"cowbell" poems
On the canvas of the Sky,
As high as can see the eye,
Two figures hung: a cowbell
And a sailing boat as well.
On the canvas of the Sky,
As far as would reach the eye,
Bell on bell, boat on boat, high
They linger for a moment,
Then they all wave good-bye,
Like a choir of echoes.
(C) LazharBouazzi
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 4:59 PM UTC
I bang my elbow in the shower,
takes a second to realize why
not that I was careless
or enjoy pain, again
but the cascara
cowbell, saxophone,
hands around my shoulders
that are not my own
sunlight squeezing lemons,
flower dress upon the hill
potato enchilada
still
digesting
messing
with my footwork
possibly
maybe
I was careless.
Showers are not the place for salsa.
May 10, 2021
May 10, 2021 at 9:43 AM UTC
after years of being told how good my body was
i went through puberty.
after years of being asked how much time i spent at the gym
i grew hips
and disconcerting looks from grown men who thought my fifteen year old thighs were too thick to be sexualized.
after years of wearing sundresses
and being applauded for being the first girl in my grade to grow *****
my metabolism slowed down
and i was made to feel like a cowbell in the least practical sense of the word.
i was thirteen and hunched over a porcelain toilet bowl when i told my friend i had purged and she called me gross as if it wasn't because of feeling "gross" that i was there to begin with.
and i'd grown used to my good-gened friends with their tiny waists and size 32 jeans telling me they wanted to join a gym in hopes i'd run along and lose some weight.
because when i was 13 and weighed little enough to turn heads i felt empty while looking whole.
and when you're fat you can't have an eating disorder, because illness can be seen so how good of a job my ana was doing depended solely on how faint i felt by midday.
in a world where nobody buys magazines it's easy to pretend we don't care for skinny bodies anymore, but when every smartphone is linked to an instagram page and every newsfeed is filled with "slim thick baddies" you can't help but wonder.
if i were to feel physically full why am i so empty?
i cheated myself.
she probably went and cheated on me because my body wasn't slim-thick enough to eat.
and it's easy to say this doesn't apply to me when you see the pictures on the beach but you don't see me scrolling through pinterest at 2 in the morning looking at "How To Lose 10 kgs in 3 Days" posts.
if i were so lucky i'd be a success story and could probably post before and after pictures of my body but you can not hear the ache in my belly screaming at me that it'd rather just be cut off.
when i was fourteen i could no longer wear shorts in public because grown men with wives would turn and watch my thighs clip-clap together as i walked with my dad.
i was asking for it.
i resented summer and the fact that i'd run out of clean pairs of jeans to sweat in.
but if i dare love myself, what then? do i apologise to the girlfriends of the boys who visit me for coffee? do i drink coke light with my whiskey? do i start writing poetry?
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC
The grass is so green
Down in the meadow
Beside the glistening stream
A cowbell rings
Tolling for lovers
Beside the sparkling water.
Our fingers touch and
A shock jolts our bodies
As we tremble with passion.
The air is hot and still.
Nature's sounds are magnified
As we reach for each other.
Fumbling with our clothes
We caress one another
With hot lips and sweet kisses.
The fragrance of crushed grass
Mingles with the scent of wild roses
As the sun heats our naked flesh.
Lying together on our blanket,
We make love with an urgency
That takes our breath away.
Afterwards, we lay side by side,
Holding hands, touching
And whispering our love.
That romantic summer's day,
Filled with joy and delight,
And so many years ago.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
Illuminated by a dream.
Drawings on the wall
Writings on your back
Hiding away in abstract thought.
Pastel colors and vintage photographs and Levi Jeans ads.
Dusty records on the floor of your room with the slanted walls
Hibernating on the roof
Looking over the city
Like the hero of Gotham
See the world through someone else’s eyes.
See the way you live.
Merge. Connection.
Binnocularing into the future.
Bird watching peeping tomming.
Conjoining what’s real and what is just what it seems.
Edgar, it is just a dream.
Earth, Moon and global Pangaea.
The world is my canvas and now so are you.
Why do you look at me like that?
You make me want to write.
I can’t stop looking at you too.
You have rendered me useless
All I’m focused on is those blue eyes
Staring so intently at me
Fixated on me and only me
Hey, I’m talking to you,
Cowbell tamboureen percussion section cowboy.
You burn with a fire from the sun.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
your paradise is giving me hell... yet -
we bark at the same moon
and all's well. we strike the brass bells of our Wednesday
and keep havoc on a leash. drinking mint tea... pealing anguish
from a flask... stalking clarity with a cowbell -
spoiling ribbons of the sun
with night streaks of blind lemons
coiling in the blue sky of dread reckoning... a periscope
in the marsh, festooned with limp reeds and wild things...
my eyes clunk in the Mcguffin
and go the way of Eastern men with rope tricks
it clicks on the steam in my kettle
where harm has a hammock.
and a gentle breeze typhoons
in a fools mouth.
as the whirligigs of Autumn
preach Spring
in Amsterdam.
i'm left out.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 2:24 AM UTC
Sometimes you just need a whole lot more of a little bit of cowbell,
ya feel me?
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 8:58 PM UTC
I saw Satan fall, vicarious and all, y'know
the storyteller, said
lend me your ears
should you chose to lend to a king on a verbal agreement that
the king repay the loan on demand
"ask and ye shall receive"
but you,
got nada t' lend,
best intendere covers only one bubble,
my ownliest one.
--- here, watch, see reality stretch
--- intendere stretch
--- seventh inning, whose at bat , but you,
ad lib ad hoc you are Casey...
and there, the story ended, I told it, oh so well
born in the po' house, had a cowbell for a toy,
sing me some ain't got no money blues
If i reckon I need money fo' me some ol' new shoes
if I reckon I need money I be be be leaven one set o' footprints
in yo' sand.
come turn that backgound buzz down low,
fall wit' me t'see the show
I saw Satan fall, vicarious and all, y'know,
like lightening black,
after flash,
in a movie, HD, 3 inches from my left eye,
my right eye never saw.
old time ********* could not imagine
the level of segregation
at the corpus colostrum epi-phun-junction
that can be employed to prevent the left
hand from being judged by the right,
for lack of knowing. Eh? Who imagined ignorance
was less bliss than this
peace past standing under all the liefy remnants
from trys
past trys, some same as now,
some how
better
with you aware of you being so valuable,
one part in eight billion, pure you, like,
tried, in the finer's fire,
seven times - in ever
there has never been
a snowflake more unique than you.
(snowflake recrudesence, there's a rub)
Tell me why would you imagine meaning
hidden in snowflake, the word?
is there a nibbler from society a-tempting you?
Come and see. Does that tempt you?
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 4:33 PM UTC
Black clouds circumnavigate the pine forest , trees cull their mouths for Summer rains ! Black crows banter in the welcome cool breeze , Bessie's cowbell clangs at the molasses lick ! Pie pans glide across the hayfield , scarecrow comes alive , looks right then left ! Nanny goat calls her kids to the pole barn , head rooster crows , brings the hens to order !
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
I
On the canvas of the Sky,
As high as can see the eye,
Two figures hung : a cowbell
And a sailing boat as well.
II
On the canvas of the Sky,
As far as would reach the eye,
Bell on bell, boat on boat, high _
They linger for a moment
Then they all wave good-bye_
Like a choir of echoes.
(C) LazharBouazzi, June 20, 2017
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 7:30 PM UTC
Long walks under the sun.
Tender brains in unsure men,
A breeze caresses the pines
A rocky ocean shore below
Nothing to do,
Just somewhere to go.
Red shirts, marihuana, alcohol.
Friendship and love
Blossoming through time,
Piercing
The blue sky dressed above
By some superintendent devil's.
For these memories
Act like drugs
On my depressed brain now.
It was long ago,
Yet I'm still here.
That church eating away the
Sunlight, had a christ with no legs
Three years later I understand.
Memories are echos,
We hear them clear
We know deep inside what we
Want to hear
But the shore gets higher
And longer and wide
The sound is now a Cowbell, or a stain,
A dead mouse and
her dry dead remains,
A footstep in sand that left
before I said it could.
Which sunk into the sea,
before I wished it should.
What are we left with
When we feel regret?
I feel
like I've let something go,
Somehow, and what?
How can I know
So I linger here
On my empty bed,
Without any happiness
And blood in my head
Those red shirts popping
everywhere I feel
I am abandonned
Buried away
I shouldn't shouldn't have hurried
I should have stayed.
Yet it's all over,
Those men are gone.
They're out on the ocean
Singing new songs.
When satan is nye
Wild wheat is ****
Human is animal
Friendship is seed
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
onomatopoeias proved to us the existence of actual realities with our inability to encode them given our phonetic vectoring of assertion and amiable frames to conduct the practice of farming (e.g.), onomatopoeias showed us the boundaries, we can hardly write the sound of rain with the 26 notables, so we turn from the practice of onomatopoeias and raise the flag of imagery with so so many comparative associations, like, like, like / akin to.
after i ate cat snacks
i realised two thing...
a. cats have a really coarse palette
in terms of taste-buds
b. i never intended my poetry
to be read, esp. by me,
so it seems i'm looking for
an orator; a bit like chopin
looking for a pianist
to play the silencer notes
of scores, written in the realm
of chaos of surd musical notation,
gangrene on the page;
readily amputated,
i never write to speak it,
i'm looking for a slave to do the fiasco
for me - sounds cruel,
but i guess kindness comes at a price.
he's just a pianist and gets to be called
an artist - let' just say he's a learned
decipherer of scores...
london was built on grime & grit...
liverpool was built on ore-land (northern eerie land),
my heart was left in scotland...
i never write for oration -
i left my heart in scotland, dancing on the roof
of the old college (of law).
honestly, the thinking of musical composers
always fascinated me, that schizoid-arena
of near-to-miss theological theory of
predestination working in them,
the ability to see the sound lag of a violin
or a cello, decipher it and note it down
in the universal language of music,
forget Esperanto... noting down the sound
of a raindrop, a hammer striking a nail,
i'm jealous of this enigma... i truly am
and i am unabashed by it...
my musical expression seems so dumb and quartered,
i've been given the rhythm section of the composition,
the parameters of punctuation...
i'm not jealous of prose writers,
they're the ones that say: an opera for an hour -
they define the longevity of the **** thing,
i possess power over yawns and impromptus
of the orchestral cowbell known as the silvery triangle.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
You Made Me Go Through All These Experiences Just So I Could Write About It? (too long)
or
TISFU (that is so ****** up)
Or
Next!
Or
L’enfer c’est les autres
Or
I Hate Strangers!
Or
Street Corner Conundrum
or
Is that Approaching Drunken Psychotic ********** Yelling At Me?
Or
You say Zombie...I say Zombie Works
Or
I’m Happy **** It! 🤗
Or
You Sugared? The Peas?
Or
Does He Have Balance Problems or Has He Been Body-Snatched?
Or
Digital or Analog?
Or
Get Your **** Outta My Face
Or
A Rose By Any Other Name
Or
Extreme Peripheral
Or
Is That a Cowbell?
Or
You Said That The Lord, Jesus Christ Wants To Mug Me?
Or
Winter’s Coming
Or
Do It For Less
Or
Yes My Legs Are Great!
Or
My Friend Says That People ****
Or
******* Rabbithole
Or
RabbitAss Hole Hole
Or
Dingbat!
Or
God the Couture Warned Me!
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 1:25 PM UTC
I am a wilting flower.
I am over-watered, hung heavy.
I am the blackish-blue in your eyes after a flash. Splotchy, blinding, lacking clarity.
I am the looks you receive and the smiles you don’t when you enter a room
I am the ringing in your ears, the sharp alarm
of your eardrum dying.
I am the weight in your stomach, a cowbell sitting above your bladder.
I am the cold.
I am the frigid wind at 5 a.m. on a February morning.
I am the dark, suffocating, all-encompassing feeling of being smothered beneath a pillow.
I am the frostbite which makes your fingers swell and feel like needle jabs.
I am the exact-o knife against your skin.
I am the beads of blood.
I am the slice which opens up when you pull on my lips, revealing the muscle inside.
I am the wall which stares back as you sit staring.
I am the voice in your head which cycles over and over.
I am the rotten banana peel left on the lunch table for the janitor.
I am the wreaking garbage on your curb.
I am the abandoned wrapper everyone steps over but no one picks up.
I am the dried gum stuck to the sidewalk and under desks.
I am the drowsiness, the lack of concentration, the sadness.
I am the numbness, the lead in your limbs, the cramps in your back.
I am the constipation and the nausea.
I am the headaches which press into your temples.
I am the thoughts and the quiet holding you to the bed.
I am the used ****** left in the vineyard.
I am the empty roads and stoplights after dark.
I am the fist which clenches your heart.
I am the suffocation.
I am the loneliness.
I am the fear.
I am the self-hatred.
I am the weight.
I am the loss.
I am the spreading.
I am the increasing while you decrease.
I am the dark cloud.
I am the thunderstorm.
I am the heavy rain on your windshield on the highway. I am the broken windshield wipers. you cannot see anymore.
I am the empty cavity in your chest.
I am the remembered, you are the forgotten. .
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 9:07 PM UTC
writing beats and rhymes
at the same time
theyre both the same
in my eyes
always looking for the pattern
like a frame
to hang the words upon
or to surround them
in percussion
every word has place in time
replacing bass with lines
a scribe to my racing mind
the rhymes hi hat rise punctuating
the punching reverberating bass drum
kicking your brain in
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
a mossy
lives in
shoe where
a theater
turncoat ultra
bleeds as
Putin a
cowbell if
fingers won
Equinox and
the squatly
kneel but
this share
of their
misnomer is
Baltic leader
nigh again
Jun 27, 2019
Jun 27, 2019 at 12:23 PM UTC
I clean wounds with animal spit
so I inherit a lust to escape
human capture. But what happens is
I take in their power of blind loyalty
and approach the incarcerator wielding
the softest gun. I fall for boys
who teach me how to mend my
anomalies, and when I'm renewed,
they find I'm not damaged enough
to keep fixing. So I'm free but I miss
prison. I miss following the cowbell
that leads me home. I forget the past
it took to crumble me. My own shadow
haunts me when I step into the light.
So I hide in dark places to keep him out of sight.
Nov 22, 2019
Nov 22, 2019 at 11:41 PM UTC