrapping
for all the sugar laced
in with your hair and
irises, and despite your
fire and your heritage,
i will leave out the heat
of sacred mayan ritual
peppers because together
we'll be warm enough.
finally, i will lean
down close to you and
whisper what i have
not whispered for a
million seconds or more,
because i just haven't
had the opportunity:
Ya llegué, mi querida.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
One of the famous "Barry Hodges Memories" sequence
People think that Waterloo is a fascinating battlefield,
Relatively near to Brussels (where the sprouts come from
and, which are, as you know, a great cause of **** fart-gas).
But believe me there is more to it than that:
As I was wandering around checking out the graves
And generally having quite a nice time when...
A load of drug-crazed German bikers appeared
Sky-high on excess intake of moules avec pommes frites
And several gallons of extra-strong Belgian beer.
And they leaped on us and bashed the living ****
Out of my poor 99 year old mother-in-law, Deidre,
And left her lying there spasticated on the battlefield.
And for what, a few lousy packets of French cigarettes;
And I needed a metal scoop to rescue her remains to take home;
Dear God, I shall skip any more 19th century champs de guerre.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 7:47 AM UTC
Turn the tables
tumble through tears
totalitarian thespians trying tired themes
Tanned tenants thrive
trespassing turtles turn towards tornadoes
Tested trees tower tall
tomorrow terrifies Timetraveller Tom.
Again and again
I have to make my choice
between your fiery face and the endless maze
But then I remember
my heart is made up of
a thousand tiny
Belgian Waffles
A thousand tiny Belgian Waffles.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 11:06 AM UTC
The recipe for chocolate dipped strawberries
fresh ripen strawberries red and plump
given by the sugar plum ferries
Belgian chocolate wrapped in a 1/2lb bag
carefully selected picked by hand
just for you was written on the little tag
Place a pan over the heat on a low setting
wash the berries but be gentle and soft
to perfection of confection you are heading
Take the chocolate pieces one at a time
place them in the pan to slowly melt
be patient everything is just fine
Stir the chocolate in a very slow pace
careful now don't let it burn
this isn't a cook off or a race
When the chocolate is melted remove from heat
next you dip the strawberries till its covered
then place your berries on cookie sheet
Place berries in a cool place so it don't melt
freeze the rest of what you didn't use
I believe a little bit of bliss you felt
When you and your man are cozy in bed
have your confection ready to be served
give one to him so you can be fed
I'm sure he will ask where did learn this
all you have to say from a recipe
then you give him a passionate kiss
Nov 17, 2009
Nov 17, 2009 at 8:25 AM UTC
Thin and sober, like
evening air,
Le Freak brings its
benign curiosity
To her lips, some
Belgian monk
At a waffle press;
a meteor explodes
In the sky. A sent-
ient gas hovers
Cautiously, then ex-
plores the dim
Recess of my lungs.
Or it glows green,
Then vanishes. It’s
an aggressive brew.
And God bless Amer-
ica for its hop.
That’s something I
haven’t heard in a
While. It latches on
and holds its breath
Like it holds its
head. White and
Swollen, like you’d
expect.
It trippels on its
laces, and then I
Said: “My twos are
unshied” and I
Meant it. I grabbed
the bottle instead
Of the glass. Looks
like it only takes
Me two to get un-
shied these days.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC
the sky over i-95 is violet, the color of the deepest bruise
like the one you actually remember getting, that eclipsed
all the little gray-green ones from
tripping over belgian blocks, and mismeasuring the distance
to the doorframe.
the sky over i-95 cannot hold water very long
and soon it doesn’t.
you look out the new-car window
silent windshield wipers and you remember
the other times it’s rained on your occasion
(with stinging peroxide sometimes, and
sometimes gasoline, when you had a match
in the glovebox,
but mostly water).
you never stopped liking the way the big trees swayed
in the not-quite-hurricane
or the deafening of the drops on the car’s aluminum backbone.
you used to trust they’d never fall, they’d never flood
the crashes you passed rubbernecking were never fatal
traffic would always clear
you’d never be late.
as you watch the oversized leaves support the waterweight today
you think how every bit of that is gone from you now
siphoned slowly and quietly but
unmistakably gone from you now
you think in matter-of-fact sentences because you are a grown-up:
“I do not trust the trees. I do not trust the raindrops.”
quieter you think
“I do not trust the future. I do not trust an empty building.
I do not trust the movie theater. I do not trust the ocean,
or the river. I do not trust water
when I can’t see the bottom.”
you get a little philosophical as you get hungry and the exit numbers get high
“I do not trust the highway. I do not trust me. I do not trust the curtains
to keep me safe when I sleep, and I do not trust waking to bring me morning.”
you think in matter-of-fact sentences because you are a grown-up,
but also because that’s how the thoughts come.
there’s something that you do trust
that’s enough to warm you as this unseasonable may
comes to a close.
you never stopped liking the way the big trees swayed
and you think how they might fall
but they haven’t yet.
you think how it’s kind of okay not to trust them:
you trust something else.
(pain is lucrative.
so is smiling.)
a female cardinal perches outside the window of
the room, just as you arrive to leave again
and you think how she's just as pretty as the
candy-apple-red male, though she's dark against the tree trunk
and when you’re back to celebrate the years since leaving
you might even trust that tree trunk
and the girlcardinal you have to squint to see
you might also trust morning, then,
and night.
meantime, the sky lightens:
sundrops while the rain comes loudly still.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 5:29 PM UTC
give me five minutes i said and
the glass, notempty, stared back
americans at the bar
refused to be quiet
as the poem forced itself through the belgian air
brussels they said is where
it all comes together - the barmaid, watching me silently, agrees
difficult not to see that 0-0 result as a judgment, a prediction an omen
no score?
i'd hoped for more
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 8:43 AM UTC
After multiculturalism struck this
week, Vervoort said, “I would like to express
my support to the victims
of the attacks of this morning …”
Twitter bristled
with supportive hashtags,
the Belgian flag and professions
of solidarity. The Times editorialized:
“Brussels, Europe, the world must brace
for a long struggle against this form
of terrorism.”
All this would be perfectly normal if
we were talking about an earthquake or some other
natural disaster — something humans have
no capacity to prevent. But Muslims
pouring into our countries and committing mass
****** isn’t natural at all. It’s the direct result
of government policy.
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
Your back against the hardwood floorthrustingharderthanbefore--
it's our scent that is now rising,
every inhale energizing
giving Life to our tantalizing dance of ancient lore
GraspSoothScratch
Your challenge is my match--
Walls of fear, fade, crumble then disapp
GropeSqueezeHold
Let me break your mold
GrabPullKiss
The taste of Belgian beer still lingers on your lips;
a hint of you on my finger's tip
enough to savor in your flavor,
not in gulp but in sips
SuckSlipLick
Moans with every flick--
✦❉◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡✦❉
✦❉◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡✦❉
✦❉◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡✦❉
✦❉◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡✦❉
✦❉◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡✦❉
All my senses lose their tenses,
past and future have no fences
gone now all of our pretenses
5 connectors
5 receptors
1 pathway
to the nectar of your essence.
Aug 11, 2010
Aug 11, 2010 at 12:24 PM UTC
and now you're singing karaoke... so ha ha and Kyoto.
and this is the part where i tell you i love you?
it sounds like it's the part where i **** your dog off
and laugh; or maybe that's the part where
i say i'm scooch-peppery-ish!
tangy! mm hmm!
solid gold worth's an advert! aha,
Elvis just rolled up his sleeves!
while Shoon can-can the worthy,
sire nigh nigh the knighted made
speeches at a royal funeral that made 20 kings
abdicate, we all thought of Monaco
and Senna... lipstick Helsinki...
crisscross Albania and: Waterloo...
when Napoleon sniffed glue... oh Waterloo!
i too built Stockholm in a day, based on
the pop culture of Europe casually so.
but indeed Sean, the flowery basin of all
that's Essex, Sussex and Kent,
i.e. Scottish, show... i'm ashoored it'sh
Shcandinavian cartoon or at least halfwit Belgian
with the moustache, dumb-flicked Hercules Poirot...
authored by a nagging Agatha Christensen.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 11:34 PM UTC
Four hundred thousand soldiers slain, were drowned within unholy mud.
Corpses of the now redundant gave their best and got their worst.
Men in boots in July seen.
Images none desire upon the front of magazines.
Their guns were emptied, their lives were spent.
Lived for the moment, only lent.
Brave men all of them young,loyal and true.
Another Belgian battlefield echoed with the failing death.
So sad, boys, nearly men caught their last breath.
Bless the battlefield upon which they fell,relieved of sounds of gunfire, as they left the war raged hell.
Bravery from all sides shown,by young in spirit, never grown.
Guessing with death came freedom, unpleasant release.
(C)LIVVI
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 2:25 PM UTC
Lunch!
Diminutive organic beasties.
The beings not of humankind.
They love them or they hate them.
You can never over rate them.
Not really Belgian.
But make some Flemish (phlegmish).
Rather sick.
Those sprouts from Brussels.
I say yummy.
The swede is not from Sweden but yo ** **
I love it so.
Turnips, so very lush as long as not boiled to mush.
Roasted is much better.
With butter and pepper.
Forget the meat.
Forget the spuds.
Bring me in a platter of veg.
With piping hot gravy.
Maybe I'm so cheap to feed.
Because I need no meat.
Not a vegetarian.
Just love veggies for my tea.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
Some gamblers rented and cyclists' cyclists are not Maria,
Maria, Maria, and the massive student body of Cyclists,
Other Associated Deacons Trainer Trainer Sensors;
I'm looking forward to food
and feeling a sense of when to read the robot's book from page 1 -
the top place at this hall meeting Sunday
at the National Council of Judicial Religion -
a classic user education free of cognac
in my head, gloves white eyeglasses.
Radio station to take care of a cigarette freedom
with a rich wealthy publisher of fan fiction,
Maria, put her in bed. According to John the strippers
are awaiting food and dance, dance,
Moses and Elijah using Revolution has changed
and now two new trees grow out of the shadows
recollection of the problems of reducing
the nightclubbing of the bride, What John said of the Trinity Wave,
that waves swells in winter weather.
The various aspects of life in school
for the dance dance to find a good ending
and highlight your work in the sand
are free free of non-oh-fluctuous roads to heaven in jail,
rays of fire from the sky on the ceiling,
all the bed dwellers sitting on the rungs of a ladder
1 as high as the sun. John was pushed
by the knowledge onto the role of shades
robot strippers get Wall Street Law,
Mary's strippers are on the hill for the rich.
According to John Rose, it's not enough Memory
Technology 1, Paul's first Belgian wave radio,
high wave in parts; Puppetry for life
in the fight, the clinic entered into a long bone
and cigarette between the springs of water; RSS
and the mass of members who have been trained
to offer the Strippers Cyclists another translation,
radio station freedom to take care of smoking
in the wealthy rumors of journalist story,
Maria naked in her bed. The various types of schools
have a very good dance program, and highlighting
the work with the sand can be free
and non-oh-fluctuous way from the sky in the radio
station on fire from the roof on the dog is all at Sleep 1,
Sleeps in the sun as long as you see it.
John's required knowledge came into the robot hands of the strippers
knowing that Wall Street's Gestalt is part of Maria's hill strippers
for the rich. According to John Rose, it's not enough memory,
technology 1, the first Belgian wave radio's
high wave reaches parts of St. Paul;
There is no war entered into by smoking,
and the rays within Puppetry are the Waters of Life.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 11:57 PM UTC
I realized what I felt for you while I ate my breakfast this morning.
I cut into the Belgian waffle and while the syrup poured out, it hit me.
The way you laugh and that little Southern drawl you have.
The way you make me say that I'm special, though I'd rather believe I'm not.
The way you want to cuddle and I want to do something more.
The way you don't want to hurt me when you leave, and I assured you that you couldn't.
I brought the fork to my mouth, and chewed the waffle.
I shouldn't have assured you anything, because this breakfast made me realize you can.
You can hurt me when you leave, and you will.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
This is your life as a performance.
Light on.
It’s the horseshoe necklace tickling your neck.
And rhythm in between steps.
Like tomorrow could die if we sidestep the question mark.
You say “hold your breath.”
“What about your future?”
You say, “ That’s irresponsible. Sit in a giant box covered with lies.”
“Shut up play thing. I need to work. You need to work.”
Full of something else-
We are all full of something else.
Bones.
Blood.
Grandma’s Belgian waffles
Freak show?
“I’m stuck.” Jack screamed but the child
Shut down the headphones.
Inside the circus.
Wait until he’s let you out!
Poor Jack.
Here it comes.
Wind up the velocity.
Elongate your stride.
Jibber my jabber.
Here comes Jack.
And she baked cookies with your initials on top
Your name happens to be “Untitled”
So there’s a giant question mark.
Full of dough and sugar.
It tasted like Jack’s defecation.
Delicious is mutilation.
The East cries at night for the attention of vapor.
See the beautiful sunset bleeding into itself.
See the orange sky because
Of cans soot and damage.
The sunset smacks the horizon.
See the orange sky because they wouldn’t call you back-
Chained to a tree out west.
The transition will arrive.
Like an annoying child sitting between our see saw
We won’t go anywhere.
Until they leave and
SMACK.
I’ve made it ‘round the curve.
But I threw up a little syrup.
“Shoot for the dot.” And SMACK me harder.
And SMACK the shoes.
And SMACK those beating bleeding blood bags.
But don’t smack your gum.
Wrap yourself in pearls but put your ***** feet into heels.
Give me something that’s dreadfully whimsical.
Jack has made it out alive.
With a smile.
But the little boy hears his cry.
Grasping for life-
Shut tight.
Light off.
Mar 15, 2010
Mar 15, 2010 at 9:16 AM UTC
I made you a crown of dried chicken feet,
it goes with your snake eyes,
like how dice stare back, irisless.
I bet fifty clams on Steady As She Goes,
I dug them up in Maine for chowder.
Well, my Friday dinner just walked away.
I put your hand in the waffle iron and closed it shut.
That's for trying to make a better pancake, good suggestion,
pretentious Belgian *******
Next time I'll just stub my cigarette out your sweet Sunday brunch,
you'll eat the ashes out of the little cubes that are so fluffy and crisp.
Cleaning up a broken pillow after a pillowfight,
that's rough stuff.
**** feathers, it's a cotton from now on.
Let's practice making out.
Gross, I don't like girls, I was kidding. Get the **** off me.
They snuck syrup and chemicals into all your drinks,
but don't worry, I removed it.
You spit it out and say GROSS WHAT IS THIS THIS HAS GONE BAD
fine. keep ******* down on those chemicals cancer kid.
May 17, 2011
May 17, 2011 at 5:32 PM UTC
In between shear white and jet-black
with a strong dollop of indigo blue,
lies the pale uncertainty of grayness
the most God-awful hue.
Grayness frustrates the senses.
Grayness stipulates malaise.
A shroud of indecision
arrests the imagination;
chained in wisps of doubt.
The definition of things
routed in a solitary
palette of insincerity.
Grayness negates options.
Grayness obscures landscapes.
Objects disappear
into walls of foggy smiles,
whispering repetitive monotones
of monotonous monologues
in incomprehensible language.
The mind is muted in a pall of haze.
Endless colorlessness of the days.
Days upon days of arctic blight.
Midwinter's endless drama.
White dust
sprinkled on the brain,
layering coats
of a suffocating
ashen pallor.
Dimming the wit,
Quelling the spirit.
Thoughts of light are captured
then lost
in craggy crevasses
of a dull blackened cranium.
Light can't touch the eye
Plaque builds in a hearts ventricle
Warmth escapes the body
and evaporates through
the magic of convection.
A vision remains;
barely an apparition
of a distant
dissipating ghost.
Belgian Café
Hudson St.
NYC
1/29/99
Music Selection:
Roslavets, Three Etudes
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 9:52 AM UTC
and no I'm really not cold you can have my sweater
(I have a higher tolerance and enjoy cooler weather)
and yes I am really paying for lunch put your wallet away
(I don't pay rent)
and yes I legitimately am interested in how your week has been
(Mine ****** most likely)
and no, I'm not jealous that you think some super famous actor is hot
(but **** that guy with a rusty screwdriver)
and no, I'm not hooking up with a bunch of random chicks and eyeing everything in a short skirt
(I'm not bound to a gender stereotype and have control of my instincts)
and yes you do legitimately look good in that dress
(I'm not saying it just because)
and yes I do enjoy having you around alot more than I let on
(I'm not a very expressive person so what)
and yes I do like you more than just a friend
(In case it wasn't already obvious)
and yes maybe I do just want to walk through a park, and hold hands or some ******** and talk about "whatever"
(even though i am easily embarrassed)
and no I'm not hungry
(Those were butterflies)
and no we don't have alot of interests in common
(except humor, and each other's company- I hope.)
I can tell you alot of things
for example
I know what the fear of long words is
I can tell you where the best Belgian place in Manhattan is
I can never say where my heart is
But don't ask me about myself
I can't ever answer that question right
I just let my actions speak and hope they don't get lost in translation
and-
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 11:40 PM UTC