"eastwood" poems
I remember when the photos treated Sam kind,
and yet on the late nights (coffee, gin, cigarettes, the like) --
instead of relaying stories of interstate thighs,
instead of talking in fistfuls and mouthloads --
he spoke of internet ***********
Me, Greg, and Greg's cousin who was named after
an Eastwood western would sink the sofa.
Sam would go through the bottles, and he spoke of
internet *********** with complete delicateness.
"Their eyes always get me. The way they stare into the camera,
and every once in awhile, the veil comes down. You see they
don't want to be there. You see an eager, teenage **** reflected
in their black pupils. You see her quivering lips.
You see the ritual. It's heart-breaking."
Sam would rub his forehead -- carved by time.
Greg would ask how the real ladies were treating him.
Sam never answered.
Time made deeper creases in Sam each day,
behind a closed door,
in the secret hours,
all to the glow of a laptop screen.
He had given his love to the distance
in the **** actresses' eyes.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 4:31 AM UTC
Mean Windows
Mean windows
Small light
Mean architect
Limited budget
& imagination
Half-light estate
Small curtains
Mean windows
Early dusk
No street-light
Glass broken
Doors boarded
Mean windows
Clint Eastwood eyes
Tagged & Flagged
Grassless
Concrete gardens
Brown and grey acres
Mean windows
Closed shops
Citizens Advice
Misery
With chips
And mean windows
With small curtains
Saving on glass
Costs light
Jul 22, 2010
Jul 22, 2010 at 9:14 AM UTC
You.
You are 10,000 miles away
and yet, I still want to run my hands through your
wet, dark brown hair.
I want to press myself against your warm body
and live in the steam and smell of a hot shower.
I want to breathe in your kiss and taste the shampoo
that slowly dripped from your wet mop and fell on your lips.
Find a cheap motel room and dream there.
Dream the things you live and live the things you dream.
In that dimly lit, musky, hotel room that I'm dreaming of right now,
where we can forget the world.
I want to forget Clint Eastwood and September and the snow.
I can't remember the color of your eyes
because you kiss with eyes closed
and it's been an awful while since I've opened them.
I wish.
I want to watch you drive down California highways--
sunglasses on and my bare feet hanging out the window, my nailpolish sparkling in
the California sun.
I want to make you laugh, and watch your perfect eyebrows crinkle with
your nose when you admirably look at me.
I want to take pieces of paper and write my heart on them
then put them in a memory box
and throw them all out the window.
I want to go to the airport and find you standing
all alone,
looking lost .
Then pull over in a car and make the night alive.
Listen to the stars laughing and lose myself inside of you.
I want the games.
Challenging and, well, you know.
I want the way you make me feel.
Like I'm about to burst out of my skin
at any moment
because of passion.
I want. I want. I want.
You.
Find a dark place deep into the night and settle down
for a couple hours and let our minds shut
down for once.
No devil truck or eyeless lips or hand guns to decide our fate.
and just slip away into each other's bodies,
and become submerged in each other's kiss.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 3:10 AM UTC
When I was little I would watch
Clint Eastwood on the tube,
Rowdy Yates from Rawhide
In black and white and crude.
He played a young man showing
All the attributes of youth,
With an exciting way about him
That burned with living truth.
Spontaneously cowboy
And fastidiously right,
He filled the part with action
And the character was tight.
He represented all the things
A small boy wants to be,
Young, bright and coiled to go
A special hero… Just for me.
Through the years I’ve tagged along
Watched him play the arts,
The action roles, the love story
And the recent wrinkly parts.
I’ve loved ‘em all and celebrate
The fifty years of fun
Of trailing after Eastwood
And his epochs in the sun.
Play Misty, Iwo Jima
***** Harry too,
Gran Torino, Million Dollar
Spaghetti westerns through
The Bridges and Rowdy Yates
The common touch in all,
For every day people
In an every way call.
Hero’s come and hero’s go
Some fade away to die
Thank God professionals like Clint Eastwood
Just keep reaching for the sky.
My thanks Old Son.....for a Great Journey!
Marshalg@the Gate
Mangere Bridge
New Zealand
4th February 2009
Jan 22, 2010
Jan 22, 2010 at 3:57 PM UTC
We had been
to the Impressionist gallery
in Paris
been to the Tower
seen the views
had coffees
and seen street artists
and Sonya was wanting
to see an American film
at a cinema with sub-titles
I’m not keen
I said
why not?
I can see it
once back in the UK
without having to read script
on the screen
at the same time
watch the action
anyway seeing Clint Eastwood
speaking French
is off putting
she pulled a face
and went sat down
on a seat of some café
and I sat next to her
you always have to spoil things
she said
reading the menu
it's in French
she said
we're in France
so how am I to know
what to order?
point at it
and ask what it is
she looked at me
with her icy-blue eyes
she tossed back hair
from her face
I went with you
to the art gallery
she said
to see all those boring Impressionists
but you can't go with me
to see Clint
a waiter came up to us
and she asked him
if we could
have two coffees with cream
he nodded and smiled at her
and went off
he's ****
I didn't notice
had lovely eyes
dark and deep
he's a waiter and French
I said
I can imagine him
beside me in bed
breathing on me
with his breath
oniony and garlicky
she tapped my hand
jealous is what you are
she said
I don't want him
you do
I said
I didn't say I wanted him
I said I could
imagine him in my bed
she muttered
she looked around her
at the other tables
I looked at her profile
the curve of neck
the run of her jawline
her ear visible
through her blonde hair
momentarily
I felt like a vampire
wanting to sink
my teeth
into the soft flesh
of her neck
and **** her sexily
she looked back at me
you owe me
she said
having to go
to that boring art place
ok
I said
what do you want?
I want to see the film
with Clint Eastwood
ok
I said
thinking of the bed
and her
and do what I could
if she would.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
I was hanged once. Seriously. Hanged.
If you can believe it.
Stupidly and innocently the rope was
Slipped over my head.
The waggon was pushed out,
Suspending me twisting slowly turning
With untied hands. Can you see me?
I was as good as gone.
You'll have to believe me.
Take my word.
You can't look it up.
Seriously.
You can't find any account.
Nobody reported it.
All the same.
I was hanged.
Left like Eastwood.
But, then we were opaque.
Not like now,
With clicking phones.
There aren't enough incarnate spirits
To be snatched away by the number of photos.
Everything is snapped.
Everyone should shudder.
If you think with a click you're good to go,
You're good as gone.
As reported.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
Ruth T. ****** put her cigarette between
Her chapped lips and sighed
As she started the dishes.
She was feminine in the same way
that Clint Eastwood is; She wasn't.
"Mama?"
"Oh god!" Ruth squealed,
Allowing the cigarette to fall
From her mouth into the sink where
It went out with a sizzle.
"I don't mean to scare you none,"
"What?"
"Where's Papa? He said he'd be
Home tonight to help me fix my wagon
For Bugsy."
"Well he isn't." Ruth resumed
The dishes in the same way that one
would pick up a book.
"But where is he?"
"I don't know ****** But she most
Certianly did know. "Did you string the
Laundry on the line like I told you to?"
"No."
Rosie J. ****** fell asleep that night,
Thinking that she had deserved
Exactly what her Mama had
Done to her left eye.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 9:28 AM UTC
After this climactic
Three-way
Mexican stand-off
Once the orchestra
Dies off
And the treasure's dug up
We should probably just
Lay down
Enjoy the sun
Let it scorch the earth
And bake our bare
Finally poncho-free skin
Because all I need to be
Happy
Is the western sky
Burning me
Biting me
A polka dot bikini
Clint Eastwood
And the most delicate six-shooters you've ever seen
By my side
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 11:59 PM UTC
i took a route to eastwood
far off the end of a road that does not exist
i took a route
and was enticed by the aroma of growing freedom
kempt and hidden, underneath the soil and concrete
it was numbers away and off the grid
a name, almost too ordinary and typical
of what it offered, i did not know
but the uncertainty was what kept me going
a motivation for my augmenting footsteps
a sense of clarity for my clouded reasons and thoughts
i took a route to eastwood
far off the end and beyond the bustling surface
i took a route
and was enticed by the introverted trees featured alongside the lonely roads
of what it offered, i wasn't sure
but i welcomed the idea of a new beginning with open arms and an open heart
and a certainty for happiness
(n.j.)
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 7:01 AM UTC
Man with no name
Laconic in every frame
Smoking a cigar
Or driving a police car
Westerns or a Cop Thriller
As a Drifter or a Rider
Iconoclastic instant justice
44 Magnum to carry it out without prejudice
Mayor of Carmel
All American Male
Filling cinemas across the globe
East West North or South
Its got to be Clint Eastwood
Dec 7, 2021
Dec 7, 2021 at 7:59 AM UTC
.no problem about the Polacks, the Romanians or the Bulgarians... no problem... the Polacks will return to a Clint Eastwood mentality borrowed from Gran Torino... thank god the Polacks are leaving these lands... but... you can always have your Commonwealth rape-gang! so... thumbs up! both parties win!
well, just another turn of
the century dynamics,
what else is / isn't to be expect?
the european provides
the wind,
the african provides
the drums...
****
the asians provide the
underlying bass notes?
that's not going to work...
i can't seem to spot
more colors on the piano
other than black, and white...
biG problem...
slaves? what slaves?
the African saved the Europeans
from violins, cellos,
and entombed themselves
in brass...
horns, saxophones... you name it...
what slaves?
so... if the narrative of
the world history, makes its crucible...
on the focus of the first man,
originating in Africa...
personally? as the last man...
the last in the lineage of Shem
Abel and Cain...
if i am supposed to play
the role of the last man,
and the man...
that's also supposed to become extinct...
i'm not liking it...
i'll just drink my blackbeard shake
of *** & coke...
and...
this is the part where i add:
now scuttle along... like the good
vermin that you are;
just don't touch my fox pet
on the way out...
no one touches Rommel.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 7:21 PM UTC
it’s been a while
but now I remember how
the keys feel
like a trigger
and I’m Clint Eastwood
in the basement of a mansion .
no, nevermind
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 5:01 PM UTC
I have been in love since the moment I was born.
My mother was first and for a long time she held my heart.
At five she still had my love but so did Clint Eastwood.
That poncho wearing, cigarette smoking cowboy was the dad I never had.
In the sixth grade it was Stacy Smith.
She was my Wendy Peppercorn,
my Messiah,
my World Series Ring.
my love.
I made it to high school after
a few brief people put stars in my eyes.
In high school I met a girl
who took all the stars that had ever been in my eyes
multiplied them by all the stars in the sky
and put them back in my eyes, only for her.
Now, three years later,
a ******
excommunicated addict
I am in love again.
He is an author and he writes novels.
He is a novelist.
He is a genius.
He told me:
There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy.
And I have figured that one out.
Until I have devoured him,
until I understand every single one of his literary pieces
I may not die.
I may not.
Until then,
I may love no other.
I may not die.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC
over millennia the question
what is beauty
has occupied the minds
of great philosophers
museums, galleries, and private homes
as well as public monuments
display the sculptures, paintings, texts, and movies
created by the artists of all cultures over time
with figures, colors, poems with(out) rhyme
looking at that variety
I do remember words of one much older
“beauty is in the eye of the beholder”
Picasso speaks to one, Velasquez to another
some prefer Shakespeare, others e. e. cummings,
in movies we find Billy Wilder or Fritz Lang
right next to Eastwood or Sarandon
which of them we enjoy with great abandon
depends on whether they can touch our heart and soul,
move us to tears, stir our thought,
or simply leave us speechless
we have that soft spot for the beautiful
reminding us that there are things that go beyond ourselves
they touch us gently
like the morning songs of elves
till suddenly the brilliance of human art
reaches the very depths of our heart
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
there is a magnificent actor named Clint Eastwood
who would be welcomed in my neighborhood
we could chat about his starring roles
so too about the price of his DVDs at Coles
Oh! what a scene it would be Clint and I chatting happily
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
" I ain't happy , I'm feeling glad i got sunshine, in a bag, I'm useless but not for the long , the future is coming on"
~gorillaz/Clint Eastwood
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 11:11 PM UTC
patriarchy? am i really having this "talk"
in a bingo hall with the old ladies
and laddies?
i must be: something terrible has happened
and i don't want to stop the bleeding
of the punctured artery,
i'd prefer air-piano or air-drumming...
but from what i've seen,
and it was coming like a bowling bowl
in caligula's bowling alley of severed heads...
can i please wish denzel washington
the same illustrious career as a film
director as that, which awaited clint eastwood?
can i? patriarchy... hmm...
the society where man is the head
of the household...
oddly enough i share mutual respect
with my father, over nothing but him
allowing me to train the alcoholic,
he says: don't mind you drinking,
well, i do, but better you drinking than
smoking dope...
mind you: i'm functioning in my addition
and in what i subsequently do...
it must reveal me as a very stable drunk,
given that i can do household chores,
cook dinner, and keep my mouth shut...
and sometimes a mutation happens,
esp. if you've been raised by an alcoholic
grandfather from the ages of 4 til 8...
seeing your grandmother thrown through
a glass door with a broken arm...
what did i do in revenge?
puncture his bicycle wheel...
and there was this common thug-to-be
who deserved much attention
by the nick: ukraine...
thug of thugs, or there was hubert -
who's mother who drank enough white
vinegar till her stomach shrank and
she died from stomach shrinking contractions...
i trusted even the most vile of polish thugs,
but it was part of the tribe...
then came england and multicultural *****
whipping, sentenced to be among egyptians...
i don't exactly know who i am not
going to forgive, the society that made the ****
the way it made him, or whether the ****
himself...
nonetheless, you want a depiction of
patriarchy, i'd tell you to watch denzel's first
directorial effort in the film fences:
may he have the same illustrious career as
a film director, akin to clint eastwood...
pucker up with that plum shadow the next
time you attempt to "understand" man.
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 12:26 PM UTC
My drone just struck the roof
I'm not the aviator, I should be
it deserves a better pilot and guide
one who will teach it, gliding high and free
taking pictures, some erstwhile celebrity
bouncing around Hollywood, on a photo ride
not hitting cars, and trees
Sailing with the wind, above Eastwood's abode
seeking to capture his joy and pride
dying in his backyard, from a shotgun load
issued, from inside
Suing for retrieval
of the pictures, it had spied
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 11:26 AM UTC
A revolver is my favourite choice of gun. it is also daddies favourite. he likes it because it has a revolving chamber which means you don’t have to reload as much .
Clint Eastwood is daddy’s hero, Clint Eastwood usually plays cowboys or cops .daddy hates the cops, the cops hate daddy they are always coming to our house looking for daddy. But sometimes they never find him because he hides beneath the house sometimes .
mom always screams at the cops, she calls them pigs and very bad names which I’m not suppose to say. daddies friends also come to our house ,they drink beer and play poker,
they swear and shout at mommy. mommy calls them good for nuthin scumbags. daddy and his friends like to talk about a man who started world war 2, his name is Adolf, he lives in Germany.
daddy and his friends wish he won the war .my favorite thing is to go to my room and hide beneath my covers and wish I was some where else .
I hate my mommy and daddy they always beat each other sometimes they beat me and tell me to go to bed without any supper this happens a lot I wish I had a new family.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
It's been a long and strange trip. but don't fret - it isn't yet at the end point. I've always loved the morning, but I'm far from a morning person. Which seems pretty symbolic to me, but I'm an English major so it's kind of my job to be overly analytic. The hardest part about growing up is keeping track of who you are, and trying to figure out if who you are going to be matches with who you want to be. The smell old Bukowski's ashtray clings to my clothes. and everything that I don't have the courage to say out loud can be seen in my eyes and the lines of my face. And I know this will sound absolutely ******* ridiculous - but in modern society it's hard to be a man. gone are the days of Clint Eastwood kicking *** and taking names. All we have now are morons and ****** bags. I read somewhere that we are the quitting generation, and that ****** me off. Because the faults of the current generation are always due to the previous generation. But people are ******** by nature who can't take responsibility when their plants begin to wilt. And my Dad quit on me - not the other way around. And I know that this probably isn't fun to read - but frankly I don't give a **** This isn't something which is going to be published - more so some much needed venting space. And I'm trying to figure out how to bring this thick wall of rambling text to an end, but endings don't really exist. Just unknown places which can not be followed. so instead of assaulting your eyes and your poetic sensibilities for another ten lines I will say this: If you read this and didn't immediately think of killing me or yourself, then thank you. If you did, then feel free to pretend I never had the gall to write such an ugly, boring, self-indulgent piece. And I hope you all have a nice a day
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 10:43 AM UTC
I listen to your dream man.
And paid close attention too.
I laugh.
But I didn't say a word.
As you talked about your dream man.
You mention Tom Cruise for his charm.
You mention Brad Pitt for his looks.
Even threw in Blair Underwood for his smile.
I listen closely.
I didn't laugh or disagree.
I feel none of them is better than me.
You mention Antonio Banderas for his voice.
And the toughness of Clint Eastwood.
And the southern charm of Burt Reynold too.
These are the qualities that you seek in the man for you.
I listen.
I listen.
As you went through many formation of your idea guy.
And I still none of them is better then me.
Cause they was men names you mentioning as a challenge to me.
Now address all of my best qualities.
I'm generous.
I'm compassionate.
I'm lovable.
And a charmer too.
And have a voice of gold that rival James Earl Jones.
And I know this.
None are better than me
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 8:54 AM UTC
free-fall speed fails to capture
conscious creation as a universal tool
neon tracers flash into oblivion
time archetype shifting as humanity’s truth
blurs lines of reason
and Neil Donald sits idle –
Go-re-ra grows in poison oceans
and constitutional rights are being applied to sheep
in suits
rooted fruitcakes
stuck in last year’s Autumn ascot
and a 1927 spending frenzy –
three times before we killed 30,000 brown people
and for what
glory of a flag
misinterpretation of destiny
and god on the side of white industrialists –
sun wrinkles start to distinguish my eyes
from youthful indifference
to a Clint Eastwood style stare
looking for the one that needs killin’
in order to save this here town –
no entity exists as I read the pages of corporate personhood law
erosion trails cut deep into my cheeks
a landscape destroyed by reality and acceptance
there is still time to buy a small piece of land
and do my Tim Leary impression –
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
*talk of bilingualism in the anglophone realm of talk of bisexuality, is almost the same, as talk of polymath within the context of incorporating ********** for the asylum number of sexes in the current trans- discussion; how about i **** a goat?*
who's to study language, seriously?
poets?
philosophers?
"english" teachers?
polymaths?
or simply bilinguals?
i'm sitting on my windwosill
imitating serpent,
huh?
yep, scratching off my tobacco
soaked skin from my fingers...
and then applying some cream
to hide the dehydration...
let's keep it socially constructive,
and call to mind bilingual in terms
of latin: (a) with diacritical markers
and (b) plain dolly english, i.e. with none...
still, thank god for the hand-cream,
i'd be scratching my hands to get
rid off the excess skin for hours on ends,
esp. the rolling-tobacco stains on
the index, middle and thumb fingers...
could be worse, could be
a serial killer from the film seven
having to discard my finger-prints by
applying them to an excess of
rubbing material...
get them all flat and lonely...
and i know the pity people convene
on when reading a work of fiction...
that odd poetic moment
located in a single sentence, or two...
as with poets, who think they wrote
something "profound", when in fact
they were looking for a novel,
for the sake of volume, or weight...
before you call me, i'll call myself
a pretentious brat...
no shame in that...
you call me a **** i'll be like:
do you have a clint eastwood
cut-out from where eagles dare?
for some reason i feel like acting
out 30 minutes' worth of goebbels;
oh no, i'm not a **** sympathißer,
i'm an indiana jones sympathißer,
who was a sympathißer of nazis for
a "lack" of a better narrative.
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 8:38 AM UTC
*i can write like this, offer legal advice to someone who misguided their vehicle into a KEEP CLEAR area... you ever seen the A12 junction at romford's north street intersection where the same road indicators are painted? you ever see the traffic where the north street opposite directions try to engage with A12? how they're stagnant on the patch-work of the KEEP CLEAR indication? you know what i was writing about? a violition of the same symbol being "abused" in Goodmayes... with some very minor side-street... law... by human standards is just a knowledge of the: thesaurus... oh i can write this ******** language alright... first i write a poetic joke on day 1... then i revise it... censoring my comparison with a wildebeest stampede comparison being able to run through the space provided, contradicting the "obstruction"... eh... the human concept of law... equivalent to haemorrhoids obstructing a constipation from a rock-hard ****
To whomever it may concern:
as stated above with the appropriately ticked box – i.e. that there was no violation of an order to comply with the road sign. I put my case forward on the basis relating to the bias with regard to the positioning of the camera that precipitated in the penalty charge being filed. To detail this bias, I can only state that the evidence is biased due to the angle of the camera that could ever allow the penalty being issued. I state that I have a competence in understanding he basic principle of the road sign KEEP CLEAR – yet from the accusative evidence provided in the photograph is rather an over-estimation of what sort of obstruction I was creating. I understand that the intent to have a KEEP CLEAR sign at this particular point in the road network, is to allow oncoming traffic to be able to turn into the side street (Eastwood Rd) – but as the evidence clearly indicates, there is no obstruction for a vehicle to enter the road from the oncoming traffic, or from behind me. I appreciate that there is obstruction for a vehicle being driven out of Eastwood Rd – but as the photograph also serves the argument that there was traffic on the High Rd. May I add that one photograph does not justify the argument that I made the obstruction for an excessive amount of time – I would grant a justification for the penalty, had I the chance to see a larger body of evidence; such as: a second or third party vehicle being obstructed from not being able to join other vehicles in the commute on either Eastwood Rd or the High Rd. In conclusion, I find the body of evidence to be unsubstantiated with regard to the amount demanding a penalty.
Kind regards
yours, "anonymous".
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 11:58 AM UTC