"fandango" poems
She met him south of the border in Durango,
She was hot and boy could she fandango!
She said at a glance
"Señor like to dance?"
“No”, he replied, “But I would love to tango!”
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 8:56 AM UTC
pastel monotone thoughts paint
an image of me in her mind
complete with shrinkwrap
and a bright smiley face sticker
her eager hand sweats the dealt moment
she awaits with impatience for
her daily christmas time package
her daily reprise of her happy moment
she remembers it with fondness
her pastel colours spread slowly
like an intellectual STD
a malfunction of the common man
she is a true modern miscreant
she wants a pretty girl lover
that comes complete with emo look a like
laptop gamer girl
attached the hip down to matchin **** selfies
a hundred smooth moves and cheat codes
she wants the complete package at the discount rate
shes a card carrying member of
some fan girl fandango
she calls me captain saveahoe
street nasty superhero with kung-fu grip
trailing through the dank alleys
in search of the legendary ultimate dumpster
the prize of every divers wet dreams
wandering all night with a few vampire hangers on
looking for a fashionable means to a glorious end
meanwhile the corner girl is waiting on me
thinking i'm just trying to find her a safe place to be
she is my safe place and i'm hers
the few of us that survive the moment
stroll on through the rain
to the dairy queen
to see and be seen
dont cha' hate that whole show up
to show off
she lives to die for it
but thats ok
cause i love her just the same
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
*You arrived suddenly in my tangerine bliss
with my heart clinched in your fist
you touched me... and the dance started
with a gape of spontaneous combustion
you swirled me around the dance floor
dancing cheek to cheek....*
we skipped the light fandango
fox trotting and waltzing to the beat of tango
the big band broke into a swing
while the love light shone as a crystal disco ball
jitterbug jive and a reet beet
dance macabre and so light on our feet
*You lead me by the hand bodies musing
all the while... you lead me out by my hand
and made way into the galaxy for our feet
as we danced like fine wine...becoming intoxicated
by its beauty~ you danced me into Shangri-La
with my eyes wide and full of imagination
we danced through tangled forests of light*
like Fred and Ginger
tiptoeing upon the backs of stars
dipping into galaxies and twirling on quasars
i hold your hand as you pirouette
upon the moons of a mystic world
as our romantic lambada is unfurled
forbidden planets and forbidden dance
the secrets of whirlwind romance
*we were like Phoenix that had risen
dancing into the morning dew and nectarine
and I kissed you as the tangerines fell
from the sky~ dazed with a trial of stars
and then oh yes then.... I pronounced myself
as yours....as we escaped to paradise
dancing all the while.....cheek to cheek
as you gave me the Tangerine Kiss.....*
tangerine kisses, tangerine dreams
sipped of the nectar of the gods
the fruit of creation in the form of love
a blessing from goddess, earth and above
we dance the steps of swoon and lean
and sweet nuances of tangerine
with every blessing in between
*I felt a kiss upon my frozen cheeks
a clear promise of all our tomorrows
as I sleep with love within our hearts
your sweet tangerine kisses and dreams
are part of our creation... straight from above
My heart is dancing and dreaming
with you always a blessing from God.*
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 1:00 PM UTC
I am not dead.
Ha!
I ache.
I curl into a fist.
...Ashes to ashes...
A single, calcified tear.
You heard me.
...The darkness...
Clambake!
Inside a dream, inside a dream, inside a dream.
Don't pet the cat that way.
You sent this to me in your sleep.
DO YOU HEAR ME SAYING NOTHING?
...Nothing.
The end.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 3:22 PM UTC
Spanish Guitars
A few years ago, in 2011, I went to a concert of young classical guitarists. Just before or after, I don't recall, I saw an exhibition of Picasso's guitars at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC (http://www.moma.org/visit/calendar/exhibitions/1101).
This poem ensued. This is one of the lost poems I mentioned, recently rediscovered on an archaeological dig.
Spanish Guitars
two weeks pass.
I have seen
two guitars
one of wood,
one of sheet metal.
both were alive,
both were inanimate
both birthed for display,
useful for granting pleasure and
heating up le jus d'creation
products of a tradesman's craft,
animated to pierce my brain and
pleasure me with the realization
that when you see
what I see
When you,
you hear,
What I see
we all perforce speak but one language,
an alphabet of music, art and love
A young,
oh so most beautiful
Croat guitarist girl,
Ana, coaxes an urgency
from her love, the blonde wood,
she takes Piazzola's notes,
as if they were Picasso's thoughts
and set them within so
days later, the resonance plucks
at my temples
Picasso, like a little boy,
collects collaged bits and pieces of
life's stuff most ordinary,
postage stamps, playing cards,
wallpaper, pieces of cardboard,
cutouts from Le Journal,
and with fingers delicate
sticks and glues discrete notes,
individually nothing
but pieces of this and that,
bits and bobs
superimposed on faux woodwork,
presenting an instrument tooled to
conjures up a milonga^,
the sounds of angels dying,
a fandango of trembling tones
a sonnet of sounds,
celebrating human touch
upon animal, strings taut,
feasts both, a banquet,
a triomphe of sounds
that tutors my senses
to hear sheet metal guitars
imprisoned in museum glass
gush sounds of parallel lines
and delicate contrasts,
A duet of animate, inanimate
Virtuosity
All is clarified.
One language.
Many dialects.
Both, Spanish guitars.
^ a milonga has many meanings, but here, refers to a Argentine tango dance party
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
her eyes like twin pistols
just kept blowin me away
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 1:44 PM UTC
Fandango we danced
was second to last
or was it tango?
we all are too clumsy
to move
too rigid
to see
things without limits
we need
no gimmicks
just a direction
or a simple question
to be answered
prevent brain cancer
become decent dancers
to get to know
there’s nowhere to go
if we don’t want to
but when we are about to
we need some fuel
to fill our engines
with pride
the heart and the mind
are never
good friends
in the world of dollars
blue collars
dark on the inside
breaking their stride
to fight
the poor
not the poverty
so unfair
but it’s the reality
of our lives
human hives
ideology of the masses
ruling classes
thy neighbour to despise
catch them by surprise
rot one from within
soon to take ‘em in
lose someone you love
to understand
there’s an undeclared war
that we can’t bystand
take part
start
to act, preach, teach, bleach
dye, cry
find an ally
before long
our song
will be that of joy
tactics we employ
are peaceful
spare no enemy
**** one - get one free
the tree
of life
having tea at five
some things never change
we are acting strange
conceived in liberty
created to be loved
but still in puberty
continuously starved
of little things we need
there’s just too much greed
open your heart
take my hand
for a start
we all have one goal
Sweet Lord
help us all!
22.10.2010
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 1:55 AM UTC
Maiden, maiden, maiden, a depilidate mobious minaret –
Holical, Eris begs an atlatl defection, the
Genuis-from-Mars technique – an erathicus lecanopteris.
Suffretex, past-perfection in pastel gloxinia,
Glowingly acidic and shiftingly glossidic, it’s cosmaltry mariala;
Ungual outmoded, holonym singing Aquilar rapax as demiurge.
Demos and Phobos weep, coruscating terrathos, killing riva.
Swell quickly, optic ophidia, lest the ira florena rise –
Rise, maiden, rise optic ophidia, ignore Irredelphine!
Strut the hematacolpa and pace-willow, but fail flow:
Deciduous telechir beckons, demanding autobogotic-hajra.
Piss-venom and picea hovea, eche verri naught echo –
Beta-decay and COBOL error, fandango with teeth
And sing praise for Eucladanic soignè solaris
Sprint quick, maiden-solidago gesparisè, to Misra pourum!
Majerns and hapax, death-knell aloud and encelia,
Enfloranè, haste! Enatic haste tichodrome, flee, anise!
Apios, harken: tryst-sans-thermobic sweeping of thresher-thrown,
Little-low else yet achroma, de-jubilance:
Fall fairly, ayah! So to be so, blanking systemic,
A thousand steps for one death.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 12:25 PM UTC
Association Footballer Ronaldo,
The new Wizard Waldo.
Oh what a fandango,
You bet he can tango.
Paul Butters
© PB 18\11\2017.
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC
*in purple haze of reverie, the gentle visitor came
beckoning kindly…come, come to
our V I R I D I A N world* . . .
1.
On our cerulean sphere
You need have no query, nor fear
We open our non-gravity planet to guests
Even unlikely earthlings who pass the simplest flaxen-test.
2.
Much less needed, we bedaub
Our flavescent lava-vision, going beyond the orb
Mild kaleidoscopic fandango-swirls is our mossy cyan-matter
Triplet-hue colours felt only by the revered and well-known mad Hatter.
3.
To let you in on the cosmic-latte ripple
Our flowers range from acid-green to African purple
Blast-off bronze flora dance-blaze in burnt sienna fields
Alabama crimson rocks and aureolin skies over anti-flash white seas.
4.
We confabul8 with deer, breezes, plumes
Such creatures roam free, for we do not consume
As slumber befalls us not, you wonder how we spend time
Frolic in universal peace; to welcome home stars as our rhyme.
*you are so welcomed, celestial guest
Vortexiamus awaits
only
you*
S T, 28 july 2013
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 5:50 PM UTC
. *i was ************ when the earthquake hit.*
*i’d say it was the best ****** i ever had.*
an animal!
a multicellular eukaryotic organism of the kingdom ingesting other organisms to progress!
a well-organized kid of chaos strutting his stuff and puffing his puff.
rifle, duffel, falafel, phil.
fully blessed and stressed to strum forward for the sun, or fun
and fandango.
we are the people,
and the people are merely material,
and the material breathed and breached the darkness, for more.
we are man and woman and dog,
beasts screeching in a field over nothing, over everything, over ant-mounds and the sounds
of seasons meeting.
we think.
eat, drink, wine, woman, song.
he thinks
of nothing but her.
and so in the name of her, he acts, he reacts, he attacks the momentum of weekends into weekends into rhythm. he rolls
out and the words roll off and the days roll by, but this is the unfolding of life,
right?
strife upon strife upon struggle to eat,
and repeat,
and eat her *****
he was a well-spoken yet savage young buck,
evolving to confide and subside with these friends or enemies and imbibe the night away.
repeat/
he was a rise and shine early type with a mug of hot brew.
or the dream and shine late type with a bottle of cold cider.
repeat/
his blind date is a troll woman digging through the dumpster across the street.
he is a goblin boy gritting his fangs toward a girl, on a dancefloor, in a club, and bubble go the texts.
his texts are long and resolute.
she doesn’t respond.
she does respond.
she is seeing someone else. others
from a tall tree or lineage of men with strength and material.
a tall line of men and misters and teachers and tongues, all men obsessed with death &/or glory.
and by rite i obsess with death &/or glory.
and the dog, i want the dog there with me.
and the girl.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 7:07 AM UTC
when everything everywhere
whispered in irresistible languages
*hey you there
stop resisting*
i began to surrender
was flowing free
stretching
wings flapping
toward the unknowable
inside
experimented with ditching
body as identification
name as identification
personal history as identification
faded off
mad word searching
explaining justifying
reiterating too much information
i loosened my squeeze grip
on intellectualism
tell-me-how-to-be spiritual books
whatever the famous someone
said once then got bronzed over
i surrendered to universal unity
where i lavishly decorated
my living changing dream
with my own snap choices
i was flowing with fresh
synergetic synthesis
returned outside to pedestrian streets
where angelics mixed in
wore transparent disguises
i began to flow
forgiveness out and in
skipped a light fandango
splashing puddles was
answer to inclement weather
i set wooden faces
to smiling after
i switched my own
i rolled on through
perceived stop signs
of the everlasting no
incinerated all my karma with
nownownow
wonwonwon
made myself
stock still
experienced
yes yes
relaxed awareness
breathed
emptiness
opened all my hands
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 2:16 PM UTC
Fandango cartography
Dance of our lives
Verbarxenelasia breast but not thigh
Ruricolist unmentionables off to the side
Blowlamp irradiance, pistil niche guide
Sacerdotal ceremony the cloven hoof of ******* saints
Intrinsic allegory to despoil trust and heart deflate
Inaudible uproarious potvaliant jingoism schism
Suppurateing deep held fears ungrounded sparks annihilate
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 8:25 PM UTC
You know the way I took it,
At the break of dawn
You know how I slid from your window sill,
Like the gold flakes from my fingernails,
Fandango in the bluing sky
You knew when you awoke,
Rubbing cobwebs from your cracks
When you looked to see it gone,
The gun into your mind
Surely someone clever as you,
Would never let it sit
For a replayed taboo like me,
To steal it as you slept
Your periscope eyes have found me,
Hurdling from the howling woods,
Deep with festers
From your pets
You, you scrawny herbivore
While I eat carnage
Tangy and red
You, it seems, possess some bravery
When you shot those mind bullets
Pushing through my back
But you missed, my dear
You missed
Or was it just your intent
To slash
And torment
Instead?
But you missed, my dear
You missed
--Lily
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
i
In the astrology set agora
Wherein mine agra doth rest
The backwoods to her cache
Is a peaceful gentle nest.
ii
She's a cad of angelic estancia
I espy her espirit fandango
Her lace strand's floweth wildly
Fantasia of mine melody, extra terrestrial fangled.
iii
Mine Gage I handeth her, to not leaveth her side
An agala we shalt maketh romance, whilst gaiety is in her eyes
A Jardiniere to hold her tears, when Jasper's do cometh around
Jarrah to fill ourn kava diligence, diluvial amare is it's sound.
iv
No blunder head's to separate us
Just Bluebell's blush
To admire mine belle of a lamb
Her bema shalt be raised, when its me who is her man.
v
Ourn belvedere casa, ourn terrace to overlook
This is ourn story, not a tale of fools and crook's
The cover of ourn book, shalt we be entwined
Right inside the pages, of every lonesome lover's mind.
®Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Elsa angelica dedication
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
Lay with me, darling
Within the New York summer
And hand me softly, a Gershwin kiss
Under celluloid sky.
We will dance, you and I
Beneath the bridges of central park
And we will sense
The Broadway skyline.
Frames pass by unseen
With imagination and ideal
Burnt into their core, as
The music of a thousand orchestras
Start our fandango
As we fall in love
With the freedom of tomorrow.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 2:22 AM UTC
walked across the dunes
to the light house to
clear my thoughts.
the windsailors were
riding the sky,
my son calls them the teabag people.
but to me they are like those seed pods that coast upon the
wind in search of something
beyond.
the grass soughs and if you sit
quietly enough,
you can hear the hungry cry of
the little tern chicks.
hidden in the dunes nearby.
the sand trickles through twining, grasping, tenuous grass roots,
single grains multi-hued,
flow like minature snowboarders down the dunes,
steep slippery slide.
little metallic black ants have the herculean task,
of working this slope for
seeds and other oddments of food.
i watch one stumble,stomp past, sherpa-like, precariously balancing a potato crisp's crumb.
while scaling the acute angle of sliding sand.
the pittering of the sandy ground indicates the presence
of giant skinks, sleek glassine skinned lizards that are at home in the area.
their track patterns, remind me of those old teach yourself
to dance charts seen in black and white films,
you would now find them mostly in antique stores.
the tide is in recess
and the terns are hunting,
mottled little sand *****
in some killer, crazy
game of tig or redrover.
where to lose is to looose!
the windsailor above is surpassed by
the big old seahawk
as he stretches his wings.
it is a comparison of true mastership,
over a poor and gaudy parody.
the hawk with practised disdain, dives,
through the breakers emerging,
with his fish dinner.
as i turn toward home.
i wonder,
was it the fandango the lizards, were trying to master?
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
I never mean to be that guy,
But every time a friend uses another friend's Facebook,
The go-to gag will be a status saying "I'm gay," with
Eyeroll emoticons and LOLs promptly following.
Giggles and pointed fingers echo off the walls and
Into the ears of the suffering silent.
Those two words used as punchlines are the heirs,
The progeny of a past bathed in blood.
They are words weighted down by chains linked with laughs
And locked by the smiles and eyerolls.
The free ones revel in the fire baptismal they impress upon
Those left chained to the wall in the shadows.
Like children, they delight in the minor sting of the fireball that destroys those they mock.
Eyes sparkle and smiles flash at the fictional thrill that entertains them and murders the ones who dare to speak.
Their drums beat as the celebrate the chic
Game they get to play--playing Chicken with a train that isn't there
While others are strapped to the tracks by their shadows,
The darkside of the dance.
Songs and howls fill the skies and mix with the screams of the tortured to put the icing on
Their twisted fandango--a brilliant spectacle to distract from the cries for help;
A spectacle as brilliant as the screens of their phones as they type the jokes stained with sadness:
"I'm gay LOL haxored," with the laughs following
At the circus, while miles away a boy sobs into his sheets,
The cold stars his only company.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 3:00 PM UTC
Growing up unguided and penniless
Torturous upbringing pushing me down
A handgun, speculating and rash
Gluttony attempts to smother my eyes
Wearing the condemnation of men
Appropriating the virtues of girls
Feasting in the winds of a fandango
Weakening under the need for support
Emblazoned under the influence of white powder nights
Ceilings lights spinning out of control
Locked up and discover the stars in strife
Sweet seclusion with a Beelzebub for company
Crawling through the gutters on all fours to get out
Black and white key arias connected
Caressing coloraturia platitudes on fire
Busting a gut on the walkway to truth
Peaceful vigilance a bismillah fraternity
Deserted, drowning in civilisation
Tanked, yanked and naked
Is this Mama Mia
Standing on two feet
Rebuked, not loved
Rebellion, unshackled
Revelations, so, not want to die
Reciting bohemian poetry before the bullet strikes high
Scaramouche....
Apr 7, 2021
Apr 7, 2021 at 1:59 PM UTC
Dream with me of the beach
hold me as we glide
in tempo with the tide
let us dance
let us tango
a lyrical fandango
like it always used to be
just for you and me
passion unrefined
when I wake up i'll find
sandy footprints on my mind
Nov 17, 2022
Nov 17, 2022 at 1:40 PM UTC
what i write
here,
now ,
is truth
condensed, distilled
into poetic moonshine
to be consumed
by a creative soul
and then
for that soul to begin to dance
the exotic fandango,
or
the quickfire foxtrot
or
the haunting vienna waltz
whichever,
whatever,
beats,
within the willing heart
that dwells with quiet,
wistful wanting
in the backroom
of their psyche
so,
ignited
and
on fire
they dance
then,
they laugh
a joyous
unbound sound
producing
an exuberant euphoria
and a destiny of such
wonderous flight
so that,
they, you, me,
would see
the cosmos
from above at night
and marvel
at the stars,
stitched against the cloth
of darknest blue
then,
learn to love them
one and all,
as they,
those bright, shining things
float,
fly,
crash,
burn and fall,
for
as scribes,
we must learn
to write all the stages
of a
star's plight.
not just the
dizzying ephemeral heights.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
I can do the fandango
waltz you forever
But all I really want to do
is watch the sun rise and set
and watch the children be happy
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
bright ....butterfly.......talent.....
flicking tongues of
allitrative illustratation unsure
of present
improv packaging
puckers lips
to pout
and preen
..
grunge moth
in hoodie comes
to sauce the play
tounge twister fandango
...
paperlace lizards ...dreaming...
days streamin by
.
all the mouths
of ritual making
fourth wall breaking
....
accummulate the method
scribe to the write
formulate the figure
linguate the lyrical
....left.....
to the pintered flighted .....sighs.....
shake the speare
this night
.
with finger drumming colour rhythms
reveal the reasoned might
of the fledgling dramaturg
......
foot stomping
posse blighted brainstorms
...
burn limelight
burn, bright, burn
..
...throw your fleeting... searing glow
on these little
dramatic vacations
from life's realities
freeze frame moments
of luducrosity
and
humming,
allocentricity
.
egos pay homage
to floor door
and wall
drink
the life
the love
the moments glorious
of it
all.
........
the fear
pin *****
and bucket dance it
......come one......
come all.
learn the art of
the comic pratfall
here at the home
of drama 171 improv. .
by
the pants
of
your seat
and other
mellowed
dramatic
complexities and pratfalls
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC