"deco" poems
*"So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."*
Shall I compare thee...
...to the Iguazú Falls River, where legend serves that a serpent; Boi, demanded a sacrifice each year of a young female, and the day two lovers; Tarobá and his beautiful maid Naipí, took to escape, and in revenge of such an act, Boi exuded such anger that he parted the river, thus forming the Iguazú Falls, splitting the river and condemning to two lovers to the falls.
or
...to Cristo Redentor; Christ the Redeemer, the Art Deco statue, protecting and looking over the city of Rio de Janeiro, to whom in all its glory cannot escape the force of nature, struck by lightning, causing damage irreplaceable.
or
…to The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, hundreds of metres into the sky, a place that to this day is unknown, myth being that King Nebuchadnezzar recreated the homeland of his precious wife Amyitis, who was deeply depressed and homesick, allowing her to find comfort and happiness.
or
…the Taj Mahal, of Pradesh, constructed using marble by the emperor Shah Jahan, in loving memory of his third wife; Mumtaz Mahal, the jewel of Muslim art, a calligraphy written Great Gate reading; "O Soul, thou art at rest. Return to the Lord at peace with Him, and He at peace with you.
or
…the Temple of Artemis; Istambul, on sacred land in honour of the Greek goddess Artemis, the most apotheosized of Greek deities, the supposed daughter of Zeus and Leto, the temple also known as Diana, one of the goddesses who vouched never to marry; alongside Minerva and Vesta.
or
… the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, of the Persian Empire, whereby Mausolus ornamented four sculptures created in relief for his wife (and also his sister); Artemisia II of Caria, generating an above ground tomb that would become to be listed as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.
But of all,
I compare thee to the Goddess of Love, Beauty and Sexuality; Aphrodite
arising from the sea, floating ashore on a shell;
Venus rising from the sea,
a lover of many,
later depicted as a painting of the Birth of Venus,
by the sufferer of unrequited love; Botticelli,
using his muse Simonetta Vespucci as a model.
© Sia Jane
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
a sensual curve
to the facade
- infinite femininity -
arched above
rounded windows
- innuendos art of love -
deco of desire
climbing higher
- echoing fire -
...descending spiral stairway
home to shanty on the bay.
r ~ 10/9/14
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC
I spent Thanksgiving
this year
not in the blue-collar comfort
of my aunt’s house,
nestled somewhere
within a well-buried suburb
of a quaint, but un-noteworthy neighborhood
with walls decorated with Budweiser signs
juxtaposed against portraits of the ****** Mary,
where a football announcer’s voice plays like
conservative talk radio
in the background.
Instead, to save the labor
of my weary immigrant grandmother,
we dressed in Sunday best
and drove ourselves in
three well-packed mini vans
to some elegant hotel restaurant,
ideal for people-watching
from the gaudy, art-deco staircase
while pretending to be in the Great Gatsby.
It didn’t feel natural, though,
that beside a modest turkey breast
with cranberry dressing, sat a beautiful
cut of prime rib, carefully ladled
with truffle au juis–
nor beside a humble dollop
of mashed potatoes and gravy,
should there be salmon to die for,
and berries slathered with brie.
The food I nibbled
with bites of nervous guilt,
as the impeccably dressed waiter
exhaustedly refilled our water glasses,
nodding his head reflexively
to my mouse squeaks of “thank you’s”
What monsters are we,
letting these people work on Thanksgiving Day?
Grandma said, calmly, that some people
are just happy to be paid,
recounting
her impoverished childhood
in war-torn Germany—
that to simply muffle
the aggressive rumbling
of a days-empty stomach,
she and her brother
would ****** a handful of
potatoes from a government farm,
not many, but just enough
as she grimaced
at the ever-so-slight mealiness
of her rosemary-infused pork chop—
the woman who couldn’t afford ham
until she became a citizen.
We nodded quietly and
swallowed our privileged guilt,
washed down with
politely cut bites
of perfectly cooked salmon.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
Chicago's winds were violent
that February day.
The air was unusually warm,
and the city once again bounced
up from its winter grave.
But all at once her winds blew fiercely,
Reminding us of
her wrath
and power.
Her thumb,
gargantuan and steam-punk,
art-deco,
futuristic,
craftsman and industrial,
pressing down on us as we happily
walked down her sidewalks,
and crossed her streets.
She smiled from way up there
and all around,
blowing her winds with extra tenacity,
forcing us
from our comfortable jaunt.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 8:39 PM UTC
Our so-empty lives are filled with pointless plans,
Every decision impacts life, and sometimes death.
The earth split - death was in that sometimes day,
Where unending need became the end of their world.
Montana was my home-from-home in Haiti,
Art deco paradise, an instant hellish grave.
What of my shoeshine man with ***** shoes?
Two hundred dead too hard, one is possible.
Little things we do to change the world,
The smallest possibilities in this nightmare,
Saving lives each day with lifeline texts,
Today we are the hand of God in hell.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 5:30 AM UTC
I pried the Words off the Wall
Rearranged and used them All
Stacked upon each other in
A sentence Said with Style
Coco Chanel And Ert'e Flaunt
Lesbian Fashion In chic Paris Haunts,
In the 1920s, While Albert Camus
Late Night Parties Extistentialist Claims
*Amid ****** and Champage*
Django Rienhardt Played Jazz Guitar
To the West Bank Artists in Bars,
Toulouse Lautrec had Drank
With Prostitutes, in Art Deco
Frank Loyd Wright Praised
In Architect Circles
How He has Designed
The Unfolding of the Future
The Camera Has Brought
Sharp Images to see
While emergence of Psychology
Has driven Art into the Abstract
Paris in the 20's scent of
Hedonist Creativity
Cultural Gravity
To the Inclined
De rien, entre amis
Prende un jour a la fois
All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 3:39 AM UTC
heavenly
tipsy, drinking in
sights, delights, a few odd sides
im intoxified.
swinging around poles, singing gleefully
because of the tall waters,
divine despair
is it too humid in here?
or can i not breathe in this murky air?
headrush,
spinning, sirens whirl above me...
at thirty five thousand feet
to ascend, devour
the happiness, anxiety for a few short--
hours?
click, flash,
paparazzi, lights--
"welcome to miami"
art deco, delight...
on the beaches, slightly still
drunk in nightlife.
laughter, singing
whats the language?
what the hell are they saying?
i hear hapiness, sanity...
at feet, equal to the sea[s]
so watch me,
im merely ********
in english, please... tell me
what is spanish for
"What the ****
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 3:28 AM UTC
After cocktails at Luigi's Bar, and then The Golden Bowl,
I proposed we play a gig of jazz-inspired rock and roll.
We all thought we'd make the fans cry out for encores every night.
But our schemes were dreams that faded in the morning's ruthless light.
My blue guitar should captivate the people every night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
My dream faded out of sight.
Playing keyboards was Patricia. (Never 'Trisha', never 'Pat'.)
She'd a taste for gracious living in her small art deco flat.
She would practice chord progressions, sipping lapsang souchong tea.
Then she played away at weekends with her special friend, Marie.
She trained her dainty fingers to explore new grooves each night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
Her dream faded out of sight.
We had Ritchie on electric bass, with tap-and-pull technique.
Such a clever devil — Ritchie almost taught the bass to speak.
Ralph the drummer's backbeat cymbal crashes measured out the bars.
We agreed the speed — then found we could not play like superstars.
Would the crowd be wowed by passion from my lovely blue guitar?
No, the dream crumbled, as the band stumbled.
Our dream faded overnight.
The Blue Guitar Quartet
was as close as we could get
to our vision for the music of today.
But we bumbled and we fumbled,
our aspirations humbled.
So we slowly put our instruments away.
"The Blue Guitar Quartet
is down, but not out yet.
With practice you will crack it," said Marie.
"Let Patricia be your singer;
she's a musical humdinger,
and as soulful as a solo girl can be".
"She can improvise a blues
based on any riff you choose.
Let's have handshakes and embraces —
this quartet is going places!
Here's to jazz-rock, and The Blue Guitar Quartet!"
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC
artist working by candle light,
neon lights, coffee shop lights...
~~~
to, for & from SJR
~
this force,
burnt soul kindling,
rampant urges that bow a man's
spine
write write rite right
consumption of the soul
straighten up, flex,
flex to the curvature of the Earths
invitation to
write write rite right
cast my eyes to the mountains,
from whence will come my help?
street prowler, heart growler,
Art Deco lampposts,
the mountain range of east seventy second street,
begs the baggers question,
each a post
begging each other,
from whence will come my inspiration?
lick the stubbled sidewalks,
fall down living in their caverned cracks,
light needed needy soft heated
orange and green pizza neons
say here,
if you see upon what be,
your homelands colors of veracity
from
candle light,
neon lights,
coffee shop lights.
all queries so queer,
so cheerfully answered
in the ***** air,
in warped woof of
city write lights
he goes home
in the dark of a green moon,
and its delighting inviting
moonlight,
he composes
what is his eyes have
decomposed into a single memory,
and is satisfied
unto sleep
praising the eyes,
light lidded, but eager closing,
that
had wisdom given
to observe
light various by which to
write write rite right
4/16/16
10:30am
nyc
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 10:42 AM UTC
The way I'm going now,
I'd probably crash into your living room:
tearing apart the art-deco set up
with my red car,
mashing art and steel into a subculture
of hate, and the unrequitedness of love.
Baby,
I'm rocketfuel and bedding-
I'm churning up the cotton into kindling
and I'm burning so bright
I don't think I'll be able to top this.
I won't be able to top this.
I'm swallowing air and the sea,
the sea can wait a little while,
I'm yelling so hard at the waves my
throat has more salt than your tears,
listen
you don't need conch shells to hear
me pleading for you; strumming six songs a second
and wailing into a chorus of
"I'm sorry" and "I love you";
it almost sounds like
I'm apologising.
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 2:59 PM UTC
Wander from Argyle Street towards the pyramid shaped monolith
past the oddly named Benny Hamish - Sicilian Couture Tailors -
through the automatic glass doors of persuasion
up the revolving stairs of many stairs
sail by the portly security guard
(who looks like he'd be out of breath after a 10 yard dash)
along the imitation marble airstrip
passed neon facades and signs for proactive self indulgence
toward the carousel of smoked-mirror lifts
that take the well heeled to their desired destinations
without having to worry about their Chanel leather clutch bag
and newly purchased Christian Louboutin shoes
and I sit people watching,
writing this poem on a borrowed napkin
with a discarded betting shop pen
amid a horde of timid stomachs and twitching wallets
faced with a thousand fast food offerings
and gaudy coloured tables and chairs
littered in the remnants of repugnant non-ecological eateries
and Styrofoam cups and re-composite cutlery
under Noah's grotesquely beautiful steel ark
lined in industrial tubing and chrysalis shaped netting
and giant Art Deco toothbrushes
and 30 foot wiggly mirrors
and stretched rhombus sails
acting as a blanket barrier
to the blue skies and arched sun of the outside world
somewhere between
KFC and Burger King.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 7:25 AM UTC
Yeah! - we win!
We Aussies win
the CoreData 2011 award:
each household will spend
an average of more than $1000
on gifts, food and deco for Xmas
Yeah! - we win!
China? $400 only
The French? $600 only
The Kiwis? $631 only
America? $644 only
The British? $815 only
Britain beats France - but
Yeah! - we Aussies beat 'em all!
Yeah! - we win!
We Aussies also win
the IBISWorld 2011 award:
Australia will spend $1.2 billion
on ***** just in December
Yeah, we win! And throughout 2011!
the UK? they drink only 10.58 litres
average year round
the USA? a paltry 8.42 liters average
And Down Under? - 10.61 litres this year
Yeah! - we win! we win! we win!
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 8:42 PM UTC
In this tan room cluttered with art deco mirrors
The accompanying voice, dancing like a feather, says “I heard you’re very lonely.”
This room is an endless labyrinth of rooms
turning over on themselves with no explanation
like a meat grinder of writhing bodies,
A chandelier in God’s sensorium.
My dreams are reality; painting the theatre bizarre
Mere moments separated by suspended animation
Two tiny abruptions ruling my perception.
Every bundle of absorbed organisms looking through their own viewfinder,
one no more true than the other.
Walking through walls like wading pools
I often wonder what I look like to other people
Behind every I resides the seat of sensation
stampeding in blind fear,
Trampling and suffocating the observer.
I look in the mirror and I only see darkness, an eternal abyss of black depth
There’s something there beyond the other side.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 7:49 PM UTC
Ljudi, hej ljudi, čiji je ovo tužni pas !?
Gledajte samo kako se
šćućurio tu u uglu,
i kako se samo trese od hladnoće…
Ljudi, hej, pogledajte,
da neko od vas nije izgubio psa,
pogledajte, nije džukac,
gle samo kako mu se crna dlaka sjaji,
pogledajte,
pa to njemu suze idu.
Ljudi, deco,
čiji je ovo pas,
poslednji put pitam,
ako ga neko ne odnese na toplo, uginuće.
E, ako je tako, nosim ga ja svojoj kući.
Dođi kuco, dođi.
Tako…
Jao što su ti se smrzle šapice,
sad ću tebe ja odneti svojoj kućici,
to će ti biti novi dom,
imaćeš i šta da jedeš,
biće ti toplo i čuvaćemo jedan drugog.
Pa muško si, ček da vidim…
Pa jesi, jesi muško si…
E sad da te ušuškam u svoj kaput i idemo,
ček samo da uzmem maramicu
da ti obrišem te suzice,
jeste tako,
nema potrebe da plačeš više,
sad imaš svoj dom.
Samo da smislim kako da te zovem…
Samo da smislim…
Čupko !
E, zvaću te Čupko, mali moj…
Eto, obrisali smo suze,
samo još da ti obrišem tu penicu sa usta…
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
We followed the girl with the flossy blonde wig
like she were the march hare- late late late.
I was in an art deco trapeze top and size 3 blue jeans,
Lord & Taylor boots I bought with a 100 dollar gift card.
15, freshly single, pregamed,
and ready to blend in with the co-eds.
Flossy Blonde was short and thin- in a red number
walking way fast to the apartment I think we were invited to.
The crew I was with was incredibly drunk and incredibly gay
and I couldn't wait to go to a real party.
Flossy Blonde disappears into a doorway-
with generic flashing dorm-room lights
spilling out of it
along with cigarette brigades
of Tweedle dee
and Tweedle dum.
I didn't know it then,
but those seniors couldn't escape expectation.
There was a pole installed in the middle of the room.
A caterpillar man in a tiny suit and bow tie, big hipster glasses,
was grinding to Gaga on it,
There was no tea-
but everyone was equipped with
jungle juice that made them bigger or smaller.
Flossy blonde was there getting her drink on,
throwing her hips around.
Her cotton-tail wiggled a little.
Passion red lights flashed on her outfit.
I danced with her, and this
what would now be called "bro"
but then just an unavoidable deterrence
with a fractioned hat.
My vision was getting blurry-
must have been the kool-aid.
And now my memory is, too,
because I keep thinking
The Queen of Hearts was there cheering us on-
Because a purple cat meowed "We want to see you kiss!"
And so I gave Flossy Blonde a sloppy one-
and the room erupted with lava loudness,
ruckus and applause.
She giggled a little-
as we sat on a love seat,
I proceeded to exclaim,
"I kiss way better when I'm not sloshed."
and then I woke up under a tree.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 1:59 AM UTC
i wished i learned
how to let go
from the get go
because i wouldn’t
have changed faces
like a gecko.
her body was temple,
i painted art deco.
i fell for her tempo,
it resonates like an echo.
i trembled at her tone,
yet her treble alone
could break any heart
made of stone.
she’s known
to play her part,
she’s shown
she can master it.
she'll hit every note,
she’s drop dead
accurate.
© Matthew Harlovic
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 11:23 PM UTC
There was not a lot to worry about so
nothing could be held up without it being sold
Faberge' brushed shoulders with art deco pieces
money paid guaranteed immediate releases
The reps had phones to their ears getting the nod
there was a clown's outfit which was rather odd
because the clown was still inside - did the body come too?
or was it to be stripped naked like me and you?
We have lost everything - it's all in the room
there was a smile from a man leaning on a broom
I want my sofa back, my favourite armchair
the bed we made love in where you lay bare
Even your smile was for sale, admired from afar
golf clubs, personal effects, my teeth in a jar
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC
She stood there in a world full of glamour,
The art deco nature of her edges
Synchronising with the slow movements of sound
That slurred her into a haze
Of small sips of *** and salt that sat on her lips
Like an unwelcome guest.
She was out of place, a photograph on a window
Pained by being made with the wrong grace
Of those before.
She saw herself in the eyes of those around her,
Reflections of those parts she kept hidden
In a suitcase beneath her bed
Ready to leave behind,
Desperate to discard
The shadows traced by candlelight.
And she'd given up on the fight and heaven
For the pocket watch she kept in her heart
Had a small inscription
Forever engraved in time,
"Twenty-seven".
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 6:37 AM UTC
I wake up early
the tropical squall outside
turns the beach blue-grey
outside our hotel
the bay looks rather bizarre
so quiet and still
I get dressed quickly
we pack our bags just as fast
glancing at the paper
we check out quickly
before realizing that we
still had three hours left
so we drive downtown
past the tropical art deco
to get some breakfast
two empanadas
tea for me, coffee for you
watching the local news
there's not really anywhere
where we can go for an hour
and be back in time
so you just drive 'round
I guess this seems strange because
It's usually busy
Streets filled with tourists
spring breakers and the partiers
are now near silent
a wet, grey Sunday
the streets no longer bustling
we wait to meet mom
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
The dark second floor passageway
celebrates its one blessed feature,
a sash window, tarnished panes,
pixels, lit in colours beyond RGB.
An ordered scene of chevron gables,
an art deco arrangement, apex
clasping serpentine rust red pantiles,
pitched protection for the action below.
Steam escaping kitchen windows,
conveying today's menu,
while shining expectant plates await.
A clustered community,
mutering togetherness,
jealousies beneath the breath.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 1:35 PM UTC
i wish i learned how to let go from the get go
because i wouldn't have changed faces like a gecko.
her body was a temple i painted art deco,
i fell for her tempo it resonates like an echo.
i tremble at her tone yet her treble let alone
could break any heart made of stone.
she's known to play her part,
she's shown she can master it.
she hits every note,
she's dead accurate.
she's a natural when it comes to the art.
she's outsmart anyone even the likes of Descartes
and depart in the dark just to get a head start.
she's a work of art with beautiful quarks
that set apart the sharp remarks
with the monarch sparks
we shared that night we were in my parked car.
i swear you might be the most astounding star
i have ever found on my radar
but you are by far the very avatar
of a die-hard wild card.
are you barred in?
has the flower child outgrown her garden?
or were you just starving for a greater havest
when you carved out my carcass?
perhaps you're a Marxist
and my work wasn't up to par with your target market.
i thought a monarch was regarded as a god incarnate
yet your true colors were scarlet.
you weaved a web of lies like Charlotte.
have you achieved your dreams yet my darling starlet?
are you set on starring in a different light?
apart from all the starry nights, and sorry fights?
you're such a sorry sight when you hardly ever blink
at anything i say yet everything i think.
© Matthew Harlovic
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 3:53 PM UTC
Icon of Fashion
Lady of Passion
She invented the
Fashion Show...
Replete with...
Art Deco Staging
Jazz Music Blazing
Young models sashay
On the Walkway
The Famed of the Arts
Were plied Champagne
From the Start as lithe
Long legged Models
Flirted and Flashed
Throwing Kisses to
The Amazed Crowd
Coco Channel and Ert'e
Dared to Dress as Men
Wearing Suits and silk ties
And swapping kisses and Sighs
In Paris nights of Long Ago
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 7:47 PM UTC
an art
stand in
Miami deco
by January
dry she'd
be very
warm with
canary yellow
sneakers ran
the heart
of the
sun yet
poolside in
orange jubilee
that orkÿ
would retire
at noon
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 2:36 PM UTC
The smell of mahogany
as you walked through
those white wooden doors
and the dried lavender
that spoke of summers past.
She raved about the art deco
treasures and wonders she
collected and I was mesmerised
by the ancient modernity
sugar crystals of brown and gold
were put into darjeeling tea
next to collections
of handmade theatre masks
hung among portraits of
a younger blonde girl.
The sounds of a stormy night
as we sat eating some
honey roasted almonds
were a rhapsody to us at candlelight
I wanted to sketch her antiques
and add them to the
painting filled walls
one of them I found
was an old typewriter
a Mercedes that her mother had
found discarded in a dump
she didn’t know if it worked
and so gave me some ivory paper
now I sit with the lace tablecloth
by the window to the
evening street below
cars pass with the softest breeze
and I write of summers past.
Nov 8, 2019
Nov 8, 2019 at 9:35 AM UTC
If you seek to fill a happy place.
Then you need someone for sure.
But I am surreal.
You art deco.
And I feel you so square.
But somewhere in the frost of my mind.
I see us to be.
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 9:48 AM UTC