"bongo" poems
♪♫♪♪
Your beaded snakeskin loincloth
strung beneath humid palms
cool rippling breeze that calms
our hammock hung under thatch
what a catch . . .
your Amazons running into my Congo
lost track of my bongo
back about one mile
from the sources of the Nile:
your jungle smile.
Restoring all celestial things
deep within your tropical clearings . . .
flowing slowly, going loco
at the mythic mouth of the Orinico;
shake your nut-brown biospheres
and banish all my worldly fears.
Dusk is nearing — clearing the hill
insects trilling a sinuous thrill;
the yuca half-mashed in the clay ***
the witch doctor hungover in his hut
while our little fire smolders
near the mountains of the moon
—or are they only boulders?
Come soon
Jesus, Lord of the Jungle . . .
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
Here he comes the big bad monkey banana ****** wit the jungle as his flunky,
Fully equipped with his hundred yard stare and a streak of silver in his hair,
Animals of the jungle kneel to his feets,
Cause he pocesses the strength and swag of 50 fleets,
Not blood thirsty but his thirst varries from figs to berries, here he comes king of the Congo beating his chest like a bongo,
Doughter don't laugh clear his path or feel his raph,
Prime mate top of the food chain when it comes to terror they are one in the same
When it comes to terror he'll make it rain and when terror is spoken bout remember the name GORILLA
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
This is not poetry
This simply spoken on earthen tombs
Or was it tomes
Or was that tunes
If it was then it wasn't
Because the past is the future and the present is but a thinned out pancake of a reality
Double bongo tulip termination
Implied with the finger-ly pleasure
Upon my love's blackened buttons
Drunkenness sensibility declining reeling sealing the post-operative convolution of Tarzan's missing breath
Target, TARGET, (target)
Reckless love leapin' side' a train-station tumor
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 10:29 PM UTC
and I would give everything I have to see your eyes light up like streetlamps and you know that time in summer where the steady glow from daylight merges into night time and the breeze dances along the leaves of trees too tall like ballerinas; so gentle if you blink you’ll miss the sway of them? that’s what you remind me of.
you are a glow, an indian sunset and I long to be the sea your sun shine kisses and when your glow transcends into moonlight I long to be the stars who are accompanied by your effervescent light night after night and you know to me you will always be a god **** sunset when you should be rainfall: you pour down on everything I love and leave puddles; you cause unapologetic floods in the crevices of my collarbones and attach your saltwater to the follicles of my hair and you warp the words on the pages of love letters I never sent and when you fall down my cheeks my teardrops and your raindrops will merge and for a moment we will become one and that’s all I’ve ever wanted. to be one with you. to be a god **** indian sunset in your illuminous eyes.
I keep running through the hallways of my mind and your voice is bouncing off the walls and echoing straight through my chest and there’s a thudding that gets louder and louder, like bongo drums, every time and I’m pretty sure my heart is now a gallery of us, open for public consumption and they can walk along the hallways and appreciate the beauty of our profound love like you never could.
one day you will find someone who melts your heart into your veins until it feels like the oxygen around your body is trapped and screaming for you to try to breathe, try to breathe harder and you’ll scream for them and they’ll stop returning your calls and there’ll be no texts and everything you once had will sink – almost in slow motion, almost as intangible as the idea that I loved you harder than anyone ever could – a ship where you’re the only person aboard and you’ll be watching an indian sunset like you watched their fingertips trace the curvature of your hips for the last time and you’ll realise in that moment that they were your indian sunset and man, don’t you just wish for some rainfall?
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC
Natural Rhythm.
Hey Mr. Guitar, keep on strumming them strings.
Then play me a song that will keep us all moving.
Keep all of the ladies, just a shaking their thing;
That will keep everybody in the room dancing,
To the natural rhythm.
I’ve got a natural rhythm in my heart and soul;
I’ve got a natural rhythm in my head.
I’ve got a natural rhythm in my heart and soul;
I’ve got a natural rhythm as I lay here in your bed.
Bounce to the rhythm of all of the drums.
The drumbeat booms against your chorus of twiddling thumbs;
Demanding your attention at the top of their voice.
The low beat shriek, as we bang on the drums.
Come on everybody and dance to the beat;
The natural rhythm, that flows through you and me.
The invisible hand, that guides our every step,
Makes you bounce to the beat of every word that I have said.
I’ve got a natural rhythm in my heart and soul;
I’ve got a natural rhythm in my head.
I’ve got a natural rhythm in my heart and soul;
I’ve got a natural rhythm as I lay here in your bed.
Keep on banging the drum to the sound of my rhythm;
Keep on dancing and keep on giggling.
Keep on keeping it real, for the people in the street;
Keep on keeping it banging, to the funkiest beat.
You see I got this natural rhythm, that’s in all God’s men
And you also got the rhythm in your head, in your head.
‘Cause the rhythm of my rhyme, will drop right on time,
As long as the sun is shining and I'm feeling irie eyed;
As long as the bongo’s keep on banging in the smoky background,
As long as to be rich, means more than acting the clown.
You see the rich get the women, because to be rich is to be a ****
And this is the best way to get the women.
Flash a *** of cash at the latest one you think is pretty;
Tell her you are loaded and pay her the money.
Buy the woman you like; moneys all that you've got.
I'm happy being poor; it's freedom at no cost.
I’ve got a natural rhythm in my heart and soul;
I’ve got a natural rhythm in my head.
I’ve got a natural rhythm in my heart and soul;
I’ve got a natural rhythm as I lay here in your bed.
(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 1:59 PM UTC
Behind my eyelids
Lives a world of bliss kids
Swallowing clouds
Making flowers into sinking sounds
Baths made of popcicle blood
Marshmallow flood
Curtains open with each day
Together all those behind my eyelids start the play
My emotions a ballet
My reason a matinee
Twirling as one in an unforgiving sway
Bongo bursts
Swimming in verses
Lashes shade
As setting suns fade
Bliss kids never rest as the war in my soul carries on
Painting peace with each yawn
I lay down to sleep
As the bliss kids knitting sheep
Out of felt
Things felt, hearts melt
Blurred blossoms overcome this battle and as the moon sighs
Bliss kids ride
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 12:21 PM UTC
In the shade of a Bongo Bongo tree
sits a leopard with no spots,
he's accompanied by his brothers three
who all are peppered with dot's,
The poor little chap is rather down
wondering why he's beigey brown
with not a spot or dot in sight
his future maybe -- not so bright,
Alas on the Serengeti plane
where spotted dotted leopard reign
a beigey brown,, no just won't do,,
looks much too much -- like a kangaroo, !!
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 8:52 AM UTC
Ibiyinka, Ibiyinka Alao
Comes from Nigeria with a name like drums
Comes from Africa with the sun behind his back.
Ibiyinka, Ibiyinka Alao,
Mr. Ibiyinka with a smile in his hands,
Mr. Ibiyinka with a girl's shoulders in his hands
Life, he says, she is alive
She dances.
Ibiyinka, Ibiyinka Alao
Paints like the sun gilds hills and fields
Paints like the moon silvers water and thatched roofs.
Ibiyinka, Ibiyinka Alao
Freezes music into colors that dance
Freezes drums in a quilt of art from every place.
Frozen, he says, like water
Like a heartbeat.
Djembe, Conga, Bongo
Coming from Africa with the skins of goats
Coming from the fields and the homes and the dirt roads
Medium, large, and small
Speaking every language.
Ibiyinka, Ibiyinka Alao -
Djembe, Conga, Bongo.
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 4:16 PM UTC
We commence the acencion into an oxygen void dimension of vivid colors and breathless serenity
your beach-breaze salty glaze compliments your starved gaze as you graze my thighs and sigh through Slytherin lips,
blindly searching for the switch buried in my skin, a surpressed sunset at your fingertips
You need me now, like an orphaned lover you miss me, your strong hands cannot understand the firm grip of my surreal sweet lips, the warm
carresses of my tongue, the twists, the complex concoction of intoxicating ********** physical poetry, Constructing
your perfect carnal high, I trace fairy trails down your chest into the fields of your belly, I paint roses onto your skin with my soft
puckered sips, I drink from you your pleasure and make it my own, you're not alone on this quest to fullfillment, DO your fill and
you'll recieve in full.I'm at your command. Move me like your marrionette star, I'll repeat which ever wonders your whispers wish me to,
let us commerce in our spiritual sign language, catalyst mental eruption, hot and heavy streams of red-hot moans rivers into tropical atmosphere,
riveting the hem of my body as my soul slips through the strips of bone, the rib caging my bongo core as it crecendos into **** sore psalms, my palms
rooted to your crown as I combust into a comet, corrupted by the sublime nectar dripping off the rims of your mouth, connecting the dots to my being,
you found me
now come
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 9:09 AM UTC
The smell of lilac still lingers in my memories
Hundreds of fireflies dancing in the twilight
Easter hues took over the sky
Burning cedar lights up the night
Keeping the bugs at bay
I stare into the flame
Bongo beats vibrate
Summer's fragrance sending a quiver up my spine
Every sense stimulated
The peace held in those nights
is something that has stayed with me all this time
Treasured
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 12:12 PM UTC
I’m having a hippy drippy day
A great day to snuggle up inside
A drizzling rain and skies are gray.
I’ll call some friends to come and play.
I’ll cook up some muffins and popcorn
And chill off a gallon of cheap jug wine
Get out my guitar and my old ukulele
This day is going to work out just fine.
Rotten Ray and Pity Patty will come
The first to arrive as they always are.
Cokehead Bobby will ride with them
Because he never has a working car.
Dan will bring his Alice B. brownies
And whatever squeeze he has today.
Eldon Day will come since Dan’s here
As usual pretending he is not gay.
The music will start in right away
Four or five guitars and bongo drums.
There may be more instruments later
It depends on if Dial-A-Party comes.
While that is not a professional company,
It’s what we call it when we all meet
One calls another and soon we see
Small groups of people on the street.
Especially on rainy days, it turns out
We all love this kind of gathering
Depending on who is off that day
And how big a storm we’re weathering.
But joy and music is the rule of the day.
We laugh and get ****** and sing,
Some drizzily hippy drippy happy fun;
A gathering of close friends means everything.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
C'MON! GIVE ME SOMETHING!
YOU CAN'T BE A MOZART KINDRED
PRODIGY IN POETRY...
POETS AREN'T SUPPOSED TO BE
TRAINED MONKEYS!
SURE YOU CAN TRAIN AN ORANGUTAN
TO YODEL THE NATIONAL ANTHEM
OF CHILE... BUT TO WRITE
POETRY YOU GOTTA LIVE! LIVE!
THIS LANGUAGE OF YOURS
IS GOOD ENOUGH TO BE
CATEGORISED AS BIRD-CAGE TROLLOP!
HALFWAY TO CANNED SARDINES -
OR DISCOVERING AMERICA IN A TIN WITH A
PREMONITION OF COLUMBUS DANCING THE
DING-DONG BONGO BONGO PIÑATA SHAKE
(alt. to philanthropy).
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 8:46 PM UTC
The Beatnik Café’
Cigarettes, coffee, a ****** beret
Blue smoke and Blue Mountain, blue verse, blue rhyme --
O Come to the side-street beatnik café;
Here present-tense yourself; caffeine the time
Here order your Bacon very well Donne
And jam your java with croissants and Keats
Orate from Spenser; groove with Tennyson
Tap out a line of Seafarer-four beats
Tap out a manifesto; everyone does
Pulp-print Red rags yelp “Revolution Now!”
The typewriter is holy, and Up the Fuzz!
Bongo that Kerouac, and Howl, but how?
Bongo that beat, oh, yeah, it’s crazzzzy, man
Sheaffer that rhythm, cat; Parker that line
Ferlinghetti your truth to a yellow pad
Sharpen your verbs to a rebel design
Sharpen your verbs from a bottle of ink
Light up a Camel; blow intellectual smoke
Teach the ****** bourgeois how they should think
Grey-suited capitalists – what a joke!
L’Envoi – Time Slouches On
Tee-shirted capitalists joke in Mandarin
The latest chained coffee’s inside the mall
English and Apples are original sin
On glowing screens where the pale pixels crawl
And no one crawls through rhythm, rhyme, or verse,
Or bongos out an existential cry
For poetry is dead; the twitters terse
Reduce the ancient loves to I, me, my.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
I.
she scratches her back,
marking territory on translucent skin
they are of the same opacity -
as if upon meeting they scanned each other’s bones
to ensure strength
one has a way of smiling
where her lips pull against her gums
and the other has the tendency
to flip the pillow to the cold side before sleeping
they are never not entwined
they never had to get used to
two sets of bras in the dryer,
a hairbrush constantly covered with
each other’s blonde hair,
never using the condoms in their jewelry boxes
it was easy
is easy
when one asked the other
for a matching tattoo,
she put her partner’s initials on the soles of her feet
II.
the birthday party was in full swing by mid-afternoon
no one in the party had hair any lighter than charcoal
and the birthday girl was four, wearing only one shoe
all the women were clad in floral bikinis;
the ripples of their stretched skin on full display
in this circle, they honed their cultural energy
with coconut water and bongo drums
the guest of honour was passed out within an hour,
but they had come all this way
and wanted to make the most of it
III.
the night before she had found herself
entwined with a bodybuilder ten years her senior
she turned her hands over and over,
checking for signs that she had changed
but as the dog licked the inside of her legs
she was at peace with the fact that she always
belonged in a stranger’s bed
he said she felt good
and pressed welts passionately onto her ***
he wanted to take her sailing on the lake the following day
but she preferred to sit on a man-made sugared beach alone
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 7:15 PM UTC
do the dance taboo boo
shake your hips for bongo
move your **** feet
eat you like a taco
shake that pretty ***
**** all over the place
im crying for it baby
put them in my face
do the chooka booka
ill eat you on the rag
lick your little ***
im your ***** stag
can you do the rumba
to the pelvic beat
drown me in your *****
i *** on lovely feet
oh your *** is candy
hair like wild fire
my **** does the cha cha
to your mouth it does aspire
owwie i lick your ****
your **** starts to squirt
i catch it on my lips
***** is so pert
do the dance taboo boo
there is no death like ***
spread wide your wings my angel
dissolve in butter ****
kiss my big *****
lick up all you can
better then a plumbers plunger
you love your big cocked man
i didn't mean to start a blaze
the house is embers burning
well you danced the taboo boo
and now your always yearning
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 11:30 AM UTC
bongo circle
different souls mingling
feet tingling from the sand
mother earth laughs at our silly steps
we fall down in her lovely bed
grass flowers some alive some dead
i smell the aroma of sage and jade
it clears my mind my soul
it starts a domino of released sences
my heart sounds like a didgeridoo
its pulsating its dancing its grooving
its feeling this moment
its hearing this melody of leaves shifting in the wind
the sound of fire crackling
harmony with body, soul, and nature
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 8:11 AM UTC
Thudding walls calamity crash
bozo bongo beatitude drinkatude
splashing chi whisky against amaretto amethyst ice mountains
wallowing winds whisper storm clouds
and tidal waves
weaving
in and out of bodies like a titanium knife
glistening like the moon.
and i sit on top of a mountain
watching,
waiting for the mercurial air & water elements
to swallow me like a dab of LSD.
"Let's go drown in each other's emotions!"
I shout, the words echoing
as the storm grows and the foaming water
churns and splashes in the wee hours of the morning...
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 12:23 AM UTC
Bongo drums march a parade of elephants through a stunning and sweet Savannah.
One or two look up to the sky, but immediately stop moving. They get trampled.
The rest don't dare to; they know that when the
Sun dances its beautiful waltz,
a glimpse can render any being glossy-eyed and so entranced that
they forget how to run.
The Earth rolls its eyes at the boasting of a solar diva.
***
Vines vibrate like guitar strings as they're gripped by night monkeys,
Navigating a black jungle huddled underneath a lunar flashlight pointed towards Earth.
The owls don't feel like hunting for mice;
They wanted to join in the jungle's campfire.
Animals play brass horns and steel drums to the audience of tropical trees.
And right after the wilderness finishes its nightly romp,
The mountains loosen their grips on the buried, sunlit sky and let it revolve back up to the top.
The Earth laughs along at the Daytime's obliviousness to its sister's festival that eludes it.
Apr 9, 2011
Apr 9, 2011 at 8:33 AM UTC
Stereotyping often portrays poets as being brooders, loners,psychotics, manic-depressives, addicts, or just plain "nuts." In other words (in terms of their peers), "normal people." They should be 'French', or know at least three French words, and be able to wear a striped, long sleeve pull-over, topped with a black beret(neck-scarf optional). Should be able to write stuff no one understands, yet readers will pretend they do as long as it reads and sounds 'intellectual'. Must be able to stomach the taste of Espresso, which must come from Starbucks, and enjoy the so-called 'Bohemian' life style. Must be able to sit comfortably with a set of bongo drums between their knees, and continue living in the 50's, the 'Beat Generation." "Maynard G. Krebbs" is their idol.
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 6:02 PM UTC
*you excluded me... and i’m not even mussolini! ah, imagine... i’d bring black into vogue and politicise size 0 in fashion on a political level... imagine... ****** would do a strip can-can dance playing the flute on his moustache; ha! (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4-DWUNa_Nys)*
like this one english tea lady royal i asked when she said:
boys... really ********
i asked her... can you philophise as in synonym
psychiatry with neurology
within the grit of being entitled with the title dame
or a unicorn?
ah... no... enter applause!
who’d want to **** a pensioner if a pensioner herself?
ooh oh cherry picking paved a way for cucumber
goosebumps... left the right-wing intellectual, gay,
completely imbarassed...
ah **** happens... spelling mistakes... terrorist plots...
you know... cheap education, the iraq war... worth a handshake
if you ask me... if you really ask me... egypt has no
place in islam... it has a place in christianity
and judaism... egypt of my mother in ambitious
realisation of the ambition of reading a book...
and the mother of his act...
then the confusion comes: you were born from a
pigeon egg! you born from crocodile egg!
now we can begin... pooh wait! tee-ger was just about done
on the bongo nullifying the battered bounce.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 11:00 PM UTC
intelligence is wasted on
an obedience within a
geometric of a square...
no point keeping social
assurances; about time someone
got so drunk they'd recall
having a grandmother
in quotable citation -
to express the evaluations
of values theorised but never practised.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 9:52 PM UTC
I once knew a man but I can't remember his face.
He had a mustache in one hand
a razor in the left.
Cheeks of a baby waiting to find his place.
I once knew a man with the legs of a statue.
He had a hammer in one hand
A rose in the left
Taking beauty as the path to reach greater virtue.
I once knew a man
I once knew a man
I once knew a man with a whisper of twenty cannons
He had a megaphone in one hand
duct tape in the left
Conformity silences his words like phantoms.
I once knew a man with the gut of a clown.
He had a bongo in one hand
a trophy in the left.
The beat lifts him up while he blends with the ground.
I once knew a man with a brain for a heart.
He had a stake in one hand
a pistol in the left.
Tricky, he knew either one would grant a new start.
Yes I once knew a man
I once knew a man.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 8:40 PM UTC
I feel a pounding
Strong, like the beat of a bongo drum
It’s in my ears, my heart, my blood
The feeling pulsing through my veins
And it is burning, it’s scorching my insides.
It’s in my fingers, my bones, my toes
Getting closer, closer, almost there
But where, I don’t know.
My eyes close, the pounding fades, it stops.
It’s lost, that feeling
But still so **** loud
Deafening my every nerve
To the point where I feel nothing
Where, who, why is this sound apparent?
Boom, boom, boom, gone!
I can feel the vibrations now
I sense a new knowledge,
My awareness has peaked –
That sound, that awful ******* sound,
Bashing my heart and my brain into shards
Is coming from Hell,
Which I now find is right inside me.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 10:11 PM UTC
The bongo drums of his thought carrom across the cosmos,
revenanting across the dawn with nodules of coltan from beyond.
A clear channel for reading the universe:
"When you come to a fork in the road, take it."
"Thank you for making this day necessary."
"It's déjà vu all over again."
"You can observe a lot by watching."
“Ninety percent of the game is half mental.”
“Pair up in threes.”
The smell of a quantum of disconnect,
the taste of the magenta of non-sequitur,
the sight of logic colliding with chaos,
the touch of an insightful short-circuit,
the music of senseless syntax that says it all.
Coinciluckily, the saving grace: "I really didn't say everything I said."
"Always go to other people's funerals; otherwise they won't go to yours."
Who else would say, “You’ve got to be very careful if you don’t know where you are going, because you might not get there.”
Que sera, sera - "It ain't over till it's over."
May 18, 2019
May 18, 2019 at 2:39 PM UTC
Allen, my parents stole your name and corrupted it.
An unwitting mistake, surely,
chosen at random as an epithet,
a mark of sublime distinction;
Perhaps discovered under the
head of an old bongo drum
or on the back of a gnarled
copy of Marx and Engles, a
scrawled incoherent possesion tag
somehow passed on appropriately.
Allen, i have taken your name and it's corrupted me.
The implications are pulsing
through my veins and
acid burned inside my skull.
It has led me on paths astray
and opened the flood gates
to subterranean subconscious,
eroding twin pillars ancient,
created by my forefathers against
the chill of January's night.
Thank you...i think.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC