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Tyler King Mar 2015
Bohemia
When will you be angelic?
When will you empty your graveyards and let your cities fill with the music of the ******?
When will you sing for me, for you, for us?
For your children looking for God in the halo of a street lit drug deal gone bad?
For your forlorn lovers shooting up with sub-par sadness off the street?
For your crying, bleeding masses that scrape their knees ****** at rock bottom?

Bohemia
I'm addressing you, directly
Devourer of culture, ******* of pretense
Let they among you without sin be the first to burn
Hold you nothing sacred?
Have you not the decency to scatter your ashes somewhere clean?
Somewhere beautiful?
Somewhere perfect?

Bohemia
When will you learn?
Is there no context to your suffering?
Is there no reason for your guilt?
Is there no honor among street rats?
Where are you going with this, anyway?

Bohemia
I am not your prophet
Not your God or your king
I am your vessel
Speak your will through me

Bohemia
I need to feel it
I need to see it
I need to HEAR IT
For the mind destroyed by madness
For the heart shattered by shame
For the spirit, for the blessed ******* spirit
I need to HEAR IT

Bohemia,
Let me hear you
If you are outcast drawing the curtains on your insecurity
Let me hear you
If you are restless heart itching for the next sunset
Let me hear you
If you are just barely scraping by
If you are waiting for God to explain himself
If you are sick of sacrificing your mind to television screens
If you are just trying to make it in America without selling your soul
If you are broken, beaten, or damaged irreparably
Let me hear you
Let them hear you in the streets
Let them hear you in the grave

Bohemia
You are angelic enough
For me
scar Jun 2015
Of a night on a battered red leather sofa
It's moved with us three times
It sits in a room with a broken bay window
And we sit on it too
And we sit on it too

Drinking yellow anise from mismatched glasses
With ice, not warm water
Singing stories, spinning yarns with broken bottles
Of girls with leopard-print hands
And the straw man in the moon
The straw man in the moon.

The cord hangs on the wall:
A symbol, but not symbolic
As chords rise, break off and fall
All a sham, but not shambolic
A sham, but not shambolic.

Swapping tales and anecdotes of cars parked between cake stalls
And days with names that don't suit them
People dying for causes they don't understand
And war is an island; a land hyperbolic
A Green land, a war land; unplanned hyperbolic.

Linguistics are twisted and brass tales are dropped
A cork is unwrapped from the web where it popped
But the darkness is rising, the hours are ticking
The side is hitched up so we all know we're doomed.
We hear children singing in the guitar strings,
Their screeches rising as they fall,
Our speeches diving as they fall.

And speaking of speeches, he says, a performance is mine
But in France, man... in France the markets are open
And the fields of Provence roll down to the menhirs of Carnac
And Brocéliande lies to us all,
And Brocéliande lies to us all.
zebra Oct 2017
Here is a primer on the history of poetry

Features of Modernism

To varying extents, writing of the Modernist period exhibits these features:

1. experimentation

belief that previous writing was stereotyped and inadequate
ceaseless technical innovation, sometimes for its own sake
originality: deviation from the norm, or from usual reader expectations
ruthless rejection of the past, even iconoclasm

2. anti-realism

sacralisation of art, which must represent itself, not something beyond preference for allusion (often private) rather than description
world seen through the artist's inner feelings and mental states
themes and vantage points chosen to question the conventional view
use of myth and unconscious forces rather than motivations of conventional plot

3. individualism

promotion of the artist's viewpoint, at the expense of the communal
cultivation of an individual consciousness, which alone is the final arbiter
estrangement from religion, nature, science, economy or social mechanisms
maintenance of a wary intellectual independence
artists and not society should judge the arts: extreme self-consciousness
search for the primary image, devoid of comment: stream of consciousness
exclusiveness, an aristocracy of the avant-garde

4. intellectualism

writing more cerebral than emotional
work is tentative, analytical and fragmentary, more posing questions more than answering them
cool observation: viewpoints and characters detached and depersonalized
open-ended work, not finished, nor aiming at formal perfection
involuted: the subject is often act of writing itself and not the ostensible referent

............
Expressionism

Expressionism was a phase of twentieth-century writing that rejected naturalism and romanticism to express important inner truths. The style was generally declamatory or even apocalyptic, endeavoring to awaken the fears and aspirations that belong to all men, and which European civilization had rendered effete or inauthentic. The movement drew on Rimbaud and Nietzsche, and was best represented by German poetry of the 1910-20 period. Benn, Becher, Heym, Lasker-Schüler, Stadler, Stramm, Schnack and Werfel are its characteristic proponents, {1} though Trakl is the best known to English readers. {2} {3}

Like most movements, there was little of a manifesto, or consensus of beliefs and programmes. Many German poets were distrustful of contemporary society — particularly its commercial and capitalist attitudes — though others again saw technology as the escape from a perceived "crisis in the old order". Expressionism was very heterogeneous, touching base with Imagism, Vorticism, Futurism, Dadaism and early Surrealism, many of which crop up in English, French, Russian and Italian poetry of the period. Political attitudes tended to the revolutionary, and technique was overtly experimental. Nonetheless, for all the images of death and destruction, sometimes mixed with messianic utopianism, there was also a tone of resignation, a sadness of "the evening lands" as Spengler called them.

Expressionism also applies to painting, and here the characteristics are more illuminating. The label refers to painting that uses visual gestures to transmit emotions and emotionally charged messages. In the expressive work of Michelangelo and El Greco, for example, the content remains of first importance, but content is overshadowed by technique in such later artists as van Gogh, Ensor and Munch. By the mid twentieth-century even this attenuated content had been replaced by abstract painterly qualities — by the sheer scale and dimensions of the work, by colour and shape, by the verve of the brushwork and other effects.

Expressionism often coincided with rapid social change. Germany, after suffering the horrors of the First World War, and ineffectual governments afterwards, fragmented into violently opposed political movements, each with their antagonistic coteries and milieu. The painting of these groups was very variable, but often showed a mixture of aggression and naivety. Understandably unpopular with the establishment  — denounced as degenerate by the Nazis — the style also met with mixed reactions from the picture-buying public. It seemed to question what the middle classes stood for: convention, decency, professional expertise. A great sobbing child had been let loose in the artist's studio, and the results seemed elementally challenging. Perhaps German painting was returning to its Nordic roots, to small communities, apocalyptic visions, monotone starkness and anguished introspection.

What could poetry achieve in its turn? Could it use some equivalent to visual gestures, i.e. concentrate on aspects of the craft of poetry, and to the exclusion of content? Poetry can never be wholly abstract, a pure poetry bereft of content. But clearly there would be a rejection of naturalism. To represent anything faithfully requires considerable skill, and such skill was what the Expressionists were determined to avoid. That would call on traditions that were not Nordic, and that were not sufficiently opposed to bourgeois values for the writer's individuality to escape subversion. Raw power had to tap something deeper and more universal.

Hence the turn inward to private torments. Poets became the judges of poetry, since only they knew the value of originating emotions. Intensity was essential.  Artists had to believe passionately in their responses, and find ways of purifying and deepening those responses — through working practices, lifestyles, and philosophies. Freud was becoming popular, and his investigations into dreams, hallucinations and paranoia offered a rich field of exploration. Artists would have to glory in their isolation, moreover, and turn their anger and frustration at being overlooked into a belief in their own genius. Finally, there would be a need to pull down and start afresh, even though that contributed to a gradual breakdown in the social fabric and the apocalypse of the Second World War.

Expressionism is still with us. Commerce has invaded bohemia, and created an elaborate body of theory to justify, support and overtake what might otherwise appear infantile and irrational. And if traditional art cannot be pure emotional expression, then a new art would have to be forged. Such poetry would not be an intoxication of life (Nietzsche's phrase) and still less its sanctification.  Great strains on the creative process were inevitable, moreover, as they were in Georg Trakl's case, who committed suicide shortly after writing the haunting and beautiful piece given below

................
SYMBOLIST POETS
symbolism in poetry

Symbolism in literature was a complex movement that deliberately extended the evocative power of words to express the feelings, sensations and states of mind that lie beyond everyday awareness. The open-ended symbols created by Charles Baudelaire (1821-67) brought the invisible into being through the visible, and linked the invisible through other sensory perceptions, notably smell and sound. Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-98), the high priest of the French movement, theorized that symbols were of two types. One was created by the projection of inner feelings onto the world outside. The other existed as nascent words that slowly permeated the consciousness and expressed a state of mind initially unknown to their originator.

None of this came about without cultivation, and indeed dedication. Poets focused on the inner life. They explored strange cults and countries. They wrote in allusive, enigmatic, musical and ambiguous styles. Rimbaud deranged his senses and declared "Je est un autre". Von Hofmannstahl created his own language. Valéry retired from the world as a private secretary, before returning to a mastery of traditional French verse. Rilke renounced wife and human society to be attentive to the message when it came.

Not all were great theoreticians or technicians, but the two interests tended to go together, in Mallarmé most of all. He painstakingly developed his art of suggestion, what he called his "fictions". Rare words were introduced, syntactical intricacies, private associations and baffling images. Metonymy replaced metaphor as symbol, and was in turn replaced by single words which opened in imagination to multiple levels of signification. Time was suspended, and the usual supports of plot and narrative removed. Even the implied poet faded away, and there were then only objects, enigmatically introduced but somehow made right and necessary by verse skill. Music indeed was the condition to which poetry aspired, and Verlaine, Jimenez and Valéry were among many who concentrated efforts to that end.

So appeared a dichotomy between the inner and outer lives. In actuality, poets led humdrum existences, but what they described was rich and often illicit: the festering beauties of courtesans and dance-hall entertainers; far away countries and their native peoples; a world-weariness that came with drugs, isolation, alcohol and bought ***. Much was mixed up in this movement — decadence, aestheticism, romanticism, and the occult — but its isms had a rational purpose, which is still pertinent. In what way are these poets different from our own sixties generation? Or from the young today: clubbing, experimenting with relationships and drugs, backpacking to distant parts? And was the mixing of sensory perceptions so very novel or irrational? Synaesthesia was used by the Greek poets, and indeed has a properly documented basis in brain physiology.

What of the intellectual bases, which are not commonly presented as matters that should engage the contemporary mind, still less the writing poet? Symbolism was built on nebulous and somewhat dubious notions: it inspired beautiful and historically important work: it is now dead: that might be the blunt summary. But Symbolist poetry was not empty of content, indeed expressed matters of great interest to continental philosophers, then and now. The contents of consciousness were the concern of Edmund Husserl (1859-1938), and he developed a terminology later employed by Heidegger (1889-1976), the Existentialists and hermeneutics. Current theories on metaphor and brain functioning extend these concepts, and offer a rapprochement between impersonal science and irrational literary theory.

So why has the Symbolism legacy dwindled into its current narrow concepts? Denied influence in the everyday world, poets turned inward, to private thoughts, associations and the unconscious. Like good Marxist intellectuals they policed the area they arrogated to themselves, and sought to correct and purify the language that would evoke its powers. Syntax was rearranged by Mallarmé. Rhythm, rhyme and stanza patterning were loosened or rejected. Words were purged of past associations (Modernism), of non-visual associations (Imagism), of histories of usage (Futurism), of social restraint (Dadaism) and of practical purpose (Surrealism). By a sort of belated Romanticism, poetry was returned to the exploration of the inner lands of the irrational. Even Postmodernism, with its bric-a-brac of received media images and current vulgarisms, ensures that gaps are left for the emerging unconscious to engage our interest

......................

.
IMAGIST POETRY
imagist poetry

Even by twentieth-century standards, Imagism was soon over. In 1912 Ezra Pound published the Complete Poetical Works of its founder, T.E. Hulme (five short poems) and by 1917 the movement, then overseen by Amy Lowell, had run its course. {1} {2} {3} {4} {5} The output in all amounted to a few score poems, and none of these captured the public's heart. Why the importance?

First there are the personalities involved — notably Ezra Pound, James Joyce, William Carlos Williams {6} {7} {8} {9} — who became famous later. If ever the (continuing) importance to poets of networking, of being involved in movements from their inception, is attested, it is in these early days of post-Victorian revolt.

Then there are the manifestos of the movement, which became the cornerstones of Modernism, responsible for a much taught in universities until recently, and for the difficulties poets still find themselves in. The Imagists stressed clarity, exactness and concreteness of detail. Their aims, briefly set out, were that:

1. Content should be presented directly, through specific images where possible.
2. Every word should be functional, with nothing included that was not essential to the effect intended.
3. Rhythm should be composed by the musical phrase rather than the metronome.

Also understood — if not spelled out, or perhaps fully recognized at the time — was the hope that poems could intensify a sense of objective reality through the immediacy of images.

Imagism itself gave rise to fairly negligible lines like:

You crash over the trees,
You crack the live branch…  (Storm by H.D.)

Nonetheless, the reliance on images provided poets with these types of freedom:

1. Poems could dispense with classical rhetoric, emotion being generated much more directly through what Eliot called an objective correlate: "The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an 'objective correlative'; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked." {10}

2. By being shorn of context or supporting argument, images could appear with fresh interest and power.

3. Thoughts could be treated as images, i.e. as non-discursive elements that added emotional colouring without issues of truth or relevance intruding too mu
...............
PROSE BASED POETRY
prose based poetry

When free verse lacks rhythmic patterning, appearing as a lineated prose stripped of unnecessary ornament and rhetoric, it becomes the staple of much contemporary work. The focus is on what the words are being used to say, and their authenticity. The language is not heightened, and the poem differs from prose only by being more self-aware, innovative and/or cogent in its exposition.

Nonetheless, what looks normal at first becomes challenging on closer reading — thwarting expectations, and turning back on itself to make us think more deeply about the seemingly innocuous words used. And from there we are compelled to look at the world with sharper eyes, unprotected by commonplace phrases or easy assumptions. Often an awkward and fighting poetry, therefore, not indulging in ceremony or outmoded traditions.
What is Prose?

If we say that contemporary free verse is often built from what was once regarded as mere prose, then we shall have to distinguish prose from poetry, which is not so easy now. Prose was once the lesser vehicle, the medium of everyday thought and conversation, what we used to express facts, opinions, humour, arguments, feelings and the like. And while the better writers developed individual styles, and styles varied according to their purpose and social occasion, prose of some sort could be written by anyone. Beauty was not a requirement, and prose articles could be rephrased without great loss in meaning or effectiveness.

Poetry, though, had grander aims. William Lyon Phelps on Thomas Hardy's work: {1}

"The greatest poetry always transports us, and although I read and reread the Wessex poet with never-lagging attention — I find even the drawings in "Wessex Poems" so fascinating that I wish he had illustrated all his books — I am always conscious of the time and the place. I never get the unmistakable spinal chill. He has too thorough a command of his thoughts; they never possess him, and they never soar away with him. Prose may be controlled, but poetry is a possession. Mr. Hardy is too keenly aware of what he is about. In spite of the fact that he has written verse all his life, he seldom writes unwrinkled song. He is, in the last analysis, a master of prose who has learned the technique of verse, and who now chooses to express his thoughts and his observations in rime and rhythm."

.............
OPEN FORMS IN POETRY
open forms in poetry

Poets who write in open forms usually insist on the form growing out of the writing process, i.e. the poems follow what the words and phrase suggest during the composition
There was an Old Man of Bohemia,
Whose daughter was christened Euphemia,
Till one day, to his grief,
She married a thief,
Which grieved that Old Man of Bohemia.
Authors and actors and artists and such
Never know nothing, and never know much.
Sculptors and singers and those of their kidney
Tell their affairs from Seattle to Sydney.
Playwrights and poets and such horses' necks
Start off from anywhere, end up at ***.
Diarists, critics, and similar roe
Never say nothing, and never say no.
People Who Do Things exceed my endurance;
God, for a man that solicits insurance!
Two Poets sleeping, cavorting and writing
what would you do
in a week in Bohemia

The gentle smiles of knowing
Poet's liken to you
whom express their art in many forms

This just one week in Bohemia
would you dear poets I love
share a whole year with me

Could you would you dedicate your life
dare to live the life of deaths tragic maladies
forever .. not just for a week in Bohemia


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris

© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Could be I’m on a mission:
Convince the entire world
I am the World's Greatest Living
English Language poet;
Of course, genius such as mine
Goes generally unrecognized until
The posthumous crowd weighs in.
And yet, wouldn’t it be nice?

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Yes, wouldn’t it be nice?
(The Nobel Prize,
Tribute at the Kennedy Center,
A MacArthur Grant,
The Presidential Medal of Honor,
Reverent BJs from hipster groupies . . .
The Poet Laureate in his vicarage,
Enjoying my sweet twilight celebrity.)

(Cue “Guys & Dolls” soundtrack: “What's in the daily news?
I'll tell you what's in the daily news.”)
23: Beheaded at Nigerian Election Rally!
Amanda Knox Gets Away with ****** Again in Italy!
Kung Pow: Silicon Valley Penisocracy Crushes Ellen Pao
German Crash Dummy Co-pilot Flies Jet into the Alps!
Hilary’s Emails Are *****!
Sierra Leone Ebola Lockdown!
Iran: Kooks with Nukes!
Sri Lankan President’s Brother Dies from Ax Wounds!
Saudi Diplomats Evacuate Yemen!
Stampede at Hindu Bathing Ritual, Bangladesh Kills at Least 10!
Simply put:  THE WORLD IS IN A STATE OF ****.

Perhaps it’s time we turn again.
Seek solace in poetry—
“Yeah, chemistry,” insists my Sky Masterson,
My “Guys & Dolls” alter ago.
Surprised? You shouldn’t be.
All poets are gamblers & moonshiners.
We polish our chemical craft,
Sweet-talking the distillation apparatus,
Getting us, getting at linguistic essence.
Cunning linguists are we.
(Colonel Angus, are you back?)
Oyez! Oyez! The gavel raps:
“The Curious Case of Sam Hayakawa.”
We open this hearing to determine
Whether or not S.I. Hayakawa—guilty of
Numerous crimes against humanity & other
Professional Neo-Fascist “entrechats.”--
Whether or not he merits a kinder, gentler
Wikipedia BIO.
(Wikipedia ( i/ˌwɪkɨˈpiːdiə/ or  i/ˌwɪkiˈpiːdiə/ WIK-i-***-dee-ə) Wikipedia)
We open this forum, focusing on his
Courageous stand against the
SDS & Black Panthers, part of
An unlikely coalition: The Worker-Student Alliance
& It’s rival, Joe Hill Caucuses.
Da Name of the Place:
(“I like it like that!” Hot Chelle Rae-“I Like It Like That” lyrics| Metro Lyrics www.metrolyrics.com Lyrics to 'I Like It Like That' by Hot Chelle Rae. “Let's get it on, yeah, y'all can come along/Everybody drinks on me, buy out the bar /Just to feel like I'm.”)
The name of the place: San Francisco State,
1968-69, the longest student strike in U.S. history,
Led successfully to the creation of
Black & Other Ethnic studies programs
On campuses across the country,
And, one could argue,
Gave the green light to
Osama Hussein Obama,
Our first Uncle Tom President.
But I digress.

ACTING SFSU President, Dr. Hayakawa—
Perpetual audition, the pressure on,
Feisty, independent-minded & combative,
Screaming at that skeevy student mob:
(Skeevy as in “He bought the thing from
Some skeevy dude in an alley.")
Declaring “A State of Emergency,”
Calling in the SFPD, whose
Inexplicable slogan says”
“Oro en Paz,
Fierro en Guerra.”
Archaic Spanish for
Gold in peace,
Iron in war, by the by,
For you holdouts,
Those of you who still
Think the “English First Movement”
Breathes life still.
I’ve got more news for you:
That crusade died long ago,
Locked up, dark & shuttered,
Bank Repo thugs, their thick
Neck muscles flexing from side to side,
Sashaying across the parking lot,
Like John Wayne on steroids,
Right up to the front door.)
The SFPD: San Francisco city fuzz,
(As they were known at the time) &
The California National Guard, as well,
Obstreperously, generously catered by
Governor Ronald Wilson Reagan,
(Early stage, Alzheimer’s at the time.
But still very much “The Gypper,”
Still chipper in Sacramento.)
Ronnie--keenly interested in
The Eureka State’s congressional clout,
Lassoes a seat in the U.S. House of Lords:
AKA: The U.S. Senate, SPQR.
It’s still hard . . .

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Still hard to believe that California was once
Rock solid in the clutches of the GOP,
Gripped tightly in the Party’s
Desperate talons. But the grip slipped,
Slipped in the slip-sliding 1970s.
It got harder and harder . . .

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Harder and harder to remind
Leroy & the rest of his ebony posse,
That it was Abraham Lincoln—
“The Great Emancipator” himself—who was,
Our first Republican President.
The Emancipation Proclamation:
That toothless rhetorical flourish,
Based solely on Abe’s
Constitutional authority as
Commander-in-Chief,
Not on a law passed by Congress.
It was just Abe blowing smoke
Up their ***** again,
Just an egalitarian blast from
His Old Kentucky past,
A youth spent splitting rails,
Busting his *** just like
Any plantation ******,
A stark plebeian commonality,
Too deeply etched to be ignored.
Poor Abraham Lincoln:
Probably a **** Creek crypto-Jew,
Neutered by the opposition:
His very own Republican majority Congress,
Another example of the GOP
Shooting off its own foot, right up there
With Mitt Romney’s "47 percent of the people,”
The rhetorical gaffe which cost him his
Second & final shot at the White House.
But I digress.

Senator Sam S.I. Samuel Hayakawa:
That inscrutable Asian fixer, is now U.S. Senator,
Republican, California, 1976-83
Pulpit-bullying his Senate colleagues,
Fiercely opposed to transfer of the
Panama Canal & Panama Canal Zone to
Panama: a diplomatic no-brainer; Duh?
Their freaking name is on both of them.
Senator Sam, obstinate & blustering:
"We should keep the Panama Canal.
After all, we stole it fair and square.”
And Hayakawa, later the driving impetus
Behind the Far Right “English Only” movement.
His co-founding an "Official English"
Advocacy group, U.S. English;
Their party line summarizes their belief:
“The passage of English as the official language will help to expand opportunities for immigrants to learn and speak English, the single greatest empowering tool that immigrants must have to succeed."
That’s how they sold it, anyway.
In sooth: just old-fashioned nativist
Anti-immigration hysteria.

Hayakawa: always the high achiever.
Hayakawa: The Great Assimilator,
Preaching his xenophobic Gospel:
“Immigration Must Be Reduced!”
Aryan rhetoric, of course,
A bi-product of radical authoritarian nationalism,
A movement with deep American roots.
Senator Sam: a Japanese-Canadian-American,
Always tried too hard to fit in.
Sam, comfortable in Chicago during WWII,
Not personally subject to confinement,
Advocated that Japanese-Americans
Submit to FDR’s 1942, Executive Order 9066.
“Time in camp, will eventually work to Japanese advantage."
Later, during the Congressional debate over
The Civil Liberties Act of 1988 . . .
(Passed the House on September 17, 1987 (243–141)
Passed the Senate on April 20, 1988 (69–27, in lieu of S. 1009)
Reported by the joint conference committee on July 26, 1988,
Agreed to by the Senate on July 27, 1988 (voice vote) and
By the House on August 4, 1988 (257–156,
Signed into law by President Ronald Reagan 8/10/88.
He opposed $reparations for WWII internment:
“Japanese-Americans should not
Be paid for fulfilling their obligations."
Some guys, I guess, would say, or
Do anything for Bohemia Club membership.
Plagued by night terrors, nonetheless,
His Manzanar nightmares, his vivid
Imaginary experience at other Japanese
Internment Sites: Tule Lake & Camp Rohwer.
Stalag (German pronunciation: [ˈʃtalak])
Stalags, infamous still,
“Stalags ‘R Us,”
Still palpable memories for
Issei ("first generation")
& Nisei ("second generation").
See: 323 U.S. 214. Korematsu v. United States
(No. 22: Argued: October 11, 12, 1944.
Decided: December 18, 1944.140 F.2d 289.
The opinion, written by Hugo Black,
Chief Justice Harlan Stone, Presiding.)

Hayakawa: a strange duck, of course,
But we mustn’t ignore his strong credentials,
And I’d like to disabuse anyone here
Of the notion that it was anything
Other than his academic record
That got his case to this Forum.
Oyez! Oyez! The gavel raps:
“The Curious Case of Sam Hayakawa.”
So begins this fractured Pardoner’s Tale,
This petition for forgiveness,
The Capo di Tutti Capi,
Presiding: the original Italian mafioso,
His Eminence--the Vicar of Jesus Christ,
The Supreme Pontiff
Pope Paparazzi of Rome!
Roma: the only venue large enough to
Dispense dispensation of this magnitude.

Hayakawa: everyone says his C.V. is “impeccable.”
But did anyone ever freaking Google it?
Just where did Professor Sam go to school?
Undergrad? The University of Manitoba,
Truly, by any Third World Standard
A great bastion of intellectual rigor;
Grad school? McGill and U Wisconsin-Madison.
He was a Canadian by birth,
His academic discipline was Semantics.
(As in “That’s just semantics,”
That all-purpose rejoinder in any argument.)
Professor Hayakawa, The Semanticist,
He taught us: “All thought is sub-vocal speech.”

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Hmmm? We think in words.
The medium of thought is language.
If you grok this for the first time,
Let’s stop to celebrate our enlightenment,
With a cultural nod of respect,
We salute our Islamic brethren.
Radical Islam: the new bogeyman,
Responsible for keeping lights on in Alexandria,
Paying the defense & intelligence bills,
Sustaining that sinister
Military-Industrial complex
Ike warned us about.
Hang in there, Mustafa, old buddy.
Like the Cold War, this insanity
Will eventually blow over.
Orwell’s Oceania will reshuffle
Its deck of global grab-***, and a
New enemy will suddenly appear.
Big Brother, as always,
In the full-control mode,
Simply put: on top of the situation.
So Hurrah!
Allāhu Akbar. “God is Great!
The Takbīr (the term for the
Arabic phrase: usually translated as
"God is [the] greatest.")

“All thought is sub-vocal speech.”
What a simple, yet profound insight!
Just a short hop, skip & jump to the
Realization that, perhaps, the clarity
& Power of our minds can be groomed,
Improved upon by mastery of—
In Sam’s case, anyway--the English Language.
Was this, perhaps, the germ of U.S. English,
The political lobbying organization
He co-founded, dedicated to making
English, the official language of the United States.
Hayakawa: a wooly conservative of his own design;
No wonder Governor Reagan loved him.

Dr. S.I. Hayakawa, a colorful and polarizing
Figure in California politics during the 1960s and 70s.
Can we forgive his daily afternoon naps.
Asleep on the floor of the U.S. Senate,
Leaving California so pathetically,
So ostensibly under-represented.
Senator Sam’s comatose presence at
Washington-on Potomac; the
District of Columbia.
A long time ago,
In a distant galaxy . . .
Far, far away.

TEAR GAS.
Alas, long before he got to Washington,
Long before ever setting foot off campus,
He called for tear gas to
Disperse those pesky college kids.
I repeat myself for emphasis:
He authorized the use of tear gas at SF State.
Tear gas: a lachrymatory agent?
Actually, a potentially lethal
Chemical agent . . .
(Yeah, Chemistry!
To wit: Sgt. Sara Brown,
Referencing “Guys & Dolls” again.)
Outlawed for use during wartime,
Banned in international warfare
Under both the 1925 Geneva Protocol; & the
Chemical Weapons Convention;
“Tear gas:  a weapon of war against
The people. We believe that
Tear gas remains a chemical weapon
Whether used on a battlefield, or city streets.”

Thus, history will be your judge,
You unleashed tear gas on college kids,
So I wouldn’t expect a rep makeover
Any time soon, Ichiye-san, my ichiban friend.
Maria Mitea Jun 2020
The Provocation on Highway 401/ By Maria Mitea

There will always be a provocation, temptation, elation
Someone inviting you for a fresh breath to take in, and out
when you, the day-to-day maker are driving, loving, or maybe make money
with a hammer in your hand hitting on a red iron.

Hey, you two, and three, five four, or maybe ten, and even thirteen
on a pin-up, or pin down you choose to live in Bohemia, or maybe,
not, or again maybe free love, wanderer, adventurer, or vagabond
with a hoarse voice, will invite you "Going Out West", and change your name.

I am in, even though I don't know what I mean, Please, before I start to write let me park at WalsMart, and my apology if you feel ignored or bored.
I have an important encounter on Wikihead with Tom Waist, intrigued if he meant anatomy or a cut of meat from the leg of a lamb, or maybe he liked to be, or feel in between for the rest that moved in thin blood and sotto voices.

I pulled in, and find out that Tom Waist was born after the ussr famine,
agogy to see what lives in his guts, what a bad habit, "girl! go back and read what's the challenge about." I hold in from searching his words and thoughts that he played on a yellow paper, and think " Hm, he was born after the famine, his music and poetry must've been concocted from hunger starving for life itself."

I click one more time wikihead, and I see that indeed he did all he could do on earth and not only, but he also dug underbelly, living in between starving his audience to tears with his hoarse voice and appetite for art. Then I need him more. I can feel how he invites us all for artistic addiction, and I need him more, on a smartphone, I am digging his music and stumble into the "House where nobody lives", bursting into tears.

There will always be a provocation, temptation, elation
Someone inviting you for a fresh breath to take in, and out
when you day-to-day maker drive, love, or maybe make money
with a hammer hitting on a red iron,

Hey, you two, and three, five four, or maybe ten, and even thirteen
on a pin-up, or pin down you choose to live in Bohemia, or maybe,
not, or again maybe free love, wanderer, adventurer, or vagabond
with hoarseness in his voice, will invite you "Going Out West",
and change your name.

I read again and again, and one more time I listen to a spot fyi " Going Out West", and ask if this was the "voodoo ... , I am gonna make myself available to you" without losing your composure you have your "voodoo" means that brought me back in tears in the "House where nobody lives",

Ones, hey, you two, and three, five four, or maybe ten, and even thirteen on a pin-up, or pin down you choose to live in Bohemia, or maybe, not, or again maybe free love, wanderers, adventurers, or vagabonds with hoarse voices will invite you "Going Out West", and change your name.
Thomas W Case 15h Challenge,
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
the gods' fear of a mortal's expression of itself, they fear it because the mortals cannot what the immortals can, express themselves, per se; when the mortals punctuate the immortals puncture... Zeus' brothel the ******* allowing; the gods fear a mortal expression of a noumenon as of kant, that could never accommodate phenomena of what is a guarantee of insects with constant replica; counter to being happy and being interesting; why not be simply sad and bewildering?*

i can't be bothered
living in a zoo
or in a scientists's brain
ignoring
what's happening
in politics,
give what's happening in
your expertise agenda a second
cage or opinion, before the laughable
comb-over quiff makes it to the standard
of a charlie chaplin moustache
trapped in a cage of would be jokes...
well, as long as there's no holocaust
we're all free! hurray hurrah!
czech republic too the former Bohemia
as a natural part of the *****.
Shelley Connor Apr 2015
Stuck between
Sense and bohemia
Hoping my son
When he grows
Will take his belle or beau
Into the woods
And explore
Feel the excitement
Of skin and leaves
And bark
And ferny floor
Like I once might
And might once more
Yet inhibited
By the fear
That what
We all we hold dear
Is so quickly taken
In a world so harsh
When we want
To run free
Embrace love and life
Feel the things
We don't see
But constrained
By the knowledge
Or perhaps
A new reality.
Anyelo Montero Jun 2014
Si éste intento de poema tuviese un nombre, debería ser el tuyo, pero por cobardía dejaré el anonimato. Después de todo...Siempre fuimos fanáticos del misterio.

Habían pasado tantos días. Tantas horas, tantos inviernos. Inviernos fríos que quemaban como infiernos.
Incendios. Incendios de nieve, supongo.

Nos vimos ese día luego de tanto tiempo. Tanto deseo acumulado ya nos estaba haciendo daño. Ja... ni siquiera nos dimos un abrazo, saltamos directo a los besos. Tengo que decirte; mis latidos estaban muy acelerados.

Lancé mis dados. No me importó el presente o los presentes que en las ventanas estaban asomados.

Y me mirabas a los ojos, y en los tuyos veía que eres mi principal demonio carnal. Pero a la final, si Dios existe sabe que tú no quieres ser ningún ángel.

Nos besamos en ese banco como si nos quisiéramos chupar el alma... Querida, tus besos sabían más exquisitos de lo usual a causa de la ***** barata. Y me arrebatabas el aliento.Y tus senos me me observaban detrás de tu escote; o quizás yo los observaba a ellos, pero no nos importaba.

Estabas tan errática. Tan radical que me era difícil seguirte el paso.

Ibas lanzando ***** sobre el piso y dulces gemidos a mis oídos. No te mentiré, me sentía cohibido. Renuncié a mi actitud bohemia y despreocupada de vaquero y me sentí cohibido. Pero lo que me crecía en el pantalón era muy real como para haberlo fingido. Sabes lo difícil que se me hace ignorar mis animales instintos.

Y no queríamos despedirnos. De irracionalidad pasamos a tecnicismos. Al: "No te vayas, quédate un rato más. Te haré café para que la ***** te deje de afectar". Y después los besos eran besos de tiernos adolescentes que se profesan amor eterno. Amor eterno que nunca fue correcto al momento.

Es triste como acabo todo, ¿no, querida? Es triste que ahora me odies y me hayas sacado de tu vida. Pero si lees esto... por favor, recuérdame.

Recuérdame tan imperfecto como soy.
Recuérdame en tu escote; bajando mis manos por tu espalda y llegando a tus nalgas.
Recuérdame escuchando esa canción que es mi canción favorita, y que escuchas solo por esa razón.
Como sea que quieras, pero recuérdame.

Yo siempre te recuerdo. Porque fuiste, eres y serás la autodestrucción que aún necesito.
Derrek Estrella Oct 2018
When in Bohemia, she screams about
Her pastures green, but not too loud
So never have I known, that the world listens too
As a comedian, I see she belongs
But never conforms, to the song of
This nomad world, I'm glad she found it too
So run! She wants to run again
You vagabond, you're well-spent

Bohemian tendencies says, “you can't stay long”
“These kinds of commons, you won't ever get along”

Armenian, it’s such a release
Materialistic animosity
The speed of life has no value, like dollar signs
I loved an alien, who dabbled in art
Of all visage, enema of the heart
Wanderer, she's spent so much but there's that bliss in the air
So smile! It's all sorts of worthwhile
To see a world and not fret so much

Bohemian tendencies says, “be spectacular
Before the nebula men steal your fur”

In the Caribbean, you dream a kite
As your taxi, you can't walk all the time
Travel hills of puce-mauve sands, the world in trance
A true deviant, the thinking of
All dreaming thoughts, and loves begot
Tinkerer, what will we do when our brains run dry?
Oh, no! Don't think about the end
To love a life in due pretence 

Bohemian tendencies says, “think fair, live now”
“The world is watching with distaste of time in doubt”

As a chameleon, should she go alone?
The world is cold, except for times in colour
Her world in dance, she'll do without me
When in Bohemian, the first I've seen
Of pastel stencils through her happi-
Ness-tled in her loft home of the wind
There she goes! Ain’t she a lovely wing?
I hope she finds a world that sings

Bohemian tendencies says, “to love and to hold
But to let go, for treasures can mold”

There she goes
There she goes
There she goes
Michael W Noland Aug 2012
a beast
bitterly binding
the broken books
of the benevolence
that be-seats
the thrones of thieves
a binary botulism baby
survived by
the lowest common denominator
lord of may be
the calamity shaker
shaking limbs from trees
he made me
who am i
to be enshrined by
the designs in which
he heaves the storms away
leaves the drones in decay
as of yesterday
in an electrical parfait
of symbiotic energy
******* tempting me
in its tether
as embryonic entities
shutter the flow
to the effects
that no one knows
of the development and growth
of self
and the foes he oppose
as was imposed upon
by force of will
exposed and deloused
of the shrill
cockiness instilled
in his build
aroused
in the post stillness
of his kills
he is i
and i am thrilled
to lower the shields
leveling out the playing field
and yielding
to the technical terminology
of my basic demonologies
of my ****** up philosophies
cloning the technologies
you infuse into the spirituality
of your broken dichotomy
just let me know
how that goes
as corrosive winds blow
through the boroughs
of your haunts
i can almost feel
the taunts
as i hear the boots clomp
turn to stomping through the door
enacting your unholy chores
in that which bares no reward
the price is blood
the cost is love
in which i cannot afford
unfurled upon the hoard
in torn intellect
abhorred in the twirls
of a de-cored vortex
inter-sexed
and robbed of originality
in the result of cultural finality
empty
in a sea of dreams
our heads blown apart
is only the start
as it seems
ill be whispering
from afar
by dark
yet to embark
from under the rage of my darkening heart
but if i hiss cyphers into your charts
ill become safer than the cause
as i shall get the sympathy
of the claws
across my character
in the jaws of the barrier
to non existence
its even scarier
than the persistence
of ignorant citizens
with hard-ons
and night vision
down-loadable intuition
with the precision of the averages
unlocked savages
in the ravages
of synthetic bliss
1.1 happiness
projected in eyelids
emptiness
defectors of the world
gotta free them
beat them
if you have to
defeat them in the bathroom with a knife
rip their chips of deceit
show them life
clip their legs in retreat
until they secrete
the evil from their throats
binary bohemia
pooling into a despondent
pool of blasphemy
drained happily
from the heads of greed
only when willing
to commit to killing
can we fix the dream
and control the lean
of modernized thinking
chromatically depleting
as our chromosomes are shrinking
not one inkling
nor notion
of the ocean sinking
before the rise
and in all that you bitterly despise
forgotten
as the world is washed
before your eyes
yet to realize
the compliance of failed tries
a crashed system of self told lies
yet ...
i still spy the better days
i can smell them in range
estranged
surprised
i muffle the cries
of demise
in reprise
of a new name
a fresh start
summarized
in the surmise
of restraint
the faint
whisper
delivering from here
the elixir of life's experiences
cryptically laid upon the sentences
of my ethereal commencements
the beautiful lessons
entrenched in the blemishes
the scars of the heart
impart
on you
the virtues
of the tried and true
blood sweat and tears
in the blurbs
of yesteryear
obtuse
it be my will
to instill
in you
the
jaded
truth
love yourself
and i shall
love you
too
Simone Gabrielli Jan 2017
Out West I found that
Dangerously glittering bohemian lifestyle.

Where Los Angeles falls down with joy
And rumbles deep from its canyon bellies

And when you need some sadness
You split to Berlin
And come back with none of your clothes.
La frente apoyo en la vidriera...
el cielo azul se engalana
y en la fúlgida primavera
canta su canción la mañana.

La mente inclino a lo más hondo
del alma en campos del Ayer;
y marchito miro en el fondo
todo lo que vi florecer.

Soplan auras primaverales
dando más vigor a los músculos.
¡Aquí las brumas otoñales
y el silencio de los crepúsculos!

En el parque crece la yerba
bajo el radiante resplandor.
En el alma todo se enerva
al paso lento del dolor.

Y evoco alegres ilusiones,
campos azules, abrileños;
la juventud con sus canciones
iba entre rosas y entre ensueños.

Fulgurante el cielo reía:
¡Cuán hermoso era el porvenir!
Vino la tarde en pleno día
y todo comenzó a morir.
La frente apoyo en la vidriera...
Verdes árboles, sol radiante
¡Juventud!… ¡también primavera
Fuiste del corazón amante!

¡Días que el alma triste evoca,
alba rosada del amor!
¡Boca que buscaba otra boca,
polen que va de flor en flor!...

En jardines primaverales
las libélulas entre aromas;
rosas rojas en los rosales
y destilando miel las pomas.

Y van surgiendo en un ensueño
amores de la juventud.
Pasan con el labio risueño
en concento de arpa y laúd.

Entonces... retoño y retoño
en los rosales a la aurora...
¡Como lenta bruma de otoño
la tristeza bajando ahora!

En el alma, al ensueño abierta,
algo de antiguo trovador,
y de la vida en la áurea puerta
con sus promesas el Amor.

De la luna la luz de plata
brillaba en el barrio desierto,
y una canción de serenata
subía al balcón entreabierto.

Pendiente la escala de seda
de los barrotes del balcón...
Del pasado ya sólo queda
un rescoldo en el corazón.

Paseos bajo luz de luna
por alamedas de rosales;
dos bocas que el amor aúna
en claras noches estivales...

Entonces... cantos, alegría,
juramentos de eterna fe;
y ahora, gris melancolía
del dichoso tiempo que fue...
La frente apoyo en la vidriera:
en el parque, vestidos blancos,
y amantes en su primavera
bajo los pinos en bancos.

Primeros versos a la amada,
cantos primeros de ilusión...
Son hoy cual queja desolada
en el fondo del corazón.

Tú, flor de la tierra nativa,
de los ojos fuiste embeleso.
Sólo a tu boca, rosa viva,
le dio la muerte el primer beso.

Cuando se recuerda el pasado
hay un deseo de llorar.
¡El árido camino andado
si se pudiera desandar!...

Sombras doloridas que vagan
y esperanzas muertas deploran:
Astros que en tinieblas se apagan
y voces que en silencio lloran!...

A la claridad matutina
fragante erguíase el rosal...
¡ya sobre el agua gris se inclina
la amarilla rama otoñal!...

Una palabra... un juramento...
¿era verdad o era mentira?
Mentira o verdad es tormento
cuando sola el alma suspira.

Se abría a la luz la ventana
en un radioso amanecer,
la ilusión decía: «¡Mañana!»
y el corazón dice: «¡Ayer!».

¡Mañana! ¡Ayer! Polos remotos...
lo que es dolor y lo que salva.
Claros sueños y sueños rotos,
gris de la tarde y luz del alba.

Y el Amor, que en sombras se aleja,
el alma dice: «¿Volverás?»
Y como una lejana queja
se oye en el pasado: «¡Jamás!»

La hiedra fija sus raíces
aún bajo nieve en la piedra.
Recuerdos de días felices:
sois del corazón... ¡siempre hiedra!
Aromadas rosas de Francia
en los casinos y en el Ritz;
Rosas que dais vuestra fragancia
en Montecarlo y en Biarritz.

Reservados de restaurantes;
de vida de goce ansias locas;
El áureo champaña espumante;
temblando de ósculo las bocas.

Nerviosa espera la cita,
Penumbra de la «garconniére»,
Fausto a los pies de Margarita
En el rosado atardecer…

Otra... Extraño acento de arrullo,
honda nostalgia en su mirada,
y severo siempre su orgullo
en su dolor de desterrada.

Su imagen el pasado alegra,
y fijos en la mente están
su traje blanco y su capa negra
en las carreras de Longchamps.

Días lejanos de estudiante,
embriaguez de ideal divino,
El corazón, rosa fragante,
en noches del Barrio Latino...

Midineta bulevardina,
boca roja, frente de lis,
Incitadora, parlanchina,
jilguero alegre de Paris.

Y del «cabaret» la alegría...
¿Era del Rhin o era del Volga?
¿en su vida un misterio había...
¿era su nombre Elisa u Olga?

En otra, del vuelo al arranque,
mirar nostálgico... y ¡pasó!
Muchas veces junto a un estanque
soñando la luna nos vio.

Tú, mejicana-parisina,
de cabellos como aureola
de luz de sol, y habla divina
entre francesa y española.

En la tristeza de un suspiro,
lejos, a la orilla del mar,
una margarita aún te miro
melancólica deshojar.

Húngara triste, flor bohemia,
De ojos miosotis de Danubio:
¡cuán adorable era anemia
En marco de cabello rubio!

Tus pupilas vagas de Isis
fingía decir un adiós;
Y casi exangüe por la tisis
caíste en golpe de tos...
La frente apoyo en la vidriera...
Un claro sol el cielo dora,
riega rosas la primavera...
El otoño en el alma llora.

Se oye como una voz que ruega,
como un gemido de laúd...
¡Es en la tarde que llega
el adiós de la juventud!
R Moon Winkelman May 2010
I am surrounded.
Surrounded by beautiful artists,
artists from every way to birth creativity.
for we give birth to memories
help them ease into their next incarnation
we bring the memory of music and words
images I'm sure my cave dwelling grandmother
dreamt of one night after a heavy meal.
we are each
in league with Da Vinci, Socrates, Shakespeare
We dream their dreams
We see their visions
We see our own simultaneously
We walk up to them in the dreamtime
shake hands
and sit for a cup of joe.
For me the title of
Bard is not easily given
it is a very sacred role in this world
It is the voice of the Otherworld in ours
It is the touch of the Muse
Yet, I am in the midst of so many Bards.
How do I find myself in this beautiful life?
I feel the excitement building
I feel the Muses converging
they have been working overtime recently
The amount of energy created in the birthing of a creation
stirs the energy around it, creating more
these are the ripples in the cosmic pond.
Who ever threw the pebble in the midst of my family
Thank you
Our homes will be messy
Our eyes red
Our clothes disheveled
But the things we will create!
The epic stories we will tell!
This locomotive is speeding up
The universe is slowly cutting away all those things
which get in the way
Sometimes it's a loved one
sometimes it's a trinket
sometimes it's your whole way of life
whatever it is
I see the obstacles around each of you
falling away
I see your lights shining brighter and brighter
Are you ready?
We are sitting in the midst of a renaissance
we are the renaissance
and I for one am relieved to be
Right Here,
Right Now.
RMRW 06
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.i might have been an *******, on many occasions and with many instances of it being true... but attempting to take someone's life? even i couldn't be such a ******* in the worst of probable instances; no, i'm pretty sure we were doing the "sleeper game", and like i once asked myself cognitively, 'what will be the last song i'll ever hear?' well... it wasn't good morning, or godless, or muhammad... it was... sleep... from the 13 tales of urban bohemia album; befitting, don't you think?

there's no point investing in
the current narrative,
given, that, the moderns
do not entertain the notion
of a dialectics...
    personally i don't see
the point...
or a, point...
          how can there be
debate "concerning",
a, "freedom" of speech,
when one side speaks,
the other side listens,
and then exercises authority
over the former side,
that abolishes their,
"freedom" to continue discourse?
that's not a, "freedom"...
that's... taunting
for the sake of taunting
and subsequent obliteration...
this?
  this particular piece?
i'm not talking...
    i have a cat sleeping
in my bed, in a fetal
position like an alien embryo,
and i'm taking?
who's talking?!
hearing voices in your head?
oh don't worry...
whoever is in charge
will gravitate to moving on
the one politicized medical
condition, schizophrenia,
as an excuse to cage you...
i know... i was also uneasy
when it came to making
a protest...
and guess what...
i made the right accusations...
but i hear of no law suit...
kinda figures, if i'm not being
sued, "merely" labelled
mentally ill...
  hence the... perpetual silence
surrounding my claim...
i can eve give you the details...
he said it was Salvia...
  a south american hallucinogenic...
and he said he hallucinated
riding an elephant,
in India...
         and he also encouraged
the driver of the car to smoke
**** which included almost
veering of the road...
and prior to that fateful day,
we went to a party,
and he made marijuana brownies...
and i donned a cowboy hat
and posed for a picture
like some Buddha with slit
eyes...
         and his friend encouraged
me to do a, "sleeper" while listening
to some Dandy Warhols',
song?
coin toss:
either Muhammad,
  Good Morning...
                    or Godless...
  "sleeper"?
when you get high,
lie down...
  and have two speakers on each side
of your head
blasting music...
a gimmick, a revision of
the concept of headphones...
where?
Canterbury... with a good view
of the cathedral...
the next day...
   spring frost... lovely tinge on
the cathedral from the sunrise...
also went to a bookshop
in Canterbury...
lovely atypical market / cathedral
town narrow streets...
what book did i buy?
inevitable revolutions:
the united states in central america,
by walter lafeber...
so i guess i must be mad...
given that i remember so many details...
regarding the day
i experienced a psychotropic
poisoning,
experienced a brain hemorrhage...
with my face...
melting on the...
here's a problem...
was it the left hemisphere or the right?
i'm not sure...
left?
or right?
   but the sensation of being ingested
by the sofa, and having
difficulty breathing...
with his friend...
as i drowned...
    imitating riding a
Lego-land choo-choo train...
and the fear in his eyes,
the eyes of: someone who failed
to ****** someone
but at the same time fearful
of the intended act?
      i should be dead for...
oh... 21... i'm 32 now...
11 years...
         i might be an alcoholic,
but i have a memory like an elephant...
and i'd believe all the crap
i've heard over the past years...
but if they only drove me to
the hospital...
   out of a simple human empathy...
instead, i was driven home...
i'm surprised they didn't smother me
after witnessing me get up,
and get 4 shots to the head
of my consciousness retracting
from the hemorrhage...
as they recalled back to me,
i said: i'm looking for the 4 other Matthews.
but i'm not a rat...
i am waiting for karma...
i played happy birthday on
the guitar on one of his birthdays...
and i'm guessing...
my sweet sweet love...
Ilona, that russian *****...
hey... she proposed,
she chose the engagement ring,
and then she broke it off!
is behind all of this,
i'm guessing, thanks to social media,
they ****** and she complained
how she was planning to enslave
me by becoming pregnant...
baby... i was so going to propose
you donning a latex **** suit
to extend on the ******...
and he being a Muslim...
and all things quasi-Irish
with regards to my advice to her,
poor thing, only 19...
hey... get an abortion...
   was the Mullah in a bright
white turban, ready to save a damsel...
but i thought that abortion
was legal in England?
oh hell.. pro life and ****...
but a 19 year old?
so why didn't she move to London
with me?
  i had a job here... there was no
prospect for me back in Edinburgh!
   ah... two flats in St. Petersburg...
but i guess that's how law & justice works
in England...
i'm a ruined drunk,
he's a son of a radiologist
             and a mother working
in the perfume avenues of a John Lewis...
my father is a respect industrial
roofer,
   my mother is a housewife...
i guess... i guess me being a boorish
drunk and he becoming an esteemed
corporate lawyer is karma...
   i wish him all the best...
but his children?
   what my parents experienced when
the circus came to town...
all the possible misery,
in the whole, entire, world.

but coming back to current affairs...
there's no point,
absolutely none,
in expressing a, "freedom" of speech,
since expressing such
a "freedom",
is not met with an engagement
in dialectics...
none!
   so why bother...
let's join the four horsemen,
with ***** on either side of our
eye-sockets...
and just charge forward
like a hurricane might,
mindless and in perpetuation
of complete, and utter,
destruction...

i'm up for that explanation
with regards to an exit
policy,

mind you,
happiness could savor
a peace of mind...
but sarcastic humor,
once upon a time...
also could;
as it does...
dutiful to expecting
the final closure
of relying
on the uttermost,
relief.
Here now by many paths convoluted,
Ever trying the thoughts new, acted on.
Heeding just,streams conscious flowing,
Changed and morphed in an instant blinking.

Hair long,then shaved, now streaked orange grey
Suits to jeans,tore them,robes spiritual,now **** pray!
Was straight,turned metro,for all open,but curious still,
Body clean,got pierced, now adorning pasts tattooed!
Gurus, philosophies many, still a fool ever journeying.

Heard Bach,reggaed to Marley,wood-stocked,now fused.
Loved intense,let go easy,Kama sutras experimented on.
Traveled afar,lived as a local,now a foreigner everywhere,
Hip-pied from smoke to grass,yoga to parties raved hard.

Against wars, sat in for peace elusive,fought all,now stoic,
Never shocked or surprised,took all as came,now strong.
The set mind,everchanging,the physical a compliment cosy,
Unrecognizable now,existing totally, being happy, normally?
Many shout, freak! I smile,walk on to my home in Bohemia!
Your bow swept over a string, and a long low note
     quivered to the air.
(A mother of Bohemia sobs over a new child perfect
     learning to **** milk.)

Your bow ran fast over all the high strings fluttering
     and wild.
(All the girls in Bohemia are laughing on a Sunday afternoon
     in the hills with their lovers.)
Sara L Russell Feb 2014
14th Feb 2014

They are all around us, 
within, without, above, behind and before us;
Fanning the flames of the famous, the wealthy and fortunate
with secret agendas and infamous fame of their own.

I throw a stone
send it crashing through houses of glass; I see their
comings and goings in the Grove of Bohemia;
drinkers and liars; role-playing fraternity fools.

There are rules.
It takes more than just peeing at trees to be properly manly;
secrecy more than life is at stake when the fodder is human,
throw off your cares to the punitive furnace of hate.

Such ill-fate
that begets our world leaders, hatched out of a tangible darkness;
parasitic, calamitous, venomous world-gobbling evil
Mammon, devourer of souls, will preside at the feast.

And the Beast,
Fourth Beast of Daniel, squats at the head of the table,
fabled for pitiless torture of souls in transgression,
slavers and gloats over innocence lost and despoiled.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
To those who are not worried by what our world leaders get up to at Bohemian Grove: perhaps you should be.
Arik Fletcher Aug 2012
There is no star to light your way,
No peace within your mind,
No comfort in the words you say,
When freedom’s left behind.

There is no whisper in your ear,
No glint within your eye,
No spark to keep your friendships near,
When beauty is a lie.

There is no sun upon your skin,
No hope within your soul,
No release from your mortal sin,
When truth has lost control.

There is no touch upon your hand,
No love within your heart,
No warm embrace to help you stand,
When lovers drift apart.
Brian O'blivion Jul 2013
painted royal blue (blood cells) from a seaside without a from our
sea the air thinner (our last year among) next to a forest with no life now
trees beyond the inner (our last night) stood a moment once erased laid to waste
                                                                          
                                                                    

the queen of the earth
is ******* on my rebirth
ohwhargirthhasmyrebirth!
the queen of earth is without mirth
she regrets
there is a dearth
but still she *****
forallshesworth
avirginbirthihaveunearthed!                                   (limited space) clifford brown in nega
                                                                                         tive space an impossible place (max roach)
                                                                                          all in a day’s pace kenny dorham first base
                                                                                             forever to replace
                                                                                                       the worst case
EC Pollick Oct 2013
Oh baby –
We were doomed from day one.

Though we weren’t in the Jazz age,
and we weren’t in the modern age,
We were in the age of us.

Wings on my eyelashes,
A silky robe around my shoulders,
You wore a vest and a tee shirt—
Indulged in cowboy bohemia;
God, it was ****.

Oh baby, we thought we were unstoppable
We drank too much
Met new people by liquid courage
And found fearlessness suited us well.
We harnessed the trade winds
and went where we wanted.

Interest and innovation embedded in curiosity;
In art and newness and literature and truth.
Calling ******* like we saw it
We were entitled and young and free
No restraints
And hey, maybe that was the problem.

The problem with freeness
Is running and running and running
Until you forget what you’re running towards
And instead find
You’re actually running from.

Oh baby-
We were doomed from day one
We just didn’t know it yet.
I’m just too tired to run anymore.

I could have been like Zelda.
Tired from the facade,
Strong and petrified at the same time,
Finding distractions in every part of life
That made me forget we weren’t as free as we thought we were.

God, Baby—
Didn’t you know we were doomed
From the very first day we met?
I suppose I should thank you:
Thanks for breaking my heart;
You saved me from breaking my own.

I could have been like Zelda.
Connor Apr 2015
A firetruck races past the isolate Blue Fox and infinity. Dulcimer clatters fading brickwork on the cross markets and churches where blind men are the imagining heaven. Luminescent Volcanic leaves heated from sunfire beautiful in the Spring choke lanes which are battered by abstract cavern homes. What happened to the Orient Harpsichord Serenity? Where does the Blue Fox go? Incense Markets Sauna with Smoke are busy in Denpasar while I'm here at a North American shopping mall where Ivory Columns cradled in violet fauna do wait sturdy and enchanted in rows.
Here I'm waiting by the leather clay shade bench in silent meditation breathing community whispers and listening clear to water pour from the lionhead fountain. Parrots caw atop a wide gated ceiling facing Empyreus.

There is a fire in America. The Blue Fox is hidden beneath firs and palms bathing in humidity. The Blue Fox is writing prophecies of economic collapse and rampant pointless murders making the newspapers. Ash storms blazing while banana painted trucks row on row attend to Victorian wood panels cooling to onyx powder in too short a time. There is no room for learning when The End Times go too quickly.
I'm listening to Bob Dylan scream instrumental prayer on harmonica rough against my ears. The Blue Fox treads February Beaches a few hundred miles from Australia and whistling the words of flowers in his head. He chews on wheatgrass jangling change in his fur pockets like those cartoons. He is the vision of Bohemia, he is an active star dazzled in this beguiled galaxy, yet in his spine he carries the turmoil doppleganger kept by all and known by none.
The firetrucks are doing all they can to quell the lung-poison vase boiling an apartment dancing inside but it continues to grow in its enraged fury.

There's a fire in America boys and girls, come around and see.
Canoes of memorial gold row through oppression and genocide, the Inuits and First Peoples of ancient years are wondering too where the blue fox went when agony cries the air. Stories of wisdom replaced with stories of war. Balaclavas labyrinthine through  exotic Bazaars thick with music and plants hanging off fishhooks and brass coat hangers while I write and dream of such Valhallas in my shopping mall on a quiet afternoon.
Bill is playing the banjo with faded paint and a single broken string, there he is on Yates! Cowboy hat made of charcoal velvet holding a meager collection of change.  
Stephen Schizophrenia is lying on his back watching aluminum kingdoms hover on by expanding nimbus clouds. He has eleven dollars to his name along with a damaged half torn belt with his initials engraved on the buckle  He taps his feet to Edith Piaf howling "La Vie En Rose" while an Airplane collides with his sacred personal aluminum palace, suddenly he can't block out the repressed memories he's fought decades to hide deep and dark in his bleak jazz enthralled brains.

Maybe we're all supposed to fall apart. Maybe we're designed to hurt and cause hurt. Where is that ****** Blue Fox? He's ebullient, thoughts fragmented in sharp bliss glass cutting him through while he rolls around the sands catching Buddha particles in his paws digging holes on Kuta Beach to his Idyllic land where happiness is forever and therefore false.

The Blue Fox falls in love overwhelming with everybody and every soul. So many souls by the billions every place! Even the tyrants. Even the demons. Even the necrophiliac scoring an OD'd brunette at twenty six from Anaheim who collapsed flatlined by prescriptions on a 3rd floor Complex.
He adores the narcissist who loves everybody as fully as The Blue Fox as long as they are herself. She is the harmonic untainted flytrap unaware of its own venomous nature but jealous of Summer and jealous of those whose names are heralded through generation to generation.
He adores The addict who is hollow of everything but the ****** sizzling under his patchy skin while he sinks from divinity swelling through his heart. He smiles while the remaining light dies inside him, left with only the regret remedies of suicide.
He adores The artist who fled to the big City and became nothing but watered down pigment after the Capitalists tossed him off the nearest skyscraper shouting pretentious metaphors.

The Blue Fox loves them all! He has no concept of the corrupt, or the lazy, or the greedy and needy and crazy and forgotten. They are all equal to him! The Blue Fox is knelt on paisley carpet smooth and spectacular! His regular India ashram, uplifting his body and his mind. The blue fox knows no doubt. Or anxiety, frailty or tears. He has no impulse or desire. The Blue Fox is joy in form and breathing spectrums of color mixing to combinations we cannot perceive.

There is a fire in america. It rages on unstoppable. It engulfs countries thousands of miles and histories away. It swallows the morning, noon and night. It protrudes disease in its wake. It heats up the ozone layer allowing radiation to make us more than cancer the zodiac. It causes our terror. It blots out our ardor. It havocs our heroes. Nothing is clean anymore. There is a fire in America.

And America is the world!  I'm watching out the front doors of this shopping mall where an elderly man trips at the food court escalator and becomes more renowned with every lethal collision down the tiles of freedom. Paramedics arrive shortly after and attend to another scalded by that same fire.
Up and up it goes!
Las dulces mensajeras de la tristeza son...
son avecillas negras, negras como la noche.
¡Negras como el dolor!
¡Las dulces golondrinas que en invierno se van
y que dejan el nido abandonado y solo
para cruzar el mar!
Cada vez que las veo siento un frío sutil...
¡Oh! ¡Negras avecillas, inquietas avecillas
amantes de abril!
¡Oh! ¡Pobres golondrinas que se van a buscar
como los emigrantes, a las tierras extrañas,
la migaja de pan!
¡Golondrinas, llegaos! ¡Golondrinas, venid!
¡Venid primaverales, con las alas de luto
llegaos hasta mí!
Sostenedme en las alas... Sostenedme y cruzad
de un volido tan sólo, eterno y más eterno
la inmensidad del mar...
¿Sabéis cómo se viaja hasta el país del sol?...
¿Sabéis dónde se encuentra la eterna primavera,
la fuente del amor?...
¡Llevadme, golondrinas! ¡Llevadme! ¡No temáis!
Yo soy una bohemia, una pobre bohemia
¡Llevadme donde vais!
¿No sabéis, golondrinas errantes, no sabéis,
que tengo el alma enferma porque no puedo irme
volando yo también?
¡Golondrinas, llegaos! ¡Golondrinas, venid!
¡Venid primaverales! ¡Con las alas de luto
llegaos hasta mí!
¡Venid! ¡Llevadme pronto a correr el albur!...
¡Qué lástima, pequeñas, que no tengáis las alas
tejidas en azul!
Him
He'd be more
than one page in your journal
this man, Yorkshire-born,
anthropology at Pembroke,
the one who wrote
about a fox and a song.
Piano music in the room,
British-bohemia.
You, enthralled,
wonderfully drunk
among turtle-necked boys,
friends of his
and then him,
the unscratchable diamond
you wanted bad.
     'Then the worst happened.'
Earrings like tears in his palm,
two accents mixing,
new paints in a ***.
Before long
he'd be chucking
clods at your window
though you wouldn't be home.
But his name would spray
from your mouth for good.
Written: February 2014.
Explanation: A poem (work in progress) that is likely to be part of my third-year university dissertation regarding Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath, and the follow-up to previous poem ‘Her’ (please read.)
On Saturday 25th February 1956, Hughes and Plath met at a party celebrating the launch of Saint Botolph's Review, a literary magazine that Hughes contributed to. This meeting occurred at Falcon Yard, an inn that was located very close to Petty Cury in Cambridge, England.
Ted Hughes studied at Pembroke College, switching from English to Archaeology and Anthropology in his third year. The poems referenced are ‘The Thought-Fox’ and ‘Song’ from his debut collection.
In her journals, Plath mentions how there was piano music and boys in turtle-neck sweaters - she also says that she became ‘very very beautifully drunk.’
‘Unscratchable diamond’ comes from Hughes’s poem ‘The Casualty’ and was quoted by Plath to Hughes that night. According to Plath, Hughes removed her earrings and said he’d keep them.
As described briefly in his poem ‘Visit’, one evening Hughes threw soil-clods at (what he believed) was Plath’s window, accompanied by his friend Lucas.
Feedback is most welcome.
Autumn Whipple Jan 2015
When I was younger, I saw life
As white houses in neat rows
I loved the chrome, the steel, the metal dreams
The feel of sand and dirt and seams
There was only the meadow, the machine, and me

Now everydays an endless stream
Of cigarettes and magazines
I’m trying my best to be just like them-
A sad sirens song with red lipstick on
A ******* kicker, with a heroine heart

They say I’m dangerous because I don’t know what I want
They say I f@cked my way to the top.
Well we all mourn atop skyscrapers
As they clamor for judgment day
But I’m not afraid of dying
When the words of prophets are written on the subway walls
And the good crawl down to tenement halls

They sing for fame, liquor, love, scream give it to me
Because I thought I was sitting pretty on the throne of metal steel and chrome
Fools, I say, you do not know
That all I want now is to be left alone

So I sit up at night talking to the moon
Becoming so lost its like I never existed in the first place
Listening to the fabulous clockwork of heart and lungs
Listening to all heart’s dints and machinations
Made of metal and tears and chrome


I was lovely once, marred forever by a pair of (heart shaped glasses)
The foulmouthed flower of bohemia
Moonshine, take me to the stars tonight
While I’m not afraid to live fast and die young
Among the whispering , the champagne and stars

Angry yet, half in love
With death in the cooling twilight
Singing an arsonists lullabye with the workers in songs
For I stumbled into trouble, got my makeup on
A red lipstick sirens sad song
Of metal, steel, and chrome

Its real hard to be free when you are bought and sold
And only money makes you smile
They tell me I did it but we blew it
They say I’m too young to worry ‘bout burning out
So come on, let me bite the bullet now

I’m stuck in the landscape, the loveclub
I'll save you a seat next to me down below
This heights messing with my head
The ground calling to me
Like something out a dream
I’m scared to jump but terrified to stay
And this way I’ll never, feel no pain.

my boy builds coffins, don't ya know
of metal, steel, tears, and chrome
ok, so this is a found poem... all credits listed below. paramour. the animals, Lana del ray, ray Bradbury, Simon and Garfunkel, Lorde, Bruno mars, Bruce Springsteen, the amazing adventures of  kavalier and clay, Anne Waldman, the great Gatsby, easy rider, Thompson, Marilyn Manson, Hozier, Robert delong, cold war kids. Florence and the machine. that's all folks!
Martin Rombach Jan 2015
So...

Amongst the immersion of the externally influential
Big bright screens letting me play hero, or watch others create unreal stories
Clutter building as the forms get done forgettably, the washing gets washed, the bills get paid
I take a moment to self indulge, just a little more in this first world bohemia

But.. how do you make tangible a feeling from a song? A memory of a smile? A dream of a success you haven't constructed..

Keep chipping away the boss says
Keep your head up the friend says
Keep in contact my mother says
I do, but forgive me for feeling fraudulent spending so much time and money on mindless self indulgence.

It's the ones who do what they aren't told who create their own destinies the old ones say
It's the ones who refrain from giving their identity to icons of fame I find myself feeling, a certain hypocrisy found in my dreams of great cultural figures giving my success a piggyback
It's the one who swim among the people in natural confidence that gather gratification in bohemia and ***
And it's the ones who set up barriers through the anxiety built from our own cages, that get left behind.
At least, that's what they say, without saying anything..
I'm trying to prove them wrong, I want to say.

I'm trying to create a world that feels pure, and other times feel fraudulent
I'm trying to create people that represent something other than my misshapen perceptions of social conduct
But I'm also wasting away in front of the screen, the digital *****, and that shames me in my useless solitude
And I'm also losing ups to downs, lost in the past, lost in loss

But.
I know the baseline, the cracked open truth and the value of a smile
I know the beautiful siren call from finely picked singers whose fruit tastes better
I know the man who stands naked leaving the shower, features defined and eyes determined to become more empowered

Piece by piece, question by question I'm on my way
I hope anyway... it's very easily to lose this up to a down, to lose direction to a shattering of self
But as I draw out the baseline with more clear features, shading defining a face and words defining principles
The wild clusterfuck of falling down becomes an abstract with a tangible definable outline
The overall structure of where I'm going put together on paper and trusted digital files
So... I feel a little bit more control

Forgive me though reader, brief friend who allows me openness among strangers
If I fear that I could grow stale and fat as a manchild with too many toys
Or crash through paper floors into an old skin that burns so easily
And forgive me once more for allowing myself just a moment
To step away from this hilariously comfortable life I clatter all ****** up through

So I can have a beer, a cigarette, or a cup of tea
Sit amongst peers, incense or nature
And smile to the fact that I might be doing this right for once
Henra Aug 2012
Another chance
Night sky resurrection 
Bruise then
Soothes 

You choose 
Through whisky blues
Cheap tattoos 

Busy streets
Teeming life grooves
To strange beats
Existential speakeasies 
Proves
Electric existence
Is Heavenly

A strange bohemia
Resounds, crowns
Road side cafes
Girls with belly 
Button rings,
Sing
In different hues
Multicolored moods

Hipsters, weirdos,
Freaksters
Congregate in this
Urban delight
Torn jeans, 
Worn boots
Christmas lights hang 
From baristas roof

Eclectically surreal
Is how I feel 
Cars passing by
Intermingle
I drop my dime
And head on
To my next
Crawl
Adasyev Jul 2016
A few blooms in Bohemia
for your hair do a duty
and make their red heavier
to fit the brown of your beauty.

But how many gallows
morals have built along the trees!
Joyful sin, tell me, in their shadow,
are flowers allowed to please?

The burdock and nettles
are growing as every year
and so people of Protectus settle
with their tracts everyone's ear.

Praying is just a waste
as it was at the time I was born.
The blooming aloe is my taste
of your black hair adorned.
From Melancholic Journey (1906)
Martin Rombach Dec 2014
Purpose is always a strange one
A concept that can be subjective, malleable, difficult to attain or even define
Some of us let the institutions, the societal and the familial help define it, I know I have
Some of us alter our brain chemistry, travel to new places or dive into bohemia in pursuit of it, or maybe to escape from it
Others just let themselves build purpose out of emotion, personality, english or maths, political affiliation, talents and passions
The lucky ***** who can take the abstract phantom, as familiar as the inconceivable cells that form us, and create something real and identity defining

I hope to count myself among them, picking my pursuits and examining my psychology to put myself in the right direction
I guess my purpose has been one of retribution and self examination, one which I am proud to succeed in small ways in creating
Clearing out the hoarder's den of emotional and slightly Freudian interconnection bursting uncomfortably behind my eyes
And rebuilding, the work a combination of investigation and trial and error, gradually developing a man I didn't need to hate anymore

Now I speak to you through a portrait that isn't for sale, allowing me free reign over the paints
But.. forgive me if I feel as though my journey is coming to fruition at a bad time for the world around me, a sod's ******* law that leaves a bitter taste
And forgive me if on this journey, that I realise the repression from previous years, what I see as a valid anger for enemies brief and bashful or longer present and more traitorous
An anger that in the true macro context of a global battlefield and an era of apathy and division, is irrelevant and selfish
But when someone you love ***** you over, and you know they are out there giving into a weak parasitic nature that you despise, and becoming less of the image of them you loved when you could stand the ******* sight of them
I feel like I have the right to be angry, and that anger has become a preoccupation, but.. education has taught me perspective, and my pursuit of purpose has taught me what's important - my responsibility to enjoy life and continue passed this distracting anger

I am not homeless, I am not ill, I am not under threat
I do not live in the various definitions of slavery my brothers, and more so my sisters are exposed to
I do not fear death, a fear which spreads validly throughout the global war zone, as the powerful find new and interesting ways to give up their humanity
I do not sit in the streets uncomfortable from the cold surrounded by the nicest shops unable to buy something to eat

My life is on an upward momentum and each step I take and each new friend I find reminds me that it might just be worth it
Reminds that my pursuit of purpose, while slightly less tangible than that of the doctor with a patient or the soldier with a mission, takes precedent
Contentment and health, writing the story and learning the trade, contributing both socially and through hard graft to a company I don't have any ethical issue with
And diving headlong into bohemian self indulgence and social revelry
Whilst gradually constructing a self image that can actually encourage a smile out of me
I feel like for the first time I'm doing life right

So while I may have days where the air tastes bitter, where my psychology fails at helping maintain my preferable way of being seen
And days when it's just a bit ****
I feel like I have purpose, a direction and decent image of myself
So I remember to be grateful, quit my ******* and keep going
This is super long lol. Its coming from a lot of stuff though.
T Stevens Dec 2013
I'm hoping you have no doubts I'm writing this to and about you. : )
Thank you for finally letting me know you know I'm alive.
Just thinking about talking to you makes the butterflies go crazy.
My heart beats then skips a beat when I see you around town and I
swear it's strictly by accident. I'm not actively following you around.
I haven't been to sleep because I'm up thinking about you
but not in the sick and twisted Bardo way of stalking then killing.
I haven't been searching for your address or where you hang
out like that anonymous lunatic posting that on Craigslist forum.
I still want your phone number but only if you want to give it.
You asked the impossible melting snow against weatherman's
predictions and you got this hold over me like I never felt before.
Are you a keeper of  unworldly secrets of magic or someone who is
quite lovely and is just plain an extraordinarily special and gifted lady?
I'd like to discover that for myself if you would agree to meet me at
Little Bohemia it's aka Lil Bo's by us locals to hear a Jazz band.
It's a public place and I heard it through the grapevine you popped
in a few times but I can't say that's true, I wasn't there and it's hear say.
Person said you entered alone but didn't sing and it looked like
you were having a good time being a chatty patty and hearing the band.
The more I get to know about you lady the more I want to discover.
You got a wish and mine is not as impossible as yours I'm hoping.
I want in my life a lady like you who oozes confidence when she enters
a room and when she's being chatted up by complete strangers.
I will be in the parking lot watching the door and enter if you enter.
Hoping to see you Friday night and hoping to see that gorgeous smile.
Hoping you agree to meet me but if not I will keep on hoping for that.
Cement formed volume,
Honed to the shape of a missile,
Spun like stars and stripes of red
In redundant revolution.

Then Orbit composed another turn
Through fluid streams of time,
Those dry and slowly-sorted sheaves,
Darkening pleasures for the Lion.

A dusty labor to be sure
Of moths of brittle fame;
Thus, the rocky mane eroded
And the beast no longer gained.

He went aloft as condors do,
Borne from flickering fire
'Neath the black Atlantian Sea,
Where none should have dared conceive.
Fa Be O Jan 2013
sos ese pájaro:
plumaje purpura,
azul,
verde bosque....
sos así,
un canto fuerte, claro
retumbante
entre las hojas de los arboles,
fluido,
parecido a los rayos de sol
que se pasean entre las ramas....
sos ese pájaro,
y yo trate,
si que trate,
mantenerte en mi jaula.
pero hasta yo,
deslumbrada como lo estaba
sabia,
sabia desde el fondo de mi corazón
que no estaba bien:
que te conocí silvestre,
libre
y que si así te quise,
así tendría que quererte aun.
abrir esa jaula fue agridulce.
volaste, sin siquiera pensarlo,
sin siquiera voltearme a ver,
una alma bohemia, al fin.
te extraño.
de vez en cuando escucho to dulce canto,
y aunque triste,
se que te sigo queriendo,
y se que así es mejor.
1/20/13
Anyelo Montero Jun 2014
Tener mente de escritor es probablemente una de las más grandes maldiciones que se le puede concebir a una persona.

    Primero; comienzas a cuestionar todo a tu alrededor, no pierdes ni un detalle. Ya no es buscar a tu novia, que vive pasando la esquina. Es despertar; ver que el día está algo nublado. Pensar que las nubes grises te gustan y te causan paz y eso te causa cierta bohemia y te da ganas de escribir algo. Ya no es caminar; es andar. Andar viendo el suelo y pensar: "Mis pasos son lentos... a mi alrededor todo es taciturno. Las nubes, oh, dulces nubes. Dulces pero amargas formas que luego destruirán el cielo y mojaran la arena con su transparente sangre".

   Segundo; no es ver a tu novia esperando en su puerta; es: "Y ahí estaba ella... tan hermosa... tan delicada. Tan irreal que me causaba gozo sólo existir para poder verla a la vuelta de la esquina...".

   Ahora, imaginemos aplicar éste principio mórbido e involuntario a cada aspecto de la vida.
   Tener mente de escritor es probablemente una de las más grandes maldiciones que se le puede concebir a una persona.

— The End —