i've learnt that the greatest
prompt and subsequent
impromptu to yet another poem
is to be constantly dissatisfied
with one's output,
because there's hardly a solemn
care for so little with so much
intent: prose writers are due
respect for hammering
so many little and big words into
novels with an odd flash of
poetic genius, poets are always
left dissatisfied because of this,
their open-plan scribbles are
the compensation odes to the bulk
of bulging plotted out scenarios
of fiction - i too wish i had the
capacity to write so much, bound
by 21 volumes of a Dickens or a Balzac,
but whereas they have their endless
stream of words and compensate
very little in terms of poetic economics,
i can:

                              do this


    do that

                                             and revel

    in the blank trimmings

                                             of a rim


    of a canvas:                    
                                                 with each dispute

    the white, the snow

                                            grin of defeat;

or like the chinese poets said: haiku yin-yang

                 the poem must be,

                     less mechanism of anything,

more association of mechanisms as you elsewhere;


      well less art more ****: make each poem

a yin-yang assimilation - x-ray the renaissance paintings

    and the impressionists, and the still-life

painters and the cubists and realists and the pre-raphaelites...

Your childhood dream
Your teenage dream
Your 20s dream
Your 30s dream
Your 40s dream
Your 50s dream

Measure them in decades
Transfixed before a distorted hall of mirrors

A cycling fun-house

While presidents come and go
Parachute pants, bomber jackets, bangs

When you’re drifting off to sleep
What feeling awakens in your heart?

What small feet run across your translucent landscapes
Cubists blocks of what might have been

Twisting , reforming…, parallax

Like Etcher in motion, Inception

Dark cities floating overhead while eclipses burn red

Do your hands tremble with rage or with despair?

Or do you lie perfectly still, resigned

Practicing for your casket

Selfies of your head sinking into starched pillows

You’re responsible now

Clerks and coroners pat you on the back

The least you can be is responsible

Hunting down dreams in dreary forests
With bow knives and bandanas

Is foolish

Better to fill out your W2s

Calculate your interest and help with homework

Don’t be selfish


Let others burning with madness, desire and discontent

Dream for you

Shape the future for you

Preferable to be content

An anti-pioneer   To Nest in paperclips and razors

Satisfied with consolation prizes, Ms. Congeniality

To sink silently down the toilet of trivialities
Floating listlessly like a ****
Flushed out into the polluted ocean of time

But let us not dwell on dreams

Let us drill, let us dance, let us down

Korean BBQ and snap-shot sunsets

Never mind the shadows swirling

Through you, deepening with every tock

Civilization calls  - You must be integrated.

Not like days of yore

On the hunt

But wrenched into a mechanical maelstrom

Input into a coded vision

An alien incubator zooming through metallic tubes


You are an app

Of Aborted dreams

Of pragmatic passiveness
  

Fingered by millions of strangers

To **** time and hope

what if you were the architect
and i was just the dreamer, dissociative,
passing seamlessly through the clumsiest portions
of someone’s mind

and we were both cubists
kissing ourselves when we were
supposed to be in love

the confusion came easily when i
in your eyes was no different from you
and a talk was the same as a touch

if you were standing in my way i
could always step around you and thus
be right back where i started with my hands
always on my own throat, always

portraits in sepia crowding the table
no mirror path, no sugar
we drink our coffee black
deserted roads are blossoming in our eyes
under the table - disgust
some well disguised hatred
dinner is never served
cause the cubists reinvented the atom
I stay by the window counting widow-days
wondering
how many motherless women
can teach their children what to say
to the never day

that's nice, mm, that's nice,
cover it up, keeping up appearances,
let's smooth it over, butter it up,
mm, slimy pistons moving
easily greased? indeed, for someone
who is to master the names of
many things, you seem overly
concerned over-using pronouns,
so you can't get coordinates,
you're abstracting basically,
smoothing things out, you're the easiest
to spot abstracting via a censor methodology,
i know you're not a philosopher
a snake eating its own tail with verbiage
of having thought out so much you
could claim to be a miner, but buckling
to a pancaked face when told to do rhetoric...
they really really do want to steal that
page from your hands, it's not a set-list,
you're supposed to be a trained monkey,
white paper and stages don't work
unless they're hidden...
but **** me, eroding your memory like that,
you must really love your work
to remember it like prayers...
i don't get it, politicians get away with it,
it's not heartfelt, it's autocued...
poetics promo... but why is it promo (reveal),
so abstracting means revealing?
i thought it was more like hiding something
and getting caught *******...
poetics occulto? so which is it, abstracting
is a way of revealing something or hiding something?
i mean, overusing pronouns and not engaging
in proper noun usage seems a bit futile
in a multicultural scenario of cubists using
african face masks for inspiration, excessive bloom
of lips and nose sharpened by the artists's eyes
into needle thin contorts - africans don't like
things being bouncy and bubbly... they like sticks
it would seem.

write and you will see azure or aquamarine in blue, and as man is almost hue blind in order to make him a decent painter (even though his technique came from the raphaelite school, it’s undermined by childish endeavour of the cubists), so too woman is blind to forms and makes her an adequate child of virginia woolf; i concede, the delicacy of sushi and the subsequent frailty of the tongue is epitomised by complex layring of letters to avoid stressors above, below or in them (theta), and this frailty is no more apparent than now... among the english-speaking youth; why? they have an outlet... the internet... i didn’t have that in my youth... the only outlet i had was in thought.

The Renaissance
The Enlightenment
The Baroque
The Romanesque
The Classical
The Neo-classical
The Romantics
The Avant-Garde
The Dark Ages
The Middle Ages
The Federalists
The Philanthropists
The Modernists
The Cubists
The Minimalists
The Impressionists
The Imperialists
The Rationalists
The Surrealists
The Transcendentalists
The Gilded Age
The Industrial Age
The Golden Age
The Space Age
The Age of Reason
The Age of Mediocrity