"exhibitions" poems
Preparations
For Love and Destruction
Volatile environments
Whose inhabitants
Distract inhibitions
By enacting emotional exhibitions
Fueled by liquid fire
.Injection.
Fluid spirits
Energize the soul
Chemically reacting to stress
Freeing the hostages
Housed inside the hostile hospice
Of hearts
.Ejection.
Nature’s neutrality
Doesn’t do much
For this current
Wave
Of Lust and Frustration
So,
Lo and Behold
The solo soul below
Who bellows
In the belly of beasts
Like growls
That grows into speech
As I transform from
Animal to Anomaly
Asking for the one thing
That will keep me
From the answer
.Rejection.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
countless generations of bards and preachers
and poets and sages
and honorable and revered members
of our respectable societies
countless such generations
have spoken and declaimed
have sung and serenaded
on goodness and cruelty and avarice -
and yet put them in power,
and scrutinize their lives
and their words
become thin
and their lives shallow
and their songs are cherubic lies;
a long line of saints and philosophers
and prophets
and mild-mannered selfless carers
ah such holy stewards
a long line indeed
has nurtured humanity, its sick and downtrodden
and radiates love in all directions
but oh scrutinize their actions and
their motives
their lives are but comic contradictions
pathetic self-delusion;
ah, let me not seek to change the world
but see to myself first
rather than jump into
hot-air sermons and vain exhibitions
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 2:14 AM UTC
Even amongst purple walls
adorned in maudlin posters and prints,
drawings and postcards of exhibitions,
I see your glint in the corner of my room.
Inactive grey body with a head of rubber,
waiting to be powerfully silver,
but innocent, you persist.
You tell me my back is sore again-
and all you wish to do is relieve it.
Persistent innocence.
I'm working on a final essay, and you are knocking,
at my limbs and everywhere but where you want to
really go.
Innocence, you persist.
Dark and threaded to the outlet, you are ready
to apply the pressure needed for tension release.
Mocking, teasing, tempting.
*That essay isn't going to do itself,
but I know someone who will.*
Writing this ode,
is my act of rebellion against you,
but you know I long for the shaking
the rapture,
the center of my pleasure
encapsulated in your interchangeable
concentration.
But I have to unplug you.
Life is too impatient.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 6:03 PM UTC
I let you go,
like the waves rolling on the shore,
and a little boy who lost his footwear,
crying scared to go back to her mother
where he had lost the gifts.
I let you go,
like a couple of ashy Prinia birds
dancing among the bamboo branches
sing loudly in the breeding season, build nests and lay eggs,
but replaced by the eggs of cuckoos that grew and were cared for with love.
I let you go,
like cities that have long since died
the quiet and lonely
and people left
and no one ever came back to occupy.
I let you go,
like the paintings of pain
from wounds that bleed and lose
displayed at art exhibitions,
and everyone was amazed to see.
I let you go,
like a memory in a photo album
from loved ones first,
yellowed full of blotches of teardrops,
worn-out dusty and looks real.
I let you go,
like an angry poet
in front of half-finished poems
who have been lost for words for a long time
to be reassembled.
I let you go,
like falling rain,
and a boy running around looking for shelter
with wounds on his right hand
holding tightly to the thorny rose.
I let you go,
like a book
and sad stories
which has been left for a long time
after reading all night.
Once again,
I let you go,
as a most perfect poem,
that I have written,
from the remnants of memories in the head.
Nov 5, 2021
Nov 5, 2021 at 12:03 AM UTC
These Nights with lights, Lightened from cigarette filled clouds to rainstorms.
We are drowning our Inhibition to exhibitions, of a shallow madness.
Within a matter of clearance
Of transverse sunrays:
We call this morning
A day past,
A night ruled with dreams.
Flooded with traffic afflicted
Souls searching beneath empty vessels of libations
Only to unearth realizations from lost sensations.
Vagabonds patrolling streets
apparently policing their worries,
from failed inquiries of maternally adopted creeds.
Divided vision escalated arrhythmic palpitation
Deviation from a gradual calm away from calamity
Expel, Exhort-Excise, the deep-veil
A rising dawn, polluted skies reflected in these eyes,
I stare at this street lamp, flickering at-us-all.
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 10:48 AM UTC
White maze for the middle classes,
collect your museum passes at the door,
please
continue through into exhibitions,
photo pictures of art you won’t remember the name of
but because you’re educated you’ll hope to retain its
name, medium, date and frame size of,
and equate them with those pieces you Googled before you came.
Through the double doors
her cries walked down the corridors
whilst cradled in his hands, cradled carefully,
he stood upright in boots on the
newly polished granite, shipped-in, floor.
The art gallery Father and Daughter
are the hidden display
only found in writing in the pamphlet
for today. Some will see them
through cuts in the door,
others may hear them but assume
it’s ambient art-gallery-played-through-speakers
sound coming from the back room.
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 10:45 AM UTC
You see a few years ago
I was part of define fitness yeah
And I thought it was weird the way
They treated me
They wanted me to be a rich ****
They wanted me to sell my art
Basically on the road at trash and treasure
They pushed me around like I was a piece of meat mate
They didn’t care about my safety
They just wanted me to just
Enjoy being slim
Maybe I do but in my own way
Not drinking salty water or beef stock no way
Just eating the food I like you know oh yeah
You see it is hard to be like them
If they treat you like a rich ****
You know taking you out wiping
The poor man out of you
You see I had it made
Before I joined define fitness
I enjoyed doing things
And having fun yeah
Making me lift weights
Heavier than my own weight
Define fitness is an organisation
Full of rich ******
You see I had it best
Before I had them
I had to do two squats after one pull of vacuum
Eating everything with 10 shakes of salt on
Putting salt in my water
Like I am drinking out of the sea
I had it best
Before I had them
I could’ve broken my back
You see I was slack
I won an award but if I wasn’t good
The next session
He would say I will take your medals away
Which I think they are a bunch of rich ******
Sure it is good to exercise but mate
Were pushers
I hated them they made me feel like a ****
You you you
I had it best
Before I had before I had before I had them
Time after time I wanted to leave them
And go back to solo exhibitions in
The art hall
And not sell them at trash and treasure
Like a loser does
I had it best I really had it best
Before I ever had define fitness
Treating me like a rich ***** of an adult
And not just a nice adult I want to be
**** YOU DEFINE FITNESS
Jul 31, 2021
Jul 31, 2021 at 6:29 AM UTC
I can be a waste of time,
electrons dripping into my veins
through my eye socket
assaulting my ear canal
directly into my brains.
When my purpose is stretched
between too many ambitions
it is easily punctured
by the buzz of inboxes,
and mindless online exhibitions.
I gorge on useless tips and viral videos
positioning my open mouth
below the gaping search box
as I pull the lever again and again
and my willpower goes south.
Each stray thought, each nagging question
is an excuse to trade concentration
for an immediate rush,
a canonical ******
of electronic validation.
I pull as hard as I can,
interrupting the current
feeding these diversions.
The network inside my brain lights up,
completing my inner circuit.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 9:10 PM UTC
Make the skies eternal limits
I'm shooting for a paper moon
A thin white line disappears
The Crescent city blooms
She rises from the river
Without the sky's inner inhibitons
She commands all her passions
Painting exhibitions
There is no distance
Between each and every line
She is my perpetual lemming
Flung from from the cliffs of time
Dark haired Creole woman
Body damp with sweat
The gumbo boils in desire
You're my "Day-glo" dash board saint
Kissing white moonlit *******
That dance with each and every ******
C'mon shakedown the stars
Ashes made by burning lust
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC
I am the guy outside the window
Wondering what it must be like to touch,
to feel...
I am the guy who appreciates a few seconds of kindness
Wondering what it means to live in a perfect world
I am the guy who finds success in defeat
Digesting just how strong I must be
Often finding failure in victory, if victory means I sell my soul...
The hours are long and there is so much to do in a second
it boils down to a single act
right down to thought and the moments in between
and the way you perceive the world as you stop thinking
without falling asleep
Reason takes sharper frame
there are so many questions and evident half truths
So outside the window you analyze the grey
and see the curves and spirals
and everything physical becomes an illusion
people and things become props
and life becomes a play
soon enough you reach a point of high epiphany
becoming clairvoyant, pictures and sounds transmitted along the web
the web that connects us all
and temples you see, many sailing in boats
Slaves and Masters, Kings and Councils
and Earth becomes a mirror of everything the verses unison
You deviate from prose and read the poem
a song starts to play and your mind begins to sail
thinking at high wavelengths
what is chaos here, is a planned order up there
and you transcend from dimension to dimension
picking up thoughts, incarnating as a walk in on other realms
taking part in Strategy plans of the Universe
you have a chair in the Federation
all races meet talking about their human and hybrid children
You learn that out there is not too different to in here
there are Spaceships and exhibitions
Aerial restaurants
Cosmic *** in a theatrical sense
the end point being the creation of worlds in voids - worlds absent
And you learn that there are Watchers, they are watching us
Learning about us, taking notes and samples
Sometimes they send telepathic messages
Sometimes they video-mix our dreams
Other times they take you travelling
From Egypt to Mars, From Mars to Konder, Konder to Lyra and back
at this point chaos down here, is a planned order up there
perfection becomes ridiculous as you see evil conducted
Mountains and vortex points, tiny dots on the screens of planet-ships
You wake up and you don't feel quite the same
You can sense vibes of having been through wormholes
Time linear starts all over again
you have to constantly remind yourself of where you are
One thing remains: the memory and They, that They are here and They are watching.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 6:55 AM UTC
Falling in love with you is like watching a genocide from the comfrot of my grave
Like our *** is some kind of biblical analogy for everything that should have lived,
but couldn't
There are prophets holding art exhibitions beneath your skin,
and I can't help but feel like it's my god-given right to undress you,
like you're my seventh seal
We've romanticize death like a Shakespearean concept,
all passion and prejudice and perceptive pain,
but baby you look so beautiful when you're fighting to live
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 4:38 AM UTC
VI
Several hours to the nearest coast
away for a night and day is all
our landlocked lives would allow.
That first time we arrived at night,
down the steepest hill to the road’s end,
to wind and rain, and a hardly visible sea.
Then up three steep stairs we climbed,
to that attic room where opening
its window on a November night
we sat in its deep-silled space
to see the waves seething below us,
waves vying for room in a bay
crowded with rolling forms
of water eager to break and fling out
foam and **** spray and stone.
Later and despite the rain
we walked the length of a beach so dark
our shoes could hardly guide us home.
Always the incessant sounding sea.
High above a drama of moon and clouds
throwing jagged shadows on the wet sand.
Caught in this play of natural things
how could we not hold these images
ever closer to the imagination’s heart?
VII
I’ve come again
to my favourite place:
below the coarse grass landward,
above the wet sand seaward.
This zone of discovery,
my well-found land of treasure,
rich in bewildering textures.
Some of it I could do without,
but even the plastic is
beguilingly ornamental.
I carry with this bag of mine my third eye.
I will collect and even curate (in the field)
ephemeral exhibitions on suitable surfaces.
Never camera-shy these found objects.
Later, they may appear
on my studio table, or pinned
against the wall, then primed
with carborundum on
a collographic plate, stilled
into life for the purposes of art.
Whatever the object may be,
it carries my tide-mark,
a quality sign endorsing a choice
made on a deserted beach,
and proved to be right
when placed in my hand.
It registers rightful ownership.
Who knows, one day
it might embody something
more than an image of itself.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
Billions of tiny bodies
dancing with each other eternal
incessant exhibitions of physicality
in unison and harmony fraternal
distinctive in myriad ways
a part of the whole — a role it must play
for together — the bodies that dance
construct an everlasting romance
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
Daybreak sets the mist on the curving road
A man behind the window peeks with mystery
Watching with eagerness still so alone,
He knows it all, but what can’t he see?
Hollow walls crawl with echoes of laughter,
Tables infested with sketches and scribbles,
Blank frames hung gently upon the concrete,
An open gallery, showing all the exhibitions.
Butterflies cocooned for the winter’s drive,
An anthology of this art which assembles soon,
To watch the creator once more turn them to life,
To see the set of the sun and rise of the moon.
The door cracks open and a shadow is cast,
Which is chained to the mold of her beauty.
A darkened room is brightened instantly,
I see her face but the vision soon leaves me.
An omen of my misery,
Open eyes to sight of pain.
Till the sun meets the horizon,
I shall meet you once again.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 7:45 AM UTC
The sound of a car alarm,
"Detonating" might not sound inappropriate
Like waking into a fight that's
kicking off-
on Sunday mornings.
This is the realisation
Of how the world intrudes
Of how the the inner sanctum
is detached from the private self.
Car alarms -the drones of greater Western suburbia.
How are we expected to be overwhelmed by life
When we desire all the apps and whistles
Of electronic distraction
to keep our heart rates
Steadily rising?
Seeing a jettisoned supermarket trolley
Abandoned in a riverbed
Close to a church whose peak attendance
Occurs at summer weddings
Explains more about the human capacity for tragedy
Than most schloarly texts on Greek Drama
Surely this the curse of socities who best express sentiments through images?
The ability to make exhibitions out of emotions, of replaying journeys
Without speaking words
Somewhere a girl runs away from home
Somewhere else a boys runs to his bedroom
And even the streetlights betrayed with shattered glass
Make the sound of thunderstorms
on warm evenings.
The moon too bright to decipher as a circle
with unshielded eyes.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 8:45 AM UTC
you know what i want to do with my life
is read my poems on radio
and leave more designs on how i can improve the homeless people’s situation
i want to move on from LEAD, unless they help in giving me work on radio
i want to get my art out there, in art galleries
i want to not do work that is pointless to me
i want to be noticed by ellen degenerous
i know i feel like yelling at my head when paranormal voices are forcing me back to LEAD
why doesn’t 2xx let me read on radio, i really want that more than working on some football oval
i am good at that, but i wouldn’t mind talking to people in hospital, like reading my poems
or stories or showing them my art
i want to do volunteer work, in jobs that make the poor people happy
i want my imagination back so i can give ideas of how to improveness homelessness
i am an artisrt a writer, and i can entertain on youtube
i feel better now i am an household name
more people know about the coopers now
and more people know about my life captured in the psych ward
because they are stories i wrote, i want to put my art in exhibitions
as well as find a way to make it in to Hollywood
i want to get paid to host a christmas concert, as long as i have a piece of paper with the headline acts on it, i can do it
i want to have *** with a supermodel, if i can figure out how to do it
i want more out of youtube, like get noticed by someone BIG
one day i want to get paid for going on youtube
i want to be feature act on poetry slam one day, reading selected poems, that’ll be cool
i don’t want to work for LEAD, much, because i can’t understand why they act like kids
i want people to NOTICE ME, i have great ideas
which are
start a mental health TV station
start a arts TV station for free to air TV
A hotel atmosphere for the homeless, in a small run down hotel
giving money to the struggling on the street
please, i am explaining that i help more getting what i want
this is what i want
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 2:31 AM UTC
Fortify this Amozanian square,
Wherith Baldheads are anguished,
No other place shall compare!!!!
Altered skin wearers,
Sleeve wearing tribesmen!!!
Amourostity don't leave me to far gone,
Showeth me love,
Showeth me loving kindness,
Shower me thy grain!!!
And thine finess....
Fruition comes suddenly,
Studdingly the airs wind stays chill,
Dead/lock exhibitions of fan fare latitude!!!!
A blonde chapter of northern affairs,
How changeable is ones man I can smile!!!
Defilement she hath seen,
Derider,
Non abider,
Doesn't fit on thine circuited scene...
What a guise to all wherin whom sleep!!!
Guardeth thy soul,
Their mind is of allotrope,
You'll whimper as they weepeth!!!!
Flourisher,
Nourisher of nutrientral push!!!
Snappish,
Irenic, lover of pre school books!!!!
Sorceries own solvent,
Dissolvent of surmise talk,
Your a new age Delilah thou fresh smelling mucosa you!!!!!
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
A Thinking Person
Go seeking hear the drum beat strum the strings watch the smoke swirl your reaching your contacting
The mystery it not so much that it hides but you must gain its attention by showing respect and ernest
Interest so goes the world it drifts over head by the billowy clouds to stop it have it to stand still you
Must shout not outwardly it pays no mind the world is full of sounds but the quiet pondering of an open
Mind it can’t resist it to seeks a resting place a fertile spot to engage lofty thoughts to cast wide and far
Mental exhibitions clothed in wisdom armed for the long fight with prudence a sword that has faced
Many adversaries some are too quick some to slow the one who discerns the middle ground where the
Fight can be pressed or you can fall back not in defeat but to reweigh evaluate study cross purposes
Advantage disadvantage solid ground never reached by indiscriminate means the foolish only fall by
Pride and embarrass themselves by rash actions well thought out deeds are rarely up for criticism to build
Permanence in anything your thoughts must be deliberate and you must be flexible and all must be
Slowly processed because haste does make waste our concerns are of a dwelling that will exist here and
Now but will thrive and continue into the far future the true test of success will it remain last through
Mighty storms that is why you must first prepare clear all of the debris nothing inferior must stand or be
Mixed with great edifices they will loom and speak that same silence you started this venture with
Anyone can enter a boisterous crowd and be lost in the den and clamor but he who stands at a
Distance receives the attention of the crowd and is heard is the one who will sway the masses by reason
He will be followed and his ideas will be acted on and they will make a difference in the outcome of the
World simple is best how many lost the fight in too many unnecessary details fight with two mental
giants the one is profundity by profound logic every argument will die the others to airy they don’t
possess enough high caliber intent and the other hardness to many are soft and seek short cuts is any
one impressed by this who builds their life on weakness as its corner stone make it of granite it has to
last not just in the transitory but in the eternal
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 6:16 PM UTC
Your touch,
Your kiss
So much
I miss.
My fuel,
Such bliss
Your rule
I miss.
You’re like the exhibitions,
At a show
“Look but don’t touch”..
Even if I reached out my hands..
I would not be able to feel,
To grasp
To hold
To keep
And why ?
I miss you
But I won’t say a thing.
But why ?
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 1:12 PM UTC
A Thinking Person
Go seeking hear the drum beat strum the strings watch the smoke swirl your reaching your contacting
The mystery it not so much that it hides but you must gain its attention by showing respect and ernest
Interest so goes the world it drifts over head by the billowy clouds to stop it have it to stand still you
Must shout not outwardly it pays no mind the world is full of sounds but the quiet pondering of an open
Mind it can’t resist it to seeks a resting place a fertile spot to engage lofty thoughts to cast wide and far
Mental exhibitions clothed in wisdom armed for the long fight with prudence a sword that has faced
Many adversaries some are too quick some to slow the one who discerns the middle ground where the
Fight can be pressed or you can fall back not in defeat but to reweigh evaluate study cross purposes
Advantage disadvantage solid ground never reached by indiscriminate means the foolish only fall by
Pride and embarrass themselves by rash actions well thought out deeds are rarely up for criticism to build
Permanence in anything your thoughts must be deliberate and you must be flexible and all must be
Slowly processed because haste does make waste our concerns are of a dwelling that will exist here and
Now but will thrive and continue into the far future the true test of success will it remain last through
Mighty storms that is why you must first prepare clear all of the debris nothing inferior must stand or be
Mixed with great edifices they will loom and speak that same silence you started this venture with
Anyone can enter a boisterous crowd and be lost in the den and clamor but he who stands at a
Distance receives the attention of the crowd and is heard is the one who will sway the masses by reason
He will be followed and his ideas will be acted on and they will make a difference in the outcome of the
World simple is best how many lost the fight in too many unnecessary details fight with two mental
giants the one is profundity by profound logic every argument will die the others to airy they don’t
possess enough high caliber intent and the other hardness to many are soft and seek short cuts is any
one impressed by this who builds their life on weakness as its corner stone make it of granite it has to
last not just in the transitory but in the eternal
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 7:34 PM UTC
Even when the colors
make you want to try
so I've taken to licking turner watercolors
now banned from all turner exhibitions
so trying to fly in my mind's eye
putting my head above the clouds
still thinking what do those colors taste like
it is sad to find
You can't lick the sky
I PSO facto.
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 4:17 PM UTC
I came to your hometown team
inserted in hallucinatory dreams
inspired sweaty with fused realms
Is it real that you stole Mona Lisa?
At the heart of Louvre in 1911
Is it true that you sneaked her?
was it for a muse or a lover to use?
She would have viewed you sideways
then make love to you at the coffee table
Her beauty enthralled yours in entirely
blending on easel with pencil onto a canvas
Her palate would have swooned your palette
Her very kiss would have paralyzed in ecstasy
abducting your perpendicular in angular zones
Then you framed it on Guillaume Appollinaire
The poet play wright whom face you just forgot
under the oath, in the sweet name of freeing art
from the prisons of extortionate museums fixtures
the same exhibitions holding your name and fame
charging fees for a walk around the rhythm of art
a melody not each an every artist will be granted
You made the goddesses and then reduced them to dust
Fernanda soothed the childhood nightmares to lust
Olga the ballerina whom you couldn't share the assets
Marie-Therese the 17year old who hang herself to death
Dora Maar who fought so hard to get your affection
Francoise who left law school for your immortalisation
Jacqueline your passion who you wooed with a dove
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC
then my voice be heard among the night's rains
of sparrows singing the next oxford dictionary,
perhaps, but sooner you will hear
that no unconscious fabric delves so easily into narcissism
for ego-centric exhibitions: learn that dreams are not
ego-centric exhibitions but ego-centric inhibitions,
thus you will walk a mile undo the pluralism of the distance
known as miles free of the dream(s)...
with two bypassing me in the arabic
tongue i ended my search... and took less of freud and more
of intrigue, part come sparing part come searching a depth of:
would fools' words delve into not speaking but utilising spoken
symbols in order to attempt speech?
i think not, for fools speak in pure verb / action
rather than think out a distinction
of nouns between
said hammer and hammering in
without the nail
of prepositioned in
thus missing prepositioned nail:
of the hammer's intention of a non-warring purpose
fulfilled: an utility heard of but not a skull of member
in two planks of wood.
- germania -
TO'H IPHST'A ***
TA SYPHTA HYPHLTA UNA!
and thence it came, in a mountainous overcrowding
like an avalanche of spirit
a hoarse calm of native tongue against the invasion,
it came,
and it came against all former eloquent hoarse screech,
who felt unnecessary to note speech
for a dire need of trust once kept now lost,
they who kept the tongue in the mouth
but not the cranium to be over-invasive
of the complexity of the brain as kept lightning
bolt as rhythm of heart
who didn't invent psychology placebo due
to the over-complication of sponge tissue...
who said trust and honour and have rather died
than politicise into old age...
who then honourable of the conquered?
only virgins peasants and old men of the crippled senate?
of what was said, as much was unsaid.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 9:17 PM UTC
Fortify this amazonian square,
Wherein Baldheads are anguished,
No other place can compare!!!
Amorosity, dont leaveth me to far gone,
Showeth me love,
Showeth me loving kindness,
Showeth me thine grain,
Showeth me thy fineness!!!
Fruition cometh suddenly,
Stunningly the air's wind stays chill,
Deadlock exhibitions of fan fare latitude!!!
A blade chapter of northern affair's,
How changeable is her manikin smile!!
Defilement she hath seen,
Derider,
Non abider,
Doesn't fit thy circuit scene!!!
What a dream to all whoso sleep,
Guard thy soul,
Her mind is gold,
Youll whimper as she weeps!!!
Flourisher,
Nourisher of nutriential push,
Snappish,
Pacifist,
Lover of pre schooled books!!!!
Sorceries own solvent!!!!
Dissolvent of surmise talk!!!
Your a new age Delilah thou fresh smelling pedal thou!!!!
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC