"claude" poems
claude: battles tabletop.
reaches for maple syrup, into breakfast,
& breaks down puking.
the girlfriend/abortion situation.
the cash
& cream corn.
smells of deeper spring.
grandma & her bible.
to pray.
to eat lunch.
to television &
honey blunt the relief of a sunday night.
lily: into decay.
into dark days of her america.
detox: she breathes on vapor. sweet leaf.
sweats the heat & dead-dreams off. off on wavelengths &
resonance::: sound therapeutics,
at 528.111 hz,
enhanced dream frequency. she falls
into bliss. into
unopened codons & the rigor
of vibrational analog.
love cassette.
achilles: wheelchair-bound & boning
still. gripping ***
the girl & couch.
the couch & modern warfare.
old warfare: harvest of limbs.
he crawls across the lawn to pick strawberries.
thumbs the dirt for entrance
to another world. smokes a jar
of roaches, as monument
to his second generation revival.
cool.
wallace: & the zebra jeep.
red rock monkeywrenched billboards & the ****** of flame upon milk factory.
chemical factory.
fertilizer bomb///return/
to town & grotto.
porch-light wood & breath of bong-rotation.
the babylon journeyman,
embroiled in plots against the order.
to simply disappear.
to portal away.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
I was told (once) that if I could only make up a perfect story, that, that woman, who stole almost everything from men, would fall for me; would, maybe destroy me and leave me for dead. Would, maybe, ship me off without my pen and belt, and force me to paint her with no training. She’d want something that resembles something by Claude Monet; Do you know how difficult that is? That’s the fun though; she’d cut me off so many times; she’d remind me how many others could paint better; she’d explain, in beautiful detail, just how useless my hands were. Well, I hope she’s satisfied with my work; I’m sorry I finished early; I’m really no man; Goodnight, goodnight, I hope you’re sleeping; so I can finally leave.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 12:45 PM UTC
Art class was a given
A bird course as they say
But, our teacher had gone awol
You could say he flew away
They found him at a campsite
Cross legged on a mat
Naked, drinking cool aid
And talking to his cat
He snapped while teaching concepts
beyond the grasp of teenage kids
Who only wanted to pass time
and be on ebay making bids
He taught them about structure
about lines and Bernard Frize
and now he's in the forest
sitting naked with the trees
Pastels, crayons and chalk sticks
littered where he sat
sitting naked, drinking kool aid
and talking to his cat
the kids, they drove him crazy
never doing what he told
Instead they sat and doodled
while the teacher...well...unrolled
they didn't draw the things he asked
didn't study all the masters
instead they were more intent
on creating art disasters
he came to class equipped one day
to show them some van gogh
instead they all got up
And told him he could blow
he snapped and left the class room
never stopping at the door
he went to his apartment
and picked the cat up off the floor
he went down to the locker
he took his tent back to the car
he was going to go camping
he wasn't going to a bar
he drove up to the campsite
made his kool aid, grabbed his cat
took his clothes off and got naked
and sat down upon his mat
this is where they found him
seven days since he walked out
he's now painting in nice place
where there's lots of staff about
most days he sits in silence
in his jacket, sleeves behind
zonked out on medication
to help him find his mind
they give him lots of kool aid
but his cat he does not see
he just paints with all his fingers
making pictures of a tree
once he was a teacher
of a bird course teaching art
now he gets all his excitement
drinking kool aid from the cart
in his mind there are da vincis
claude monets and rembrandts too
but, on paper he paints tree limbs
in black and grey and blue...
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
Mother bear in a waterfall
With bigger thoughts than blonde harlots
Eating porridge,
Fallen starlets with outer space in their hair.
Just you wait;
I'll be the happiest little sonofabitch
You've ever seen.
Some small consolation, if any.
That weekend we spent with our
Necks perpendicular to our spines,
Of course I still remember the films we watched.
I condition my hair with split infinitives
And live off the poisoned dew that settles
Every morning in my closet.
Turn your little black dress inside-out,
I've got this magic idea for a recipe
But we're going to need some ants
And that crazy Harryhausen dream you've got up in your attic.
Ten or twelve little blond kids up
On the cliff, each ten or twelve years old
And dancing with a flame-Buddha called "Home".
Let's spend this week underwater,
I'd much rather give up my weight and my due
If it ensured me any small hour
With you. Oh, god how I love you anymore.
I may have told you this a while ago,
But did you know the first Pledge of Allegiance
Put us some good height above God?
Sometimes I find the sugar in my gas tank
Makes for a rough start in the morning,
Not that I particularly want to go anywhere,
But it's what I've thought that counts.
He's a bit upset that I skipped movie last night:
But I can't play horizontal baseball
With my violent, violent imaginary friend.
The Rubik's cube beats deep in my chest
Without a hand to cheat and rearrange the stickers.
Claude enunciates something queer into my ear
And turns off the lamp with a snap.
Mar 5, 2011
Mar 5, 2011 at 8:19 AM UTC
Claude Debussy plays gracefully
a dog wrapped in a blanket
starring out the window
as if seeing an angel
hot coffee lingers on my tongue
taste-buds reminiscing the bitter-sweetness
wind rustles the ficus bushes
slight noises in the distance
I feel calm
I have never felt calm before
is this what peace feels like?
everything is going to be okay.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
Took me to the wrong end of the Mississippi
Blown north from the whistling blues
Dreamt that sweet sound of saxophones
Coloring St. Claude Avenue
Banana leaves melted into evergreens
Where the swamps finally ran cold
Through the mountain ranges of the lakes, and banjos of the plains
Where the countryside grew quiet and old
I grew up on the wrong end of the Mississippi
But now I’m taking that southbound train
Oh honey don’t ask me how I’ve been
It’s a restless, lonesome pain
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 1:35 PM UTC
Cinnamon
winters the rolls.
If my past childhood memories serve me correctly.
Better than playing in the wettest Christmas snow
leaves a sweet kiss behind.
My lips follows, with an expected sigh.
To again taste one of many...
the many tasty treasures left behind
by the Elusive divine.
In that very moment;
where the sweet cinnamon lubricates
my feisty lips.
All is ******** history.
Isn't it?
And so I ravaged the now decimated sweet treasure
with many sinful bites.
Smoked a cigarette afterwards.
There was a no smoking sign.
Indeed, **** and cinnamon don't mix.
On the tiny red plate, where the cinnamon rolls once lived.
a few crumbs in its wake still exists.
Confusion is typical of this kind of ish.
When you lick the mooing cows hidden dish.
Written and Copyrighted (C) 2014
by Claude Robert Hill, IV.
Jan 4, 2020
Jan 4, 2020 at 4:01 PM UTC
There once was a man named Claude
Who married his cousin Maude
Their kith did heartily celebrate
As they wed within the family state
Of genetic accord were Maude and Claude
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
Claude spreads the legs of his first girlfriend and
Recognizes the in-between
From his sister’s.
She was seventeen and silent;
He, six and sobbing,
Pushing the bamboo deeper
After
The men who ate
Dinner with his father
The week before
Told him to.
They said he had to **** her; said
He was a Tutsi, and limp, and finally,
“Farther!”
She was wet with blood and he with tears
Crouched down in the grass.
At twenty-one,
Claude hovers above
His first love
With closed eyes and dry cheeks.
She is wet, with want, and
Whimpering.
Not from
A stick’s broken branches,
Or twelve men
Holding her knees apart
“Showing a cockroach how it’s done,”
One by one
Ants crawling toward her blood.
Claude hears her closed-lip whimpers,
Says how much he’ll always love her, and
Cannot come.
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 1:02 PM UTC
Live music is a sound machine,
On all four corners,
Gilded streets, nearly five in the morning,
Pavement feet meet ****** shoes
Shuffling down the block.
Pigeon claps & high hats,
Cat heads & piano chops,
Whiskey sours evening gowns,
Lemon drops with Father Brown.
The St. Claude Shuffle down the boulevard,
Where shoes straddle electric wires.
Sirens ring & bullets proof,
And the blues sing out of shotgun shacks.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 8:56 PM UTC
I.
You can always tell the
Virgins from the way they
Glide—cerebral giddy with nectarfilled
Hearts and earlobes full of
Wax/
Wane moonshine turf if you’re not
Dying for astronomers’ loves and what makes
Ptolemy different from Claude is
Given prove:
Equal and opposite reaction.
II.
Shove knife down pork
Wasn’t so hard, was it.
III.
TWO SOLIDS INTERSECT
In a plane. In the bathroom, to be exact.
What follows is not
Essential to the proposition;
Calculate the spatial
(surface area, volume of cubicle,
conclude insufficient is <
where escape
velocity is )
useless to
resistance factor 7 [prepare
for lift-off landing
taxi
To the Bronx of course where else would I
Be on a night like this it’s raining in the parlour
Wont you step outside?
III.
anemic & half-
starved half-
sandwich
go on,
have a bite.
IV.
in arm will undulate bloodcellspouroutcantstoptoowide
are you just imagining this?
What would they tell you in school blood is
thicker than water
i’m not sure they eat
carnivores here.
CARNIVAL
festival of meat.
Flesh
LIVE
trembling
quiver SWIFT shoot through air DUCK dead swandive nosedive outplug
BOOM go the couple in the cabin
lavatory
laboratory? Rats go bang in the night
crash & burn debris over Detroit is our
favorite way to die
colorful isn’t it rainbow—
brushfire—
bruises and fire storms out and around the
populace to decimate seems like mating by a factor of ten
V; or. X^2+i(70x7)=
aftermath:
my ex squared
with me seventy times
seven
equals in
fortitude (labor-intensive)
tea costs sixpence in dallas what about
you so
integral to my
being that sometimes I wonder if you’re just
imaginary or if
what it takes to be transcendental is
beyond what’s rational or even what’s
real to me:
eight is
enough for the eggs.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
How spry and light her footsteps touch
Tippy toes tap a dance, a song of self
She knows we watch and sing her melodies
Arms reaching upward to praise love enveloping
She stretches her head back safe within her house
She Dervishly circles round and about
A dancer she'll be when she comes of age
Already a star on her home stage
Dipping and swooping her knees bend low
Just a lil bitty toddler putting on a show
A music box plays Au Clair De La Lune
Igniting an excited prance through the room
A flair for the dramatic is evident here
Oh, Meggie Meggie Meggie our most beloved dear
Music Selection:
Claude Debussy
Clair De Lune
jbm
Oakland
10/86
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 9:23 AM UTC
Disini aku masih di bawah langit milik bumiku
Tapi berbeda tempat dan aroma tanah
Aku merasa di atmosfer era abad pertengahan
Melihat banyak kastil dengan arsitektur tua
Pemandangan yang indah di Montmartre, sebuah kerajaan seni
yang siap memanjakan mataku seketika
Musim gugur menciptakan lukisan indah secara alami
Tempat itu seperti kanvas
Diciptakan oleh kuas ajaib anugrah yang kuasa
Meski Claude Monete dan Renoir sudah tidak ada lagi
Aku bisa melihat perpaduan warna cantik di musim gugur dengan mata telanjang
kuning, oranye, merah dan coklat
Lukisan yang begitu indah
Biarkan aku memakai jaket hari ini
Sebab udara membuatku cukup dingin
Aku berjalan-jalan di pedesaan Prancis
Pohon-pohon gugur di sepanjang jalan
ditemani oleh nyanyian burung yang menyemarakan hariku
Ini sudah waktunya panen
Aku menyukai labu di ladang
Memilih apel dan pir di kebun dekat benteng Talcy
Prancis seperti harta karun emas
Paris di musim gugur bulan ini
Menara Eiffel sudah menungguku
kali ini aku berjalan di atas dedaunan
Begitu renyah di bawah kakiku
Pohon maple di atas saya memayungi meski hari tak hujan
Daunnya yang tersentuh angin berputar-putar
Mengirim mereka untuk menari di udara
Sangat romantis
Aku sedang duduk di bangku kayu
Ah jika September tiba...
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 12:24 PM UTC
June bugs crash into screens
mosquitoes whine
to get in by any means
dogs howl, frogs croak
like the bass fiddle
in Lightning Hopkins’ blues.
Sticky moisture from the bayou
envelopes, and soaks through,
permeates still night air
like the sad strains of Claude’s La Mer.
Growing up in southern climes
slowed days, stretched years
put me on the edge of tears
yearning for escape from there
from dominion of church
and Mama’s monarch perch.
Hints of her softness
were so rare and spare
that when she let us smooth her hair
we forgot how parched were we
for a trace of this tender intimacy
on summer nights’ scorch
spent on our homestead porch.
Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 9:22 AM UTC
There's a party going on upstairs,
your invited, to come and have a scare.
H.G. Wells, will meet you at the gate,
costumes required, hurry don't be late.
Vincent Price will be tonights D.J.
Halloween is his favorite Holiday.
He's spinning "Thriller", while dressed up as "Kiss".
Watching Claude Rains do the "Transylvania Twist".
Steve McQueen came dressed up as the "Blob",
he's serving up the zombie shish-ka-bobs.
Elsa Lanchester placed real bats within her hair.
While Marty Feldman keeps yelling "Frau Blucher".
At the stroke of the witching hour,
St. Peter amps up all the power.
A disco ball drops down from a cloud.
Out on the dance floor, forms a massive crowd.
Michael Jackson then leads them all in dance,
while Lon Chaney and Karloff take their chance,
to join the angels in harmony,
While "Monster Mash" is sang by Lugosi.
Even the Devil made it through the door.
He's the one sporting an Elvis pompadour.
So much fun is had by one and all,
at Heavens Annual Halloween Ball
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 6:37 PM UTC
Here.. I'm still under the sky
but different place and ground
I feel in medieval era atmosphere
Seeing lots of castles with old architecture
Beautiful view in Montmartre, the custom of art
Pampering my eyes
Autumn creates a wonderful art naturally
This place like a natural canvas
created by a magical brush from God's hand
Though Claude Monete and Renoir aren't exist anymore
I can see the blend colors of autumn with my naked eyes
There is yellow, orange, red and brown
such a lovely painting
Let me wear jacket this day
Cause the air makes me pretty cold
Strolling a countryside of French
Deciduous trees along village street
With bird song around
It's time to harvest
I like pumpkins in the field
Picking apples and pears in the orchard near Talcy castle
French is like a gold treasure
Paris in autumn this month
Eiffel tower is waiting me
I'm walking on the leaves carpet
So crisp under my feet
The maple trees above me shadowing
The leaves twirling
send them to dance in the air
Exceedingly romantic
I was sitting on bench wood
Oh.. if September comes
NA.2016
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 8:48 PM UTC
Claude Frollo—a man deeply entwined in the lies which he tragically assures himself,
possessing a self-righteous Messiah complex that he uses to assert himself and his followers—to the point of horror and tragedy
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 11:47 AM UTC
Sous la canicule du Sahel
Et sur les terres arides
Les deux chevaliers
Forts comme Charlemagne
Et patients comme le Christ
Avançaient à cheval
Lequel caracolaient infatigablement
Pour couvrir le monde
De la saine tunique « nouvelle »
Mais l’ange noir voulu
Que leur besogne s’éteigne
Et que les yeux des leurs
Se couvrent de brouillard
Mais la fin d’une vie
Ne met point un terme
A l’action du défunt
Un arbre qui se fane
Laisse les grains qui poussent
Et le perpétuent
Ghislaine et Claude
Et leur action pour le bien du monde
Qu’AQMI voulut qu’elle soit fade
N’est que tatouage à la Radio du monde
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 7:53 AM UTC
Eleven strong went in to bat
When dusk was in the air,
Eleven strong did face the wall
For others had shown flair.
They'd mustered up a goodly score
They’d shown they had pinache,
They'd demolished Tunnel bowling
And made our field work look a hash.
Eleven strong went into bat
With gritted teeth and ire,
Eleven set the pitch alight
With galantry and fire.
The leather ball was massacred
A pounding it did score
With repetitious boundaries,
Drilled cover drives and more.
The marker looked excited
The sweat ran down his brow
And as the score did level
He had to ask the Angels how?
And the providences shone
Upon this galant Tunnel team
For Claude's classy, deft square cut
Ensured we grinned the winning gleam.
Cricket is to Englishmen
As golfing is to Yanks,
And cricket played with pageantry
Make the civilized give thanks.
And cricket played with elegance
Fills the English heart with joy,
And Victoria Park Tunnel Team
Have downed an ale to victory's ploy!
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
Auckland
17/2/2010
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 5:53 PM UTC
today i learned that a friend of mine
was nearly tickled by death
in a terrorist excavation of bones
in Brussels, with jean-claude van damme
included in the action sequence -
although without stunt artists, by god,
that's the second girl on my list of near
encounters with death and a permanence of tombstones;
i took four beers for a walk
trying to gather dogs' tears along the way...
if she was only worth blowing myself up i would,
she wasn't - because, i mean,
is this a 72-get-together asking about circumcision
and contraception, and is the niqab an over-sized ******
in the supermarket jokes,
me with my long hair tied into
a samurai's bun of a seashell, she with her
hijab... i didn't get the joke either...
i said i wrote poetry for friends,
and yes, i've become a so-called milk carton
at the supermarket - the expected, shelved -
first they asked for my name, then what i did,
matthew, poet...
well you've got the cheapest bottles of whiskey
around here, of course i'll testify
to a religiosity of having to repeat purchase... d'uh!
still, jean-claude van damme and those
four cans of beer... the dogs salivated more
than wept: so i collected saliva rather than salt drops,
of what could have suckled dry a field
readied for a harvesting of potatoes.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 6:18 PM UTC
Knights will rise and kings may kneel.
And barons fall from battles that they mill
Truth is, I don't know how to say how I feel.
Real love, perfection of eternal dreams.
Imploding thoughts of uncharted realms.
Never would I forget your face.
And your laughter, echoes within my imaginary maze.
Dreaming of those moments when I'm with you.
Each time I wonder if they can ever be true.
Love, my only notion, is to forever be with you.
Romantic as Beethoven or Claude Debussy.
Over the vast madness of sincerity.
Such desires, and they all grew.
Astounding, like how Picasso drew.
Reminds me of how in my brain, I painted you.
If my feelings ever let me be.
Offering you is my love so true.
Vanity is your face .
Ascending from a great and holy place.
Strength is in your name.
Quested by masters of tactical games.
Unity is your smile
Each day that comes,is like a mile.
Zebus from Camelot will show up in a little while.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 2:17 PM UTC
There's a party going on upstairs,
your invited, to come and have a scare.
H.G. Wells, will meet you at the gate,
costumes required, hurry don't be late.
Vincent Price will be tonights D.J.
Halloween is his favorite Holiday.
He's spinning "Thriller", while dressed up as "Kiss".
Watching Claude Rains do the "Transylvania Twist".
Steve McQueen came dressed up as the "Blob",
he's serving up the zombie shish-ka-bobs.
Elsa Lanchester placed real bats within her hair.
While Marty Feldom keeps yelling "Frau Blucher".
At the stroke of the witching hour,
St. Peter amps up all the power.
A disco ball drops down from a cloud.
Out on the dance floor, forms a massive crowd.
Michael Jackson then leads them all in dance,
while Lon Chaney and Karloff take their chance,
to join the angels in harmony,
While "Monster Mash" is sang by Lugosi.
Even the Devil made it through the door.
He's the one sporting an Elvis pompadour.
So much fun is had by one and all,
at Heavens Annual Halloween Ball
Oct 29, 2010
Oct 29, 2010 at 5:12 PM UTC
Her evanescent soul suffers.
Love, sweet love, as sweet as honey,
Sent from Heaven above.
In the garden of her thoughts,
The young woman cries for the love she lost.
Though she is unaware that he is beside her,
Protecting her while her tears fall upon the lilies.
She makes the lilies her bed
She looks upon the sun.
She cries out
“Are you no longer here?
“I recall the days when you enveloped me
In your love.
If I die, will my days forever remain
In happiness and peace?”
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
When your fingers move
within the betweens of keys,
white then black, scaling
and tumbling through and over
knuckles and joints and wrinkled
imprints does your chest flutter
arpeggios and dance along
with tender pale-pink ballet
slippers balancing, spinning
in a reflecting room of mirrors,
the echoes of a pentatonic scale
the pounding of parallel chords
nudging your toes exactly right,
do you forget your wives and daughter,
both Emma’s, when you let the genius-flow
and the grand piano waltz
with your soul,
do you fall in love with something
more I cant describe
in verse, delicate Debussy.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC