"bogie" poems
.*oh forget Disney H'america... technicolor H'america was the bomb... gentlemen prefer blondes... oh **** no... the seven year itch... the Rachmaninoff scene... bell, book & candle scene... whoever the genius was behind the technicolor project, outmatched the Disney in 1950s H'america... little town America... big little ******** worth of Europe... eddi reader...more like: keep the cats, a woman may desire luxury, but a man a freedom... keep the town, the summit, the fireplace... keep your luxury... just give me the shadow, the sun, the moon, and the road: perpetually greeting me.*
oh forget looking
for scapegoats
these days...
full blown schizophrenia,
happening,
all over the anglophone
world...
me?
i'm just looking
at the lampoons...
sorry...
lemmings...
and the English?
top the table in western
world...
they thought they'd be
bailed out by
the H'americans...
good luck rolling
that pin-ball...
not gonna happen...
they have their own ****
to deal with...
it could have...
but now it will never
work out, no anglophone
alliance bail-out plan...
it's a ******* farce...
it's a bogus in the bogie
in the ******* coalmine...
forget the canary...
**** i'm seriously flipping
the coin on phrases...
FDR contra DJT?
magic!
no... the politicians were always
going to place the card...
the joker... free-fall dance-loose
feet...
my bet is...
it'll fall flat on its face...
the eastern European Achilles
heel of the europhiles...
that's a supposition,
not a proposition...
or thereby, pre-....
but i do love being a spectator
of rare sport...
en masse schizophrenia...
a nation, divided...
what a load of ********
the English thought that their
anglophone alliances would
last, would encrust them in
a new globalization mechanism...
even the ******* Icelandic people
think they're European...
what did the English think?
just east of Las Vegas?!
an island surrounded
by a massive prehistorical lake
"facility"?!
no one is looking for scapegoats
these days,
there's no one to blame...
mea culpa, mea culpa...
these days?!
everyone is looking for the lampoon
brigade!
- and let me tell you...
mea culpa mea culpa...
no one is looking for a scapegoat
worth kristallnacht;
people are looking
for a lampoon...
or...
karmesinrotherznacht,
the night of... broken hearts;
broken, crimson hearts.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
is it too much to imagine
that a fool like you could
pity a fool like me
they say
birds of a feather
flock together
yet appariently
family is forever too
yet everyone knows
that's not always the truth
because some families
are bound to be broken
along with the hearts
of unwilling and unknowing
children where mommy
no longer likes daddy
and daddy's bedtime stories
stop being told
along with mommy's
new drinking problem
to these children
with the likes of the tooth
fairy and easter bunny
do they realise
that the bogies
in their closets
moved two houses down
and became that man
who preys on young
girls in their skirts
would you pity
that girl
who was attacked
by the bogie man
or do you pity
the father who
wasnt there to stop it
maybe you should pity
the younger brother
who hung himself
after the bogie man
was released
and the mother
who lost herself
in her drink
swirling at the bottom of a glass
thinking that maybe
if she haddent had fallen
for that dark haired
handsome man who
wasn't her husband
would she had been able
to keep that bogie
harmlessly in a closet
to hang with coats
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 7:59 AM UTC
There's a drawing on my wall
a pen and ink impression
of the old transporter bridge
- a Meccano masterpiece.
It's my Tardis, my time machine,
portal to a vast interior
of vivid early images,
sounds of a rumbling grumbling bogie
pulling me back through time.
The clatter as our boarding gate swings shut,
an alert pause in the varnished cabin.
We listen for the next familiar step,
the creaking **** towards Runcorn Gap,
passing over Aethelfleda's Castle,
the mid-crossing windblown waltzing,
the bustling landing in the other county.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 6:39 AM UTC
The Magical Date
Last nite was a celebration!
And before it all begun
He held me by my hand so close
We were off to leprechaun land!
The naughty elf with his impish pranks
His sinful teases and wanton ways
His playful gestures, fractious delights
He rushed me off to his wilful fays
We found ourselves in a Keatsian bower
In 'embalmed darkness', 'mong 'white hawthorns'
It was fragrant with the jasmine veils
That covered the roof of rosy thorns
we laughed and sang old happy numbers
we talked our hearts out gleefully
After aeons of blue moon we'd finally met
A magical date it had to be!
And so when i looked up to his eyes
It held mine in a purple gaze
In a trice of a second he was off with me
Speeding through the verduous maze
Help! i cried but held on tight
Our windswept hair, our amorous plight
His fervour, vigor, force and power
Was all i felt that wondrous night
Elf or gnome, genie or sprite
A naughty brownie or the nisse vampire
Bogie, goblin, fairy, nymph
He carried me through the forests dire...
So just wen I can close my eyes
Just when i feel im missing him
He's there as he says hes there with me
Off we go into the woodlands dim
We dance a waltz, a salsa true
A foxtrot, a ballet in embrace tight
In white moonshine, in purple rain
When dewdrops catch the morning light.
And then again with every dawn
The magic wanes, the elf resigns
To mossy groves and sylvan lands
And the elfin grottos of my mind.
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 12:37 AM UTC
Drastic measures must be taken to overcome the afternoon lull.
Seventeen obscure hardbound essays to consume, spines flaking
and half-eaten by dustmites. Their goodies
can only be extracted by torture, but my instruments are dulled
by shriekless hours and the fuddy-duddies
beside me, who god help me I’ll never become,
though I’m already bearded, and have started showing some dome.
Time, I think, to give something back:
a single bogie on a lone mission
to retake Stevens’ Noble Rider and the Sound of Words.
A big ask, I reckon, but this mischievous frisson
is deepness: It’ll probably be half, or at least a third
of my life before anyone finds my sleeper, my double agent
Amongst horses shedding their coats for the summer.
I smile at no one in particular, and return to my stack.
Keyboards clatter like rain, drowning out what little glamour
remains of the microfiche, leaping silent
over centuries in a smallish room in the corner.
Oct 22, 2011
Oct 22, 2011 at 6:49 AM UTC
There is a drawing on my wall,
a pen and ink impression
of the old Transporter Bridge,
a Mecccano masterpiece.
It's my tardis, my time machine,
portal to a vast interior
of vivid early images,
sounds of a rumbling grumbling bogie,
pulling me back through time.
The clatter as our boarding gate swings shut,
an alert pause in the varnished cabin,
we listen for the next familiar step,
the creaking **** towards Runcorn Gap,
passing over Aethelfleda's Castle,
the mid-crossing windblown waltzing,
the bustling landing in the other county.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
Dear every being whom I may have titled my best friend,
You should all take lessons from tobacco companies
Because I’ve experienced more compassion and reliability
From a nine dollar carcinogen encased poisonous mass produced product
Than any so called companion
A cigarette doesn’t forget to call back and a cigarette knows the inspiration I lack
I lack the tact to express myself and despise the fact I engage in the act
Of filling my lungs with poisonous smoke
But I have too much proof that my life is a joke
So I complain everyday yet still I refrain from fueling my brain
Because I’m ******* lazy, and I’d rather be stuck in a haze than
Do something to better my days.
You should all take lessons from tobacco companies
Because that’s my ******* topic for this poem.
I could’ve chosen politics or the art of giving road dome
But I hate politics, and I might get sent home if I get too graphic
Cigarettes don’t mind if I get too graphic
Cigarettes embrace the moments I can’t even face
Sometimes, I forget where I am
Because Haley’s brain’s like strawberry jam
And bring her to places too tight she can’t cram
enough time, or a path that won’t wind
Without a 24 hour jet fuel power
Through her past locked in walls
With thoughts like roaring waterfalls
And migraines like jackhammers
You should all take lessons from tobacco companies
Because when words sink like anchors to the bottom of my ocean,
I’m tryna cop a bogie, I’m tryna stay coastin
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC
Smoking is terrible for you - we all know that,
But there's nothing quite as **** as a cigarette
With its wafts of smoke curving sensuously up
Like a winding staircase to heaven.
Maybe it's that, that Bacall and Bogie dance
Of noir fog above a lit cigarette,
Or it could be the intimate way
The word "young" is carved out on your slab,
Or the intimate way that the smell lingers
On the clothes of loved ones long after
You're dead and buried.
Nothing makes a guy harder than rigour mortis.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
I like a classic movie
One with Bogie and Bacall
Kate Hepburn in her heyday
Or Errol Flynn in a brawl
A Cary Grant comedy
Irene Dunne at his side
Bette Davis raising hell
Or Frankenstein's scary bride
I think of Ingrid Bergman's smile
The sweetest nun appearing onscreen
And Mae West's sassy manner
As she lit up every scene
Spencer Tracy wowed us
Charlie Chaplin made us roar
Great stars, great stories, great times
The movies I adore
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
Byron loves to golf, but in the dead of winter, when he has his wood stove radiating heat, he likes to play darts. The board hangs on a door separating the main garage from his store heap of empty beer cans, crushed and bagged. Thousands of them. He also has a ****** stuck on a wall. The **** just flows out to the ground. He always warns us not to dump in his ****** The very thought irks me. Like golf, Byron threatens to “kick my *** in darts. He has a predilection for my posterior in the most unthreatening way. In fact, he may be homophobic. He throws a dart like an Amazon pygmy. Fatal to success. However, golf is never far from his mind during the raging snows we get. Although I helped with the spelling and small stuff, Byron penned the following. I came up with the title.
Intimations of Fairway Play
I'd rather hit the links today,
Take an eight on five;
Blame the wind or shift of weight,
Than shovel out my drive.
I'd rather search under trees,
Twigs, leafs and water;
And curse the squirrel that thought my shot
Was food for winter fodder.
I'd rather have a downward lie
On pock-marked naked ground;
Than sit and watch Keegan Bradley
Get it up and down.
I'd rather have a green fringe putt
That lines up with goose droppings;
Or see a fine three footer lip
Than hear the snow plough coming.
I'd rather shoot a ninety-nine,
And pay for rounds of ale;
Than sit in front of my wood stove
During snow and sleet and hail.
I'd rather shank or stub my ****
Yes, get a double bogie;
Or miss a hole-in-one by inches
And put up with Francie's stogie.
Francie can card seventy-two
And make an eagle putt;
It matters little what he does,
I know I'll kick his but.
Yet still I languish near my fire
And watch the Pros play golf;
At Pebble Beach or someplace warm
I wish they'd all **** off.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC
Religion is an experience ‒
Don’t forget to pay attention
To the road signs and orange
Cones – stations of life.
The dried putty surrounding
The stained glass shards is
A template for countercultural
Beliefs – fidelity.
Pick a denomination and take
A number – investigate the
Universe – celebrate via Billy
Graham or Timothy Leary.
Turn to the pages in the
Geodesic south Indian sub-
Continent – pray to a Hindu
Shrine or dine with a Swami.
Hail the Krishna highs – close
Your eyes and be transcendental
As often as you breathe – but
Do not divulge your mantra.
Heed the children as they climb
And play – drooling on the statues
Of Buddha and his goddesses
At the corner of rebirth.
Monastic discipline is for the
Elderly – after they reach the
New liberation – in tune with
Their pure souls.
Be pragmatic if you must –
Choose therapy, shock waves
Of the brain – or bow down
Before B. F. Skinner.
Start and nurture your own
Beat generation camp – be
**** be alien, be aware of
The invisible lights.
Go west to “EST,” and train
Followers to process bits of
History – couple that with an
Out-of-body jaunt.
The je-ne-sais-quoi of ends
Is approaching – embrace a
Chapter on thanatology, and
Share the culture of after.
There are alternatives – try
Gnosticism or Scientology –
Be the man who won’t believe,
And reach your potential.
The final analysis is to find
Your eternal family – they can
Be anything – beings with which
You will piously be born again.
Give each their name – 2nd Eve,
Zen the little, Erhard, Wymyn,
Pope ***** III, Bogie – and call
Them your disciples.
© Lewis Bosworth, 1/2017
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 11:02 PM UTC
First day out in L.A.
Hollywood Boulevard
People say what they wanna say
But we'd all love to rub elbows with the stars
I don't care who you are
All I see before me
Are rows of fancy cars
In fact if you look real hard
I think I just saw Bruno Mars
Taking his ladies out for a trip
Down on Sunset strip
If your familiar with the tabloids
Then I'm pretty sure this is it
Hungry for a bit of Chinese
And a gander at the dead's concrete prints
I'm caught up in complete surprise
At how small were Bogie's feet and hands
They always seem much larger
Up on the big screen
But meet face to face a few of the stars
And you'll know exactly what I mean
There's not a whole lot more to see
Inside this Tinsel town
After the tour of celebrity homes
Before society burns them down
So I step back on the bus
Back to my town...normalcy
Secretly hoping deep down inside
I didn't come away with some strange disease
That's where I'm sitting at now
Up on my front porch
Watching as the cars pass by
Was that a Chevy or a Ford
Driven by Mr. and Mrs. Jones
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 6:07 PM UTC
when i told you my grandma was dying
you weren't a shoulder to cry on
you told me i can't be codependent
you said i had to deal on my own or it'd get messy
you thought i'd cause more harm, create more issues
i can't believe i ever ******* missed you
now when i think of you
i just smoke a bogie
this time is different
im done like kobe
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC
I had a dream on
The tip of my tongue
That tasted very sweet
I took it off, like a CD
And put it on repeat...
It was like an old-time movie
Framed in black-and-white
A white-chocolate
Licorice drop
It played on
through the night
Then, all of a sudden
The cast of the show changed
Bogie & Bacall became
Something very strange!
They weren't exactly zombies
But they had changed!
Oh, no!
The dream was now
quite bitter
It was a horror show!
Yes! The leading lady
Was a POD PERSON! Man!
As she began her
Tell-tale scream
I took off... I RAN!
Next time you have
A pleasant dream
Remember that
they turn
Sometimes you can
Consume a thought
*Which just gives you
heartburn!*
Next time you taste
A sweet dream drop
And put it on repeat
Be sure you take
a grip-o-TUMS
*'N BE CAREFUL
WHAT YOU EAT!*
SøułSurvivør
(C) 6/29/2017
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 5:36 AM UTC
Bemused
eating refuse
every day
confused, usually
Bogie ( his real name)
is seeking something
to sink his tooth into.
Bemused as usual.
Dumpster
diver par- excellence-
smiling meek,
finding treasure
every day.
Bogie walks miles
to find his
dinner, does his best
refuse-ly.
Then,
he walks miles back
to his dumpster nest home,
smiling perpetually.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
Always above par,
so she ended up with a Bogie
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 9:09 AM UTC
The echo of a distant day lays heavy in the air and like some far off megaphone the words distinguished only if I strain to hear make some form of warning, shall I fear the unknown shown?
We were on the final run in and with both the engines gunning, flashing flames from all the turbines whining noise.
The boys stood steady at the dials measuring but slow the miles to go.
Control to airborne one four one your wheels are down but two are gone, are you reading? over,
I was over it a year ago, I dreamt it through a radio and now the tower wants to say,
the foam is down on runway
nine.
Fly by wire on the line we're heading in on runway nine and that's the last I heard.
Word on the street where bogie men meet to compare their notes,
'hanging by a thread, but most of them living, the dead we can't save,
the dead
we can't save',
and the echo,
the echo
begins its descent.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC