"bizarro" poems
So, long ago
we had the Renaissance Period,
and then there was
the Baroque Period,
and then there was
the Classical Period,
and then there was
the Romantic Period,
and then we got to
the Twentieth Century,
and we called it modern
and we called it contemporary
but we can't use
those words anymore,
so I say
we call it
the Weird-Ass Period,
where every artist,
musician, playwright,
composer, poet,
and so on,
were doing weird-shit.
I love this period.
So, in the sixties or so
we had the killing
of music
by John Cage
in his silent piece,
and the death
of painting
in the blank canvas,
and there must have been
a blank piece of paper
that was a poem,
and then
we had the rebirth
of art
in the work
of the minimalists,
and of course,
don't forget
the conceptual artist
who had himself shot,
so now,
we are well into
the Twenty-First Century,
so it must be
the Post Weird-Ass Period,
but maybe
we should call it
the Bizarro Period,
or something like that.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 4:55 AM UTC
Para el asombro de las greyes planas
suelo zurcir abstrusas cantilenas.
Para la injuria del coplero ganso
torno mis brumas cada vez más densas.
Para el mohín de los leyente docto
marco mis versos de bizarro rictus,
(leyente docto: abléptico pedante)
tizno mis versos de macabros untos.
Para mí... no hago nada, nada, nada,
A qué contar a la olvidosa gente
si el amor en mi pecho llora o canta?
(a la olvidosa gente, es a saber:
al aire, al viento, al sol, al río, al mar...)
o a qué decir si el alma poesía,
-gruña así o grazne la trivial raleaa
qué decir si el alma poesía
huésped es de mi torre o de mi rúa?
Y que (como Villon el su tabardo,
su buitre prometeiico Atlas el Sordo,
como Nerón la púrpura, y la toga
César el Calvo, y ponzoñosa daga
el Valentino de mirar buido,
y, de la Tour de Nesle precipitado,
el saco Buridán, oh Margarita!)
yo porto, a más del tirso y la careta,
yo porto, en mí, la sombra del fastidio,
signo fatal, exilio sin remedio?
(como Nerón la púrpura, o la toga
César el Calvo, o la siniestra daga
el Valentino César, cuando arruga
su ceño ante las turbas enemigas!)
Un ignorado ritmo, dócil, terso,
donde el absurdo corazón esparzo,
¡eso será la impertinente estrofa
en que de todo mi desdén se befa,
y más de mí!: desdén, sobrio estilete
y el más seguro amigo en el combate
contra la tribu inulta! ¡Oh Muchedumbre!:
qué vales tú, si topas con el Hombre?
(y el Hombre, dí, si topa con el Hambre?
y Muchedumbre y Hombre con la Hembra?).
Para mí no hago nada, nada, nada,
¡sino soñar, sólo vivir la vida!
Para mí no hago nada... ¿acaso humo
cuando en la pipa blondo aroma quemo,
-si en el magín devano las ideas
humo también, color de fantasía...-?
Para mí no hago nada, nada, sólo
soñar, vivir la vida a contrapelo.
Sin un sueño de Amor más que divino
-por tener de ideal y ser humano que
da objeto y razón a mi durar...
sin ése Amor, mejor fuérame ser
una Sombra en la Sombra: quieto Buda
dormitando en la Muerte o en la Vida.
Para el asombro de las greyes planas
suelo zurcir abstrusas cantilenas.
Para ofender la mesocracia ambiente
mi risa hago sonar de monte a monte;
tizno mis versos de bizarro rictus
para el mohín de lo leyente docto;
para divertimento de mí mismo
trovas pergeño: absurdos y sarcasmos!
Y busco algo de ensueño y de aventura
dentro la noche...! y doy la vida entera
por el Amor, oh tú, sola Mujer!
mientras viene el morir!
1.2k
your eyes
it tells a beautiful story
it is incomparable to many eyes
I have met before
the most peculiar eyes
I have ever seen
Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 11:11 PM UTC
I carry around a Phillips head
To tighten up any loose screws
An empty bag I keep in my hand
To collect all the marbles I lose
The elevator that I am riding in
Doesn't stop at all the floors
Happy with insanity
Who out there could ask for more
The toys that are in my attic
When they come out to play
Take my hand as we skip through Bizarro land
On any given day
Card games are entertaining
But they are always over so fast
When what I'm holding in my hand
Is not quite a full deck
Being four quarters short of a dollar
I will never strike it rich
Nor live in the nicest of places
Having a load that's short a few bricks
So if you come a knocking
And find nobody at home
I'm out on the streets of crazy
But believe me I'm never alone
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 7:43 AM UTC
¡Desgraciado Almirante! Tu pobre América,
tu india virgen y hermosa de sangre cálida,
la perla de tus sueños, es una histérica
de convulsivos nervios y frente pálida.
Un desastroso espirítu posee tu tierra:
donde la tribu unida blandió sus mazas,
hoy se enciende entre hermanos perpetua guerra,
se hieren y destrozan las mismas razas.
Al ídolo de piedra reemplaza ahora
el ídolo de carne que se entroniza,
y cada día alumbra la blanca aurora
en los campos fraternos sangre y ceniza.
Desdeñando a los reyes nos dimos leyes
al son de los cañones y los clarines,
y hoy al favor siniestro de negros reyes
fraternizan los Judas con los Caínes.
Bebiendo la esparcida savia francesa
con nuestra boca indígena semiespañola,
día a día cantamos la Marsellesa
para acabar danzando la Carmañola.
Las ambiciones pérfidas no tienen diques,
soñadas libertades yacen deshechas.
¡Eso no hicieron nunca nuestros caciques,
a quienes las montañas daban las flechas!
Ellos eran soberbios, leales y francos,
ceñidas las cabezas de raras plumas;
¡ojalá hubieran sido los hombres blancos
como los Atahualpas y Moctezumas!
Cuando en vientres de América cayó semilla
de la raza de hierro que fue de España,
mezcló su fuerza heroica la gran Castilla
con la fuerza del indio de la montaña.
¡Pluguiera a Dios las aguas antes intactas
no reflejaran nunca las blancas velas;
ni vieran las estrellas estupefactas
arribar a la orilla tus carabelas!
Libre como las águilas, vieran los montes
pasar los aborígenes por los boscajes,
persiguiendo los pumas y los bisontes
con el dardo certero de sus carcajes.
Que más valiera el jefe rudo y bizarro
que el soldado que en fango sus glorias finca,
que ha hecho gemir al zipa bajo su carro
o temblar las heladas momias del Inca.
La cruz que nos llevaste padece mengua;
y tras encanalladas revoluciones,
la canalla escritora mancha la lengua
que escribieron Cervantes y Calderones.
Cristo va por las calles flaco y enclenque,
Barrabás tiene esclavos y charreteras,
y en las tierras de Chibcha, Cuzco y Palenque
han visto engalonadas a las panteras.
Duelos, espantos, guerras, fiebre constante
en nuestra senda ha puesto la suerte triste:
¡Cristóforo Colombo, pobre Almirante,
ruega a Dios por el mundo que descubriste!
1.1k
Tell me all the horrible
things you think but
never say.
Tell me why I can't be loved,
why I am as lonely as a
desert, why I
deserve to be.
Tell me that I'm the reason
my parents divorced, dad left,
mom shut down, sister
shut me out.
Tell me why 22 years
of running in place,
contrary to popular belief,
is not good
for the heart.
Tell me about all the moments
you really saw me, saw me sneeze,
saw my flaws, my hips, my rolls and
you ignored them, kindly, holding
onto the illusion of me.
Tell me that you
never wanted to **** me,
you just felt bad for me, a sympathy
**** with extra tongue
to boost
my self-esteem.
Tell me you don't love
me while you're still inside of me,
the moment in between our
first kiss and last.
Tell me we should just
be friends even though
we never, ever were.
Tell me to chill, relax,
be buds, tell me not
to disappear again.
Please, don't let me
disappear
again.
Four years ago I left in attempt
to get on with my life, in hopes it would
appear to the other human beings
that I had gotten on with my life, out of
fear that you'd discover that I
never really could
get on with my life.
Tell me, in an alternate universe,
we would be perfect together,
a bizarro dream-land with a beach
and a hammock on which we could waste
away the beautiful
imaginary
day.
Tell me you don't want me
to die anymore
in my sleep.
Tell me that life, although
meaningless, is still
worth living.
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
Everything he says
Comes out backward.
Nothing about him
Is really straightforward.
It’s like he came here
From Bizarro World.
Both of the forks
Of his tongue are curled.
He makes our lives
Like a lower rank of hell.
You won’t want to buy
A single thing he sells.
You can figure out
This reptilian guy
Just expect everything
He says to be a lie.
If he says it’s a nice day
Run for your umbrella.
At all possible costs
You should avoid this fella.
And if you know someone
Who tells you he is nice
Run as fast as you can
From them, take my advice.
He has never been honest
He has never even tried.
You’ll quickly lose count
Of the times he has lied.
If you think for a second
That he cares about you
Believe me when I say
It just cannot be true.
Because the only person
This guy loves is himself
And he doesn’t give a ****
About anybody else.
Not his family, nor his wife
Please be a believer.
In truth, he doesn’t really
Love himself either.
His whole world is backward,
What he hates describes him.
He tells about how he is
So handsome and slim.
But actually he’s a tub of lard
And socially quite awkward.
But he doesn’t realize it.
He is, after all, himself:
Mister Backward.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 10:53 PM UTC
I don't have any photos of when I was young
because they look like Chronos holding a gun
I just need slow-mo or time totally undone
or maybe I just need to hold onto someone
because I can't hold on to the before
after bombing all my bridges with C4
so now I walk on the sea floor
wishing I could see more
but all I see is myself as an aquatic gorilla
after spending too much time with Poseidon
precariously between Charybdis and Scylla
as pictures make me look more like Joe Biden
while I feel like I'm the one with the trident
but I'm just Janus' migrant
and that guy is a tyrant
because no matter which way he's facing
he can always find someone to replace me.
So I don't ever take pictures
because they give time a fixture
from which to taunt me like a trickster
showing me the different colors in the mixture
like a lowkey Loki
giving me the okie-dokie
luring me into moseying moping
leisurely leading to rope-a-doping
a mirror-morphed bizarro-me dope fiend
wanting to stay in a Kumbhakarna dope dream.
Time is a sausage link
clogging the gothic sink
of a drain we all would think
seems as fast as goblin's wink
so I try to focus on the myopic pink
but always end up finding reasons to drink
the ambrosia of a nova from Krakatoa
the ebbs and flows come and go with intensity
brought by the power of Jehovah
as well as two cameras with which I can see.
Aug 20, 2023
Aug 20, 2023 at 9:52 PM UTC
he made me
stand still
that was
THE thing
not adrift on passé
or futuristic projectings
not jumping rope
on hyped-up think strings
all of me
paused
to feel all of him
every inner switch
flicked on forever
KC lights streaming
yepyepyep
wired spinefire
warming its way
to burst through skin
invisible firecrackers
jumpstarting the air
revolt from suffocating
we were
whereverthefuck
together
(+ think we dropped pins in)
all molecules at ATTN
his lip blueprints existing
eternal in my synaptic tracks
beyond the say breathes
the evermore of listen
eardrum heartstrum
empathic rhythm
his brainfire ringing
my threshold doorbells
syntactic turrets spitting
direct hits beyond ramparts
into unshuttered windows
bizarro blurbs
wrap me uppers
10,000 suction cup tentacles
asphyxiating the cloak of me
skinning and bonding me
to particles of matterthings
self-conscious and judgment
marked absent
we resounded here!
but no hands in the air
to Be seen
sensory nonsense pitterpatters
into where All is found lost
to hallowed delights
except for the realies
don't ******** that ****
it's my cryptonite
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 5:50 PM UTC
Vengada la hermosa Filis
de los agravios de Fabio
a verle viene al aldea
enfermo de desengaños.
A ruego de los pastores
baja de su monte al prado,
que como se ve querida
da a entender que la forzaron.
Eso mismo que desea,
quiere que la estén rogando,
que sube al gusto los precios
amor conforme a los años.
Huyóse Fabio celoso,
pensó Fabio hallar sagrado,
pero hay estados de amor
que está en el remedio el daño.
¡Desdichado del que llega
a tiempo tan desdichado
que le matan los remedios
con que muchos quedan sanos!
En fin, a Fabio rendido
viene a ver su dueño ingrato,
alegre porque es amor
en las venganzas villano.
No va sin galas a verle,
aunque pudiera escusarlo,
que la mayor hermosura
no deja en casa el cuidado.
Lleva de palmilla verde
saya y sayuelo bizarro,
con pasamanos de plata
si en ellos pone las manos.
No lleva cosa en el cuello
que Fabio le hubiese dado,
porque no entienda que viven
memorias de sus regalos.
Joyas lleva que él no ha visto,
no porque le ha hecho agravio,
mas porque sepan ausencias
que no está seguro el campo.
Con una cinta de cifras
lleva el cabello apretado,
que quien gusta de dar celos
se vale de mil engaños.
De rebociño le sirve
para mayor desenfado
el capote de los ojos
bordado de negros rayos.
En argentadas chinelas
listones lleva, admirados
de que quepan tantos bríos
en tan pequeños espacios.
Llegó Filis al aldea,
entró en su casa de Fabio,
los pastores la reciben
como al sol los montes altos.
Dando perlas con la risa
extiende a todos los brazos,
que gana mares de amor
y da perlas de barato.
Apenas Fabio la mira
cuando a un tiempo se bañaron
el alma en pura alegría,
los ojos en tierno llanto.
No hablaron los dos tan presto,
aunque los ojos hablaron,
Filis porque no quería,
Fabio porque quiere tanto.
Cuando en esta suspensión
los dos se encuentran mirando
a un tiempo bajan los ojos
como que envidian de falso.
Habló Filis y tuvieron
alma de coral sus labios,
que ver humilde al rendido
hace piadoso al vengado.
A Fabio culpa le pone
que es error hacer, amando,
con la lengua valentías,
si el alma no tiene manos.
Él responde y se disculpa,
que viendo cerca los brazos,
pide perdón ofendido
quien ama desengañado.
982
Ven a Guadalajara, dictador de cadenas,
carcelaria mandíbula de canto:
verás la retiradas miedosa de tu hienas,
verás el apogeo del espanto.
Rumoras provincia de colmenas,
la patria del panal estremecido,
la dulce Alcarria, amarga como el llanto,
amarga te ha sabido.
Ven y verás, mortífero bandido,
ruedas de tus cañones,
banderas de tu ejército, carne de tus soldados,
huesos de tus legiones,
trajes y corazones destrozados.
Una extensión de muertos humeantes:
muertos que humean ante la colina,
muertos bajo la nieve,
muertos sobre los páramos gigantes,
muertos junto a la encina,
muertos dentro del agua que les llueve.
Sangre que no se mueve
de convertida en hielo.
Vuela sin pluma un ala numerosa,
rojo y audaz, que abarca todo el cielo
y abre a cada italiano la explosión de una fosa.
Un titánico vuelo
de aeroplanos de España
te vence, te tritura,
ansiosa telaraña,
con su majestuosa dentadura.
Ven y verás sobre la gleba oscura
alzarse como un fósforo glorioso,
sobreponerse al hambre, levantarse del barro,
desprenderse del barro con emoción y brío
vívidas esculturas sin reposo,
españoles del bronce más bizarro,
con el cabello blanco de rocío.
Los verás rebelarse contra el frío,
de no beber la boca dilatada,
mas vencida la sed con la sonrisa:
de no dormir extensa la mirada,
y destrozada a tiros la camisa.
Manda plomo y acero
en grandes emisiones combativas,
con esa voluntad de carnicero
digna de que la entierren las más sucias salivas.
Agota las riquezas italianas,
la cantidad preciosa de sus seres,
deja exhaustas sus minas, sin nadie sus ventanas,
desiertos sus arados y mudos sus talleres.
Enviuda y desangra sus mujeres:
nada podrás contra este pueblo mío,
tan sólido y tan alto de cabeza,
que hasta sobre la muerte mueve su poderío,
que hasta del junco saca fortaleza.
Pueblo de Italia, un hombre te destroza:
repudia su dictamen con un gesto infinito.
Sangre unánime viertes que ni roza,
ni da en su corazón de teatro y granito.
Tus muertos callan clamorosamente
y te indican un grito
liberador, valiente.
Dictador de patíbulos, morirás bajo el diente
de tu pueblo y de miles.
Ya tus mismos cañones van contra tus soldados,
y alargan hacia ti su hierro los fusiles
que contra España tienes vomitados.
Tus muertos a escupirnos se levanten:
a escupirnos el alma se levanten los nuestros
de no lograr que nuestros vivos canten
la destrucción de tantos eslabones siniestros.
930
Bizarre how situations once bigger than my ability to cope
dawned over me looming, stifling my wishes for growth
a cloud that used to stir upon my head
day in and out without rest.
A storm brewing above,
forever reminding me of the ever present electricity
that once ran through our love.
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 4:35 AM UTC
The dogs chew at my flesh,
**** my bones dry, and leave the pickings
for the pigs.
Heavens explode and render planets
asunder. Stellar paint sprays my body,
a canvas for an irradiated rainbow.
A flower blossoms. Shall it grow in the
acid rain? In the humid heat of the tomb?
Before the blood bees come?
Oh if only I knew, if you knew, what was
happening in this body of mine. A prison of
flesh, or is it freedom?
Freud says it’s mama-love, but I say that’s
crap. Bologne. Beach-fried spaghetti.
Too bad that tells me nothing.
These images, thoughts, urges fly through
my head, one violating the next like some
sick funhouse ride.
Will it stop? No it won’t. Yes it will. I hope
not, but that would be boring. Like a
corpse in its grave. Rotting.
I think I’ll live a little,
won’t I?
Maybe a little, just a little, til
this wave of pain subsides and turns
back into pleasure.
To pursue it would be folly, and to
walk away would be worse. A choice
of die or dive. Shall I?
Into a sea of maggots, a tornado of
blood and flesh and god-knows-what.
But that’s okay with me.
Once I figure out what the **** I’m doing.
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 7:58 PM UTC
I’ll come to you when the rain is at its final leap.
You won’t be tired if I can’t manage to sleep.
All I need is a quiet place to wind down the roads in my head,
So that you, darling, won’t ever leave this world dead.
Close my eyes and I see you with your friends.
Their bizarro world of coffee never ends.
You’ll speak of leaders and readers and the numb.
While I prance in deaf blind and dumb.
Why is it so many things are in existence?
How can I learn with all of your insistence?
I don’t want to be a burden, but I don’t understand
How you can hope and love with the lower hand.
I still love you.
Even in my dreams.
Even when the moon is bursting at its seams.
If she is what you want,
Leave me pale and gaunt.
I don’t deserve you.
You would leave if you could dear, wouldn’t you?
On the road with Jack Kerouac and the other cuckoo?
If you could leave me alone inside of my mind,
I know you’d run away and away from my kind.
You want to hold me sometimes, I know it.
If only I weren’t so awkward with my tea and my throwings.
I think you’d love me, I know you would too.
If only I could form a sentence without needing you.
I don’t feel any comfort anymore from them.
Your friends have all melted, mine turned seraphim.
So its you and me now, against no one at all.
Can’t you see we’re only ants on an oversized ball?
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 12:26 AM UTC
Sorts of things I say we say sometimes only I say them
because, I'm glad to know no mystery remains
to the man who can read with the joy of a boy,
eyes un-cataracted as needed, from time to time,
my sort, we see clearly from long before.
In the good old days, we'd all been dead a while.
Now, we watch our children's children sprout
from good seed I hid in wild oats,
which grow naturally, amidst
the rosemary and sage
as reminders to me.
A little leaven leavens the whole lump,
a single virus killed movie Martians,
cannot a key-ho-tic prince of the power of the air,
a manifested, creation-groaned-for-son-of God,
A radioman minded to tell the whole
hole
story
sprouted from a little leaven,
like the kingdom
of heaven.
------
Sorcery, we were defining the word, not the act, if in fact, there is such an act.
Rumors say it's jokers. Clowns got big cred on YouTube and the Res Casinos.
Rogan and Roseann,
they cover for Cosby. He was sick,
woulda died, in the old days. But the young ones, some remember
God tellin' Noah, and by
ex-trapped-a-nation-ism,
Noah's and Naamah's kids, they remember God
using Bill Cosby,
by God.
to say
Something like,
"You know, it don't work that way."
God used Cosby to say that to Moses, so we all could know.
Don't forget the old days.
Cosby was cool for a while,
Hullaballoo, Birmingham Jail, I Spy,
Hef's House, and all
that a frat boy
would ever
wannabe,
1963.
Things change. Good always wins. It is not fair.
Birmingham Jail?
----
An old man disagreed.
I had said there is no good reason for war
and evil reasoning is corrupted.
War has it's reason, he said.
that is not a good reason. I said that.
I said that, war has evil reasoning,
bizarro sympathy reasoning,
proud reasoning.
Only, I said, one-ly. One and no more.
One reason for war.
Pride
in any fashion.
----
and that’s what he said when I asked why Moses was going to inherit the earth if he was dead.
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 9:10 PM UTC