"debussy" poems
. what?
between MC hammer...
and men at work...
there's a choice?
come on...
you could have given
me an easier question,
like... Debussy
contra Satie...
or, like...
egg yolk or egg white?!
point being...
i'd love to see
christopher lambert
play the role of
raiden in that... mortal kombat
game made into a motion
picture...
you know...
if i owned a PS2...
i'd still be a gamer...
but i never owned a PS2....
or the metal gear solid 2
gaming experience...
not the PS1 experience
fighting ****** mantis*...
you know that hack / cheat...
when you switch controller
slots...
when ****** mantis* is
giving his grandiose speech..
and you switch the controller
ports, so that in in the game
you're not predictable...
final fantasy 7?!
completed it with a walk-through...
sorry... homework...
that being said:
all of Friday night and all of
Saturday morning...
and some Tenchu....
wacky-Jacky...
cow later chow,
enter mein...
choppers chop chop...
these days?
i game...
when i take a ****
i figured... if there are people who
take a book to the crapper...
i'll take a game...
war robots....
you know what's fascinating?
the interactive applicability of
a game...
team-work...
mesmerizing...
the whole gaming
structure drifted from a narrative,
to a congregational dynamism...
solipsism unraveled...
i dig the whole team work,
while taking a ****
love it... 5 stars review...
but am i a gamer...
do i not think that
a.i. is a revamp of Pinocchio?
no...
but metal gear solid?
a ******* solid game
on PS1...
you would be talking to a gamer
if i was allowed to buy
a PS2 console...
oh right...
i read books and listened to music,
and ended up writing anti-routine /
anti-technicality poetry /
anti-rhyme poetics....
my bad;
"we're" calling a revision
of chess in play;
yeah... sorry...
i was never into paragraphs,
with dialogue interludes...
for me...
poems were always above
a structural stature of paragraphs;
something to do with
haiku or... whatever came out of
Godzilla's mouth.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 11:05 PM 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
was an aperitif to an aphorism,
an apothecary of aphrodisiacs,
an apiary of my ever-buzzing thoughts.
She slipped streamline as maraschinos
into a Manhattan, that strike of sugar
staining the most bitter days a color no chemical dispels.
She was an enigmatic row of beakers
shelved in an ancient pharmacy
at the base of the Janiculum.
Her shape was incense wisps, her
touch a song sung in 1940s noir,
her locking gaze acrophobia itself.
Alliteration ran thick through her blood,
she painted like Debussy composed.
No single organism in the universe could’ve imposed
anything on her – well, maybe.
Maybe she’s just a girl, the way that I’m a boy –
no air of denigration here.
She was intricate, but altogether simple. Empathetic-yet-
tangible, her character was incredible.
It was not the beauty of her face, the body
that held her mind and laughter,
not the dazed sting in my hand as it cupped
in hers – it was her autotelic way and her hope.
And now her imaginings hang,
framed in my house; little landscapes of the heart she left;
retreats that prove I’ve loved and been loved.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:59 AM UTC
Seduced by Debussy
In music I lose me
When notes float on staves
Rolling in with the waves
Of pure sound.
The music around me surrounds me
Enraptures and captures my heart.
Arabesque,clair de lune take me off to the moon
And again I'm in rapture
Trapped in the capture of music.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 10:00 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
“Look for the soul,
you become soul;
Hunt for the bread,
you become bread
Whatever you look for,
you are.” – Rumi
A glorious magenta thistle blossom
a humpback whale breaching
a haiku by my friend John
a kitten swatting at a bouncing string
a silent moment just sitting peacefully
Debussy’s La Mer
a giggling baby
a golden leaf falling from oak.
Dec 11, 2021
Dec 11, 2021 at 12:23 PM UTC
Mi sombra va silenciosa
por el agua de la acecia.
Por mi sombra están las ranas
privadas de las estrellas.
La sombra manda a mi cuerpo
reflejos de cosas quietas.
Mi sombra va como inmenso
cínife color violeta.
Cien grillos quieren dorar
la luz de la cañavera.
Una luz nace en mi pecho,
reflejado, de la acequia.
1.6k
O Debussy,
I run home from the bar
to hear the sssssound
of those sssssyllables
inciting
the ripplesssss of
fingersssss that will
ssssshudder my
sssssheltered sssssoul.
Your soul
too beautiful to write
but a *********
I must try...
BRUCE LIKES TO **** SO YOU SHOULD BUY HIS BOOK.
AUDIBLE, AN AMAZON COMPANY.
indecipherable terms and conditions
**SHUT THE **** UP SPOTIFY.**
I'M TRYING TO WRITE.
Ahh.
That's better.
O Debussy,
your accents strike
me like the moon,
Clair De Lune.
Shine your genius
upon me and
light my way
forward through
the next bus ride.
I will imagine the
silver grass pastures
that inspired you,
through the ***** window
that inspires me,
with buildings.
more buildings.
still more buildings.
Wow. These cheap headphones
really corrupt Reverie...
you must have sounded
awesome live,
at the piano,
by your side....
AT SQUARE SPACE WE BELIEVE IN THE CREATIVE ABILITY OF THE INDIVIDUAL...
Then **SHUT THE **** UP**
and let me write.
O Debussy,
your chords set
free souls —
caged birds that **** less.
Well souls don't **** at all,
but that isn't the point.
But seriously you...
HELLO SPOTIFY USER. WE HOPE WE ARE ANNOYING THE **** OUT OF YOU AND THAT YOUR DAY IS AWESOME. GO PREMIUM. :)
I give up. Debussy, you're great.
I ****
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 3:06 AM UTC
As flowing and beautiful as
waves on the shore,
their voices sweet like the birds
yet deadly as a tsunami.
In my mind,
I am a siren.
I belong to no one
devouring men as I see them.
My voice as sweet as symphonies,
I lure you in
waiting for my attack.
In a perfect world
I would be as deadly as mermaids
in the Greek tales.
I would rip you apart with my
melodic Debussy enchantment.
To be a mermaid,
strong and fearless.
I would not resemble
the head strong adolescent of Walt.
I would decorate the rocks on the shore
with withered bones.
Yet, my dreams of depredation
fall short.
For in my fairy tale,
you were the one to devour me,
spitting out my bones in front
of the world
and leaving me empty.
The beautiful song rapidly increases
as my heart begins to race.
You pull me in
my eyes turn the darkest shade of black.
I have received my fate
I am not the beautiful mythological creature
I am the foolish sailor.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
Those cosmopolitan provincials sorts
the chavs, yobs, yobbesses and oiks with semolina for brains
them retro-grade grade-less sub-humans bottom feeders
who think Cardiff is in East Angular and Magaluf is Eden
and Higher Education begins in Borstal or a stint at HM Prisons
found by happenstance a tin of Caviar
something they'd never seen before
with the curiosity of practiced thieves
they proceeded to examine its worth
'its a tin of hair gel says one'
'No, no, no says another, I think its something you eat'
'it says Caviar Royal Beluga, observes another'
'throw it away, anything with a name like that is rubbish'
'Beluga...some foreign muck, it look dark and oily'
'yea mate, look like **** throw it away'
One of the dis-advantaged rabble with one O'level in Carpentry
took a closer look
'look he says, there's sticker on the bottom that reads
Caviar Royal Beluga – 1kg £3,780.00'
Hahahaha they all roared in ceaseless mirth, hahaha
'some joker is having a laugh, pull the other leg, fancy...
a tin of black gunge in some slimy stuff cost three grand,
must think people are born yesterday, Beluga..fuckoffluga'
And with that, they tossed the tin away and walked off
laughing like *********
Ignorance is a disease, ignorance is bliss
will vandals extol the sheer magnificence of a Constable
or see anything other than a chair in a Chippendale ribbonback chair,
will Barbarians shed a tear on hearing the sensuous notes of Chopin or shiver at the graceful notes of Debussy or melt in sheer
adoration as Tchaikovsky's romance soars in magical resonance.
Will cosmopolitan heathens gape in mesmerizing wonder on
seeing Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel and praise God for being alive
So who has great expectations of our dear cosmopolitan provincials sorts
those chavs, yobs, yobbesses and oiks with semolina for brains
for in disparaging excellence
and rubbishing the noble and the exceptional
they make us appreciate more that we are blessed
and privileged
and do not have
semolina for brains
hey!
who would like some caviar
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 6:40 AM UTC
That year
in Paris
you took
Dostoyevsky’s novel
Crime and Punishment
to read when
you weren’t touring
the sites
and you became
so immersed in the book
that you became
Raskolnikov
and killed
the old woman
and her half sister
and looked about the streets
you looked for the detective
Porfiry whom you suspected
was following you about
and as you sat
in the Champs-Elysées
or stood by
the Arc de Triomphe
you thought of all
the famous
who had stayed here
in this fine city
Henry Miller
Ezra Pound
Hemmingway
Debussy
Van Gogh
and that fanatical
conqueror ******
with his sick smile
under that
silly moustache
and that evening
your brother
in the hotel room
puked in the bidet
after sour wine
or too rich food
as you looked out
the window on
the Parisian street
to see if Porfiry
was out there
waiting for you
to charge you
with the murderous crime
you didn’t do.
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 3:12 PM UTC
As daylight shone through my open window
I write this to you, for you alone
for every ounce of faith I have,
I have in you, for you alone.
And they say you cannot write a poem
without moonlight caressing your soul
as if night itself is the key to your heart.
It is not, for the key is found in you, for you alone.
You see it isn’t impossible; playing Debussy
with the sun shining, that the tremor brought by
the soulful ache of Clair De Lune can be delivered
any time of the day. This ache I share with you,
for you alone.
I touch the soil where we freed all our aches, and all our rage;
and I try to remember everything in vivid details: the corners of
your mouth trembling and your Adam’s apple bobbing, the way
you rested your hand on the caverns of my ***** The fire was gone but I still feel you there. This I remember not for what it’s worth, but
for you alone.
I think of you and how you held my head in the meadows,
while we lay in your Mom’s plaid picnic blanket, reading Sylvia’s
words to my heart’s content. We should meet in another life,
she said, we should meet in air, me and you. And I will meet you
there, not to live the other life or breathe the air; I will meet you
there for you and for you alone.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
Music sang the the soul.
Of a little girl,
Who's only goal,
Was to play.
Anything from,
Beethoven to Bach,
Mendelssohn,
And Debussy.
Art opened the heart,
Of a lost older girl,
Who didn't know,
What was true,
She painted,
From morning,
Till night.
Alone in her room.
She wanted to write.
The words fresh,
In a fragile mind,
Afraid to say,
Or tell,
The story,
Of pain.
And Triumph.
The notes of the music,
Started to mesh,
The paint,
On the brush,
It faded.
Words lost,
In translation,
Losing meaning.
She chose a safe path.
One without risk.
Without pain,
Or seeming,
Completely alone.
She needed,
Perfect mediocrity.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 4:37 AM 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
Remember the pitch of the leaky faucet
In the third floor restroom
Neither male
Nor female
Nor both.
Speaking in unison
That pitch
What was the ******* pitch
Dribbling eighth notes
Tears worth pinning on your wall
Next to your unused bottle of sunscreen
From the time we drank in your living room
And I realized you cared.
There is a star on my pocket
But I won’t remember it tomorrow
Nor will I remember why
I connected the six-petaled flower hole
To Afganistan. Sleek. Smooth.
I slid a straw through my ear
Gazing past the green disoperation
And noticed two formings of pimples beneath the right brow
But maybe I imagined that too
Along with the adrenaline and curiosity and false negativity.
Shooting through my ankles
Enveloping every muscle fiber
Every menacing footstep
I approach the door of Debussy
Wading deep into the kelly green
“Open” sign
Sharpied just so no one ever flips it.
Every frazzled hair follicle executes
Frustration towards the poor soul
Entering doom.
Marracas from elementary
I whispered beneath my mustache
“Fancy seeing you here”
Lingering my capillaries over their stitching
A live animal in a dead environment.
Pink toes and the Sostenuto pedal
Beckon my return to civilization
I remember why I’m here.
I remember why I’m not.
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 4:41 PM UTC
Was an aperitif to an aphorism,
An architect of aphrodisia,
An apiary of my ever-buzzing thought.
She slipped into me streamline: Maraschinos
Into a Manhattan. Oh strike of sugar,
Stain the bitterest days a red no chemical dispels.
She was a cryptic gallipot
Shelved in an apothecary
At the Caelian's base.
Her shape was incense wisps, her touch
A song sung in 1940s noir, her locking gaze
Eros himself.
Alliteration ran thick through the blood.
The paintings? Like Debussy composed.
Nothing in the universe could’ve imposed
Anything on her!— Quit it, you idiot...
The admiration, the visions that adorn her:
Subjectively supernatural—
Maybe she’s just a girl, the way that you're a boy—
No air of denigration.
She was intricate, but altogether simple.
I encountered her in stifled confessions.
It was not the beauty of her face, the body
That held her mind and laughter, not the dazed sting
In my hand as it cupped in hers—
It was her autotelism and her hope.
And now her imaginings hang,
Framed in my house; little landscapes of the heart she left;
Retreats that prove I’ve loved and been loved.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
For Dr. Harry Braeuer
The day is mercifully warm when we come to visit you on Christmas.
All is calm o’er the city by the gulf; the salt in the air is sweetly gleaming.
All is bright with glowing hearts by his cradle we stand.
I play with a kitten that looks like Lily because I cower from the realities of your dying mind:
Of silent and holy nights;
Of sins and errors pining;
Of falling on your knees;
Of demanding to know what you’ve done to deserve the larghissimo dying from a disease that makes you forget the intricacies of Chopin’s Nocturnes or your daughters’ names.
You hold your face in your hand and study the eggshell white tile while Michael plays Clair De Lune.
Oh, hear the angel voices!
As if every flowing wave of moonlight of Debussy would cease the decrescendo of life or bring the lucid dawn of redeeming grace.
And after the final note pianissimo, you try so hard to rise from your wheelchair to give your grandson a loving ovation.
You clap your wrinkled and meticulous hands that cannot forget what it is like to cut open the mortal
—to bury the dead.
But please don’t get up, Dr. Braeuer.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices.
Stay warm in your bed.
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Bravo, my sweet grandfather!
Oh, night divine!
Lay down your sweet head.
Oh, night! Oh, holy night!
Enjoy the tender music instead.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 5:26 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
Come on light
Dance for me
to the sounds of Clair de Lune
I like the flicker of the ice
But you only stay lit;
Stay still;
Don't go;
Stay dancing
But don't tango
and I'm panicky because
it's as if the world would end
if you turned off
and Debussy closed.
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 4:16 AM UTC
A female concert pianist
is playing at Carnegie Hall in Manhattan
Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata and
Debussy’s Clair de Lune and
other romantic melodies
which soothe the aching modern hearts
of her modern urban audience.
She’s 35 and still unmarried.
She’s never met a romantic man
who loves her
like she enjoys being loved:
Romantically like the Moonlight Sonata and
Claire de Lune.
It’s difficult to find a loving husband
in an unromantic world.
During the concert
in breaks between playing pieces
she longingly scans the audience
for a handsome romantic single man
who’s waiting to love her
like she enjoys being loved:
Romantically like the Moonlight Sonata and
Clair de Lune;
but all she sees are couples, mostly old.
It’s difficult to find a loving husband
in an unromantic world.
After the concert
on the taxi-ride to her hotel
the bubble of romantic melodies has burst
and she inures herself once more
to the modern car-horns and truck-roars
of busy city streets.
It’s difficult to find a loving husband
in an unromantic world.
She gazes out the taxi window
at modern urban pedestrians
hustling and bustling on crowded sidewalks
rushing to their business appointments
ambitious for their career success.
It’s difficult to find a loving husband
in an unromantic world.
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 4:59 AM UTC
Like Debussy's arabesque we danced,
your feet too slow, and mine too fast,
in different times, yet
intertwined,
we cascaded like the notes
brushed by gentle fingers;
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 12:52 PM UTC
Bill lit up a cigarette,
began to dress.
The young punk on the bed
yakked about left wing crap.
Bill turned off his hearing,
the *** had been good,
the talk not.
He buttoned up his collar,
tied his tie.
Exhaled the smoke,
put on his shoes.
Walked to the small kitchen,
flipped on the radio,
put on the kettle.
The young punk
got off the bed, dressed,
gazed at the older man
in the kitchen,
classic **** from the radio.
Bill offered
coffee and toast.
The young punk said: ok,
sat in a chair,
pushed fingers
through black hair,
shoulder length.
Bill took in the Debussy,
turned on the toaster,
made coffee.
The kid was talking away,
lit up,
watched Bill's back,
the shooter in an holster
over the shoulder.
Bill laid down
the coffee and toast,
sat opposite the punk,
gentle spoke.
The punk had liked the ***
ate the toast,
sipped the coffee,
feared the shooter.
The Debussy ended,
Bach ***** music,
punk yawned.
Are you a cop?
the punk asked.
No, Bill said,
in business.
Business?
the punk wondered
what sort,
exhaled smoke.
Worldwide stuff,
Bill said,
musing on
the arranged suicide
**** in Iraq,
dead is dead.
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 12:05 PM UTC
gold-laced
molten lava, dripping onto every,
all music
what is it about Bb minor
major
what's surplus? a drum solo?
we tell the truth when it stops raining
& how could you/I turn off Debussy
when he's still learning to make do
in ever-glades of silvery dew
& weeping infinitesimal tears
into broad
piano
strings
© Copyright David Bosworth April 2013
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 11:49 AM UTC
Debussy's in the air
Satie's in the sea
Gershwin's growing in the ground
how much more beauty can there be
Einstein's up in orbit
Newton's sitting 'neath a tree
Schrodinger's both here and there
so where should I be
Naruda conquered love
Bukowski; Reality
Ginsberg Howled all the rest
what thought is left for me
I'd like to say something never said before
something of wonder, profundity
here it comes
here it comes
I'm coming up empty
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 5:01 AM UTC