"cartoonist" poems
The oldest one has set the bar -
Brown eyes, brown hair, natural tan,
Teeth that look just the way teeth should with no aid from metal or NASA-patented plastics.
Kappa Alpha Theta, college homecoming queen,
Following in the footsteps of our parents,
To someday hand out bottles of pills with her God-given smile and white coat to match.
I know she's not perfect, but I like to pretend.
Then there's me.
Then the next youngest,
Long brown hair, massive brown eyes, pale skin with the occasional freckle.
Her awkward phase - back brace, teeth brace, allergies, inhaler, tall and gangly -
paid off in the best way.
She wears her high heels to high school and looks straight off the runway.
She wears her pointe shoes and unfolds like a plant growing in fast-motion.
She sits at the table and draws and eats nothing but carbs and still looks made of sticks.
She wants to be a cartoonist, people tell her to be a model, a ballerina,
Our mother insists she's far too brilliant.
Then the baby.
Thin blonde hair, blue-grey eyes with a ring on the outside, grey skin when she's tired.
As Dad says: the printer ran out of ink.
She's beautiful like the rest, of course, but
she's not finished yet, still learning that her peers are generally wrong.
She frets and worries, but she listens to the music I tell her to,
and her expensive pockets have less and less rhinestones.
I tell her not to hug me so much when I come home,
But it's fine. I'm proud of her.
Someday she'll stop screaming at our mother and realize what she has to look forward to.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 1:39 PM UTC
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Mar 12, 2010
Mar 12, 2010 at 6:59 PM UTC
Composing Hallelujah
Fractious lines crack,
holiday decorate the spirit inferior,
while each note upon the priest's guitar
penetrates the aspirin roughened interior,
face slaps me, daggers and accuses,
you're not composing hallelujah.
So I mislead, big deal,
composing the anti-hallelujah,
yeah, I was ******** with you,
as you sit across from me electronically
pretending, me to you, you to me.
Lie to each other with smiling faces,
you too have reaped,
been emotionally *****
by what our minds see and sow,
scowls and howls,
we've both grown our own demons.
My secrets, maybe are all there,
maybe, writ loud and clear,
in the songs I choose to share,
and in the unrevealed ones,
buried alive, held in reserve,
but not, for your average, rainy day,
could be today, you have no say.
Are we not all veterans of a kind,
don't we all have ribbons on our chest,
stripes and stars on our khaki blouse,
a record of our own great campaigns,
including the war to end all wars,
the never ending one,
the one the psycho-historians renamed,
"The 24/7 Year Conflagration"?
It used to be just my secret, no more
don't need a cartoonist to tell me that's
the enemy is us, and there are moles, traitors,
hidden deep in our intelligence organization,
planting seeds, urges, pushing to
out the identity of our communist friend,
Depression
I don't mean the ordinary, garden variety,
a mere moody blues recession,
when funk is sourced from gray clouds,
served up proper, cold and wet,
then travels on when sun warmth
clarifies temporarily, the aspirin kicking in.
So I misled,
composing the anti-hallelujah,
yeah, I was ******** with you,
sit across from me and lie to me,
lie to each other with smiling faces
we reap what we own,
scowls and howls.
A chorus of harmonious poseurs
inside your own City Center,
vocalize the lyrics of the anti-hallelujah,
a composition of questions directed at
whomever in tonight's audience deserves it,
asking, nerving, to sing too loud, at decibel speed:
Are these verses, curses
about D,
our mutual acquaintance,
or just research notes for further followup,
part two of a pas de deux, and,
did you go this time, too far,
or still not far enough?
-
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
Popeye I see you downing spinach
by the can
your cartoonist heart giving strength
over Brutus
adds so much to my cooking spinach
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC
psych ward dramas
ok, i believe i am here today
to let people have fun
i get leave every day to keep
an eye on the world
so i can help, in the way that i do
i know people can get sick of me
saying i am cronus and ****
but i do that, so i can save people on earth
so we don’t bring the old days back
cause a lot of those criminals
you can see in the glossy magazines
they look like they ae copying me
and that sort of made me feel
that i have created a world
that is full of death and yobbism
jake does a guitar solo which makes
the crowd really cheer out his name
jake jake jake oi oi oi
now, if i can get out of here
i really want to go to adelaide
so i can be in the christmas city of the world
and i want to support the adelaide crows
and go to the AFL grand final
i also wanna do my art
and profit from my writing
you see i really want to
make this psych ward a happy place to get well in
cause, really, i am still a kid
cause, to myself, i never had a good education, and i am prepared
to do that again, cause
i want that whole sill nonsense, ya know
like i am not mucking with you mate neh
, and i hate people saying your like us now man
and your not an old dogie, mate
and every kid, i thought
were trying to be cool
to make us all tease my daddy
now i was having fun
but i am 46, and i need a perfect change
and, still, ya know, i am cool
jake really stole the show with a great guitar solo
now, i want my parents to visit me
that’ll be kinda fun
but i don’t want to be a client, all my life
and i want to stop phedaphelia, cause it’s bad
i don’t care about what used to happen, i know
buddha wouldn’t like that
ya need to respect kids ya know
it’s just that it’s fucken hard to stop a kidnapper
and that is why buddha tries to make peace with this whole situation
and yesterday, i explained
that about 63 australians jumping from a plane
and i portrayed it as every victim of school shootings coming back to earth
nobody dies ya know, we are all here there and everywhere
the cartoonist said, this is a cartooning class, not a psychology class or a vision class
i would like to teach people about space travel via sleep, like i do
cause, man, this is ****** fun and i do do a show on channel 44
and if people complain about me
i will say, get with the times ya ***
jake did a big guitar solo which gave a freezing blizzard to mercury
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 7:30 AM UTC
I am surely not an artist,
For I can’t paint or draw,
Nor am I a singer,
I sound far from clean and raw.
Geometry is not fun to me,
For I dislike angles and sides,
I will never be an accountant,
Or a phenomenal surfer,
The fear of high waves and tides.
I will not be a chef,
I can’t cook to perfection for a meal,
I can’t jazz dance well,
Failure, I feel.
I am no cartoonist,
I never and will never take drugs,
Vile and grotesque suits them,
I’ve never smoked or drank,
Or put salt on slugs.
I don’t like breakfast,
I loathe being sick,
I dislike unfriendly people,
I am not fond of waking up early,
I don’t like reading long novels,
Nor comprehending difficult ones;
I hate poetry that doesn’t rhyme,
It puts pressure on me, tons.
I am not greedy,
I am not self/centered,
Success if far from what I feel,
This is negativity I’ve now entered.
This is not me,
This will never be me,
I am myself and nothing more,
I am different, as you see.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 2:57 PM UTC
I stood there alone in that sun-drenched field
The grass was all dead,
It was stiff yet it would still yield.
I was plugged in, dead to all but what I saw.
I let the music wash over me as I wished the stinging in my eyes would subside.
There was no one around, no to hear me yell or cry.
The strange thing was, I didn’t do either.
I couldn’t, wouldn’t, or didn’t want to.
Whatever the case, I knew that I would have to move soon.
The world around me was as dead as it could be,
Yet it seemed so bright and clear
Almost as if it were somehow happy.
Not once, despite this strange quandary
Did I get the feeling.
The one of sadness and extreme self-loathing.
I just stood there and watched as this pristine world
Slowly shaped itself and the clouds whirled.
For once, there was no logic or extraneous though.
I felt one with this world, I was newly begot.
Reborn to peace, a happiness inside.
My darkness dispelled, yet I still didn’t cry.
That was it, all that I felt.
I was looking through a crystal lens at it all,
And it made me feel so fake,
Like I was drawn into a photograph by some cartoonist.
Yet, I knew I was there.
I felt he swinging of the camera around my neck
And the bite of the cold on my cheeks.
But not much else.
I was happy for a time, so very pleased
But slowly I came to center
And that elation ceased.
I felt nothing, was nothing, and knew nothing.
I was just there, a being without purpose
A man without reason
And a boy staring at the swaying trees.
The only thing that dared cross my mind
Was a thought of you
And how I wished you were there upon that windswept field with me.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
Awaken my reality
the sobriety of ruby blood.
The cartoonist has withdrawn the first tapestry.
The full moon has summoned 94 sinners
the path outside my home
is as short as the last caress
I never recieved.
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 9:26 AM UTC
Everything became love
So grateful wine deep graphics
Stripes and lines the fab of four
Ladies fantastic Apollo
Set deeply to her body
Powerful sun the Trojan horse
Her robe velvet blue stars of course
Shooting out love to the Cosmo
"Holy Water" Posedian
The Gods Athena curtains
That Grecian Santorini island
He became all magical Houdini hands
So artsy Adobe paint her he's drinking
Japanese Amazake shake
His art through her sheerness robe
He kissed her earlobe
She was perfectly fitted inside his suit
He was probing like a love circuit
We have all types of soul we make
Our own bed
Some people aren't cut out paper
dolls to be wed
Work of art whatever draws
inside your fancy
He was left to think way at
the end of her brush
She still has her cheeks
At the time he so
wanted to crush
All curb appeals statue of gardens
We beg your pardon women in their robes,
somewhere over Judy
The rainbow cubes
Grecian summertime taking away
that wasted grime
Doing your own time Alice tea party
Whole wine crystalline glass
And just when you look he
disappears
Your blood sweat ancient years
Terry cloth wet tears globe-lit
His sexuality unexpectedly surprising
Her vivacious waves fit diamond
point of return his Target
Paints memories Adobe genius
Sunset nightly dip he's the Adonis
Come to my window but don't
leave me crumbs
More sunlight over
my lace face
I remember the feeling
my whole
body felt numb
To succumb on a mysterious limb
Like a headpiece meet the
Malevolent (King-fish)
No home is a Castle until we
make a wish
The wicked cartoonist "Zazzle"
Like a war zone bloodshed
Warriors are coming
Like the communist
Please get it back
to my Grecian finest
What is really our very own
masterpiece tiniest detail
He has a stiff neck and I am
On my Island of loves taking a
sea whiff
Something like a
shark-encircled my
body of emails
Adobe print was all squares-fight
The sentinel of squirrel didn't leave
my sight
My tears shaped the stained glass
We are our own creation be heart
no need to rip Grecian robe apart
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 1:56 PM UTC
He is 5428 years old
She is a 12 year old boy
He is a Novelist & Poet
She is a Cartoonist & Artist
He is a time traveling madman
She is just mad
He live in the past, the present, and the future
She lives in the now
He understands so much
She honestly doesn't care
He has watched civilizations rise and fall
She barely watches the news
He tries to fine meaning in the universe
She tells the universe to **** off
He observes time and space learning
She thinks he's way too deep
He has never seen anyone quite like her
She is on her phone
He wants to be a good father
She wants to be a good mother
He finds her a mystery, different, unique
She is...
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 11:10 PM UTC
I am surely not an artist,
For I can’t paint or draw,
Nor am I a singer,
I sound far from clean and raw.
Geometry is not fun to me,
For I dislike angles and sides,
I will never be an accountant,
Or a phenomenal surfer,
The fear of high waves and tides.
I will never be a chef,
I can’t cook a simply little meal,
I can’t jazz dance well,
Failure, I sometimes feel.
I am no cartoonist,
I never and will never take drugs,
Vile and grotesque suits them,
I’ve never smoked or drank,
Or put salt on slugs.
I don’t like breakfast,
I loathe being sick,
I dislike unfriendly people,
I am not fond of waking up early,
I don’t like reading long novels,
Nor comprehending difficult ones;
I hate poetry that doesn’t rhyme,
It puts pressure on me, tons.
I am not greedy,
I am not self-centered,
Success if far from what I feel,
This is negativity I’ve now entered.
This is NOT me,
This will never be me,
I am myself and nothing more,
I am difficult as you see.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
Thought for the Day IV
"We have met the enemy, and he is us."
(re: Pogo Possum, aka cartoonist Walt Kelly, Earth Day, April 22, 1970)
Edit poem
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 10:19 PM UTC
"We have met the enemy, and he is us."
(re: Pogo Possum, aka cartoonist Walt Kelly, Earth Day, April 22, 1970)
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC
"We have seen the enemy, and he is us!"
(re: Pogo Possum, aka cartoonist Walt Kelly, April 22, 1970)
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 7:28 AM UTC
cap gun. swag from an uncle’s suicide.
the daughter
the ghost
cartoonist.
voodoo dolls
in isolation. isolation
in its prime.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
I saw the utter paralyzing pain in his eyes
So much of the identity he had constructed to represent himself today, was a product of the attachment to an idea of who they were together
Like a cartoonist he painted a separate reality with broad romantic stokes
One where she existed for him
While he did not admit this to himself, it was true
Because when she was her own woman
He no longer possessed her
Did he truly love her?
Or did he love the image and feeling of being attached to her?
Could he simply appreciate the time they shared?
Or would he spend every present moment worrying and ensuring that she would stay with him through the future?
Although he was with her for years
He was rarely ever truly WITH her
He was only with the image he projected onto her
The image of girlfriend
The image of wife
And he was never truly himself
He was the image of boyfriend
The image of husband
So when these illusions fell away
And she went on to live a life free of his expectations
His world fell apart
He lost his role
He lost his identity
He lost his life
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC