"cubists" poems
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...
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
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
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 6:59 PM UTC
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
Feb 7, 2011
Feb 7, 2011 at 1:55 PM UTC
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
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 3:38 PM UTC
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.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
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.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 5:50 AM UTC
Designs like the cubists do
Or the calculus involved in Andy Warhol's
Campbell's tomato soup can
You my new imaginary lover, Cady C
can slip down the ladder of one art
Work to another
Letting your nice skirt
And nice feminine deodorant
Smell in the cool breezes of summer
Glancing at your female
Wristwatch , blowing me a cart
Of kisses beside the hallucination
Of Judy Garland as Dorothy in the
Wizard of Oz movies on a tree swing
And land with dark legs
On the planet earth.
Ovrtey
They're see later men
*** Calleome curly.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 3:38 PM UTC