"faust" poems
ignore all possible concepts and possibilities ---
ignore Beethoven, the spider, the damnation of Faust ---
just make it, babe, make it:
a house a car a belly full of beans
pay your taxes
****
and if you can't ****
copulate.
make money but don't work too
hard --- make somebody else pay to
make it --- and
don't smoke too much but drink enough to
relax, and
stay off the streets
wipe your *** real good
use a lot of toilet paper
it's bad manners to let people know you **** or
could smell like it
if you weren't
careful
80k
I've been giving my Hit Points away in exhange for a cheat that will grant me invulnerability.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 1:08 PM UTC
/ beelzebub
*(given employs the spider a posteriori
and spiderweb a priori, and then back
into a bicemeral reverse psyche-analogy -
the id est contra the id erat -
but there is no latin revival -
given that the latin encoding has been
translated into a.i. algorithms...
forget putting the pandora
into a box into a box into a box,
into an etc. or what is a russian
cultural artefact... forget it...
a black fly would not take upon
itself to make a dustbin, a *******
maggoty brothel, like a green bottle fly
might... black flies have character,
style...
they're the ones that take
to tango, with spider architecture,
akin to the theological spider analogy
about an ad infinitum a priori argument)*:
a bit like watching
a black fly - "washing" itself -
rubbing it's front limbs
together, "attempting"
to start a fire...
god, those awful
green bottle hypers -
with maggot excesses -
in a potential well
expressed into practice -
black flies?
i can entertain them -
like i might entertain spiders
that do not require aquariums -
the non-exotica types...
so i sometimes find myself
rubbing my hands together,
like a catholic amounting
to an altruistic prayer symbolism...
so kommen faust,
so kommen faust,
so ist pseudo-faust -
or rather:
england?
deutschland jr.
america?
deutschland sr.
and if that wasn't the case?
oh me, little old slavic
babuшka...
i still can't explain rubbing
my hands together,
like a black fly might...
keeping standards of where
to take a maggoty dump's
worth of procreation value...
black flies?
compared to the others?
the priests of the whole
spectrum...
i sometimes wish they were
red,
so i could call them: the cardinals...
alas...
not to be, god said otherwise...
but i can fathom the priesthood,
like i can fathom -
an aspiration of a sleeping
samurai, devoid of the zodiac
delusion,
encouraged to make
chiromancy initiatives
(readings) to alleviate,
******** monotheism.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 11:02 AM UTC
I have a confession to make
I'm a manipulator
I'm a fake
My heart is a glacier
I love to see you break
I've an ace up my sleeve
Eyes of the devil
Every lie you'll believe
You're my experimental
You think you're winning?
I'll have the last laugh
No stranger to sinning
Call me the next Faust
Jul 8, 2021
Jul 8, 2021 at 9:50 PM UTC
You can’t, if you can’t feel it, if it never
Rises from the soul, and sways
The heart of every single hearer,
With deepest power, in simple ways.
You’ll sit forever, gluing things together,
Cooking up a stew from other’s scraps,
Blowing on a miserable fire,
Made from your heap of dying ash.
Let apes and children praise your art,
If their admiration’s to your taste,
But you’ll never speak from heart to heart,
Unless it rises up from your heart’s space.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 10:58 PM UTC
The eyes are there again
egging for inspection.
Look me in the face
and lose your muse discretion.
The weight it bears
ill prepared
to flow without repression.
To know there is a place
where the lion sleeps
moans and mimes
the holes, they blind.
Not a thing in mind.........
Get out of my mind.
Out of my mind
something I force....
farce.....
Faust...
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 10:24 PM UTC
drink pour drink
lacking love I sink
swimming in the pink
my soul is stretching for the leek
the thing I want I'm doomed to want
if ever id had it, id have at least lost
but never at all not for lack of trying
meany a time offered out to be cried in
any time other its *** or its sin
unlovable or am I looked down upon
some god picked me to frown upon
some life randomly to be shat upon
unneeded my outdated satyricon
Faust verily howbeit parfay
whilom methinks maugre swoopstake
twixt speed and sweven, swink eke teen
mayhap afore alack fore fie
clepe gardyloo thole
whosoever sith wist whereof speed
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
My words spill out like mice
hiding in the cupboards and in the bread
Each ******* is crumbled
and humbled by gnawing
The tables are dusted with
delicate clawing
The marring is whispered
in squeaking silent sound
Impossible to see but
they are rife across the ground
In bed they find the warmth
in the goose down and the cotton
now sullied small diseases
will soon go washed forgotten
Trapping tactics once tried and true
seems wasted on these careful few
Snapping empty in the dark
no silent stealing will squeeze them stark
Each dream they waltz across the screen
like small and spying rolicking ribbons
Through the snowy evergreens and wanton queens
yet waking finds that they aren't fiction
To tame them in time
is what must be
So no more is cradled
by their incredulous creed
Now that they have all run of the house
From the floorboards to the flue
My fighting is futile against this furred Faust
For in my great battles, my life they've consumed
My motions through doors
now move with great heed
over my rasped wooden floors
of naked tails and featherweight feet
Each morning they find
themselves feeling bold
and swim like sirens
through my cereal bowl
At noon when I read
they shred and they gnaw
so I can no longer see
one word without a paw
In my evening bath
they sport small diving bells
As I dry myself off
from my towel I shake twelve
They admire in the mirror
and prance piano pirouettes
they've failed to adhere
to give respect to any threat
One day a magic made it though
to the edges of my mind
to cut short this ever frothing flow
and put my tongue in a bind
Then slowly, slowly, one by one
they folded flew and fell
I'd hardly hope this trial was done
but it all continued well
One night when they were scarce and few
only the faintest furred remained
I wonderfully slept sound and anew
Haunted dreams I no longer detained
The lonely left began to nestle in
an exodus through the sheets and bed
each whisker scraped soft on skin
and climbed back inside my head
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 11:32 PM UTC
Sonnet.
Bizarre déité, brune comme les nuits,
Au parfum mélangé de musc et de havane,
Oeuvre de quelque obi, le Faust de la savane,
Sorcière au flanc d'ébène, enfant des noirs minuits,
Je préfère au constance, à l'opium, aux nuits,
L'élixir de ta bouche où l'amour se pavane ;
Quand vers toi mes désirs partent en caravane,
Tes yeux sont la citerne où boivent mes ennuis.
Par ces deux grands yeux noirs, soupiraux de ton âme,
Ô démon sans pitié ! verse-moi moins de flamme ;
Je ne suis pas le Styx pour t'embrasser neuf fois,
Hélas ! et je ne puis, Mégère libertine,
Pour briser ton courage et te mettre aux abois,
Dans l'enfer de ton lit devenir Proserpine !
1.3k
MEPHISTOPHELES. Make good use of your time! It hurries past,
But order and method make time last,
So, friend, take my advice to heart:
Hear lectures on logic for a start.
Logic will train your mind all right;
Like inquisitor's boots it will squeeze you tight,,
Your thoughts will learn to creep and crawl
And never lose their way at all,
Not get criss-crossed as now, or go
Will-o'-the-wisping to and fro!
We'll teach you that your process of thinking
Instead of being like eating and drinking,
Spontaneous, instantaneous, free,
Must proceed by one and two and three.
Our thought-machine, as I assume,
Is in fact like a master-weavers loom:
One ****** of his foot, and a thousand threads
Invisibly shift, and hither and thither
The shuttles dart - just one he treads
And a thousand strands all twine together.
In comes your philosopher and proves
It must happen by distinct logical moves:
The first is this, the second is that,
And the third and fourth then follow pat;
If you leave out one or leave out two,
Then neither three nor four can be true.
The students applaud, they all say 'just so!'-
But how to weavers they still don't know.
When scholars study a thing, they strive
To **** it first, if it's alive;
Then they have the parts and they've lost the whole,
For the link that's missing was the living soul.
Encheiresis naturae, says Chemistry now -
Moccking itself without knowing how.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
i mean, i love your sanity, but
i need a drink; i learned more sanity from a cat
than i did trying to cure my eyesight;
if you think my parents did wrong
by giving me a proustian lifestyle
then i’m faust; polka dittoed devil usurps all
meanings, even the clever ones typed: chlorophyl.
well i'll be too many coo coo in pikachu for the orange
minding the size of the amazon
(and saying - there's a pain in my chest when laughing...
had i a heart i'd call it keith lemon) allowing
the "fashion statement" and instant grams of followers -
hey, it's called a middle finger for a reason - let me
anally absolve you from prayer
and salutation of the crucifix... k k o.k.?
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 11:35 AM UTC
What is all the knowledge in the world
worth without a lick of loyalty?
My Faustus fate
Condemned by my own deceptions.
Necromancy of desires,
Bring back to life what never ought to be
thick blood pounding in my heart.
That I might love and be loved,
Gushing every drop of my bloodline—
And yet here in my arms: the face
that launched a thousand ships:
suckling about my navel—
I pray repent:
Not that I am sorry;
For indeed, I have lived well,
But rather I pray to god to protect me from what I deserve.
May 13, 2011
May 13, 2011 at 8:41 AM UTC
I have a man with a pointy hat
Lives under my desktop lid,
He came for muffins and jam, and that,
I call the Wizard of Did,
His beard got caught when the lid came down
So I had to trim it back,
But he says it’s comfy and warm in there
So he’s turned it into a flat.
I thought at first I would charge him rent
But he wasn’t too keen on that,
So I suggested a garden tent
And he said he’d pass the hat.
I’d try to type in the early hours
But he’d bang up under the lid,
‘How can I get my beauty sleep,’
He said, the Wizard of Did.
‘You’re going to have to pay your way,’
I said, ‘It’s not for free,
‘You’d better come up with something good
That’s of some use to me.’
‘You say you struggle for plots,’ he said,
‘Well I can help with those,
‘I’m full of people I want to be,
I just need different clothes.’
The Wizard was as good as his word
He’d pop up now and then,
Whenever I’d sit and scratch my head
He’d mention Holy men,
Then march along the top of the desk
With mitre, staff and cross,
And make me kiss the pontiff’s ring
On the eve of Pentecost.
He’d play the role of a murderer,
He’d play the role of a clown,
He’d play an old sheep herder-er
With a crook in a shepherd’s gown,
He’d pop up with a pirate’s patch
And ****** pieces of eight,
Or keep me longing for Molly Brown
When my ship came in too late.
Whenever I sat there at a loss
For a line, a rhyme, a verse,
He’d throw a bag on the table top
And say, ‘Now pick a curse!’
He’d turn mine into a haunted house
And he’d stalk me in the gloom,
And have me making a pact with Faust
In a dark and lonely tomb.
And now when I think my muse has gone
That my stories have been spent,
I tap-tap-tap on the table top
And he says, ‘You must repent!
I’m not a bottomless pit, you know,’
Climbs in, and closes the lid,
I say, ‘You promised a constant flow,’
And he groans, ‘I know… I Did!’
David Lewis Paget
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC
MEPHISTOPHELES [with a solemn gesture].
False word and shape compel
Mind and space by this spell!
Be here, be there as well!
[They stop in astonishment and stare at each other.]
ALTMAYER. Where am I? What a wonderland.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 3:48 PM UTC
(for my fellow dharma bums)
why is this backpack so heavy?
chicken & country cole slaw
forks & knives & spoons
a bicycle helmet hanging off
a sketch pad
books
the next 100 years
how the beatles destroyed rock’n’roll
a walkman & cds
the soundtrack to the darjeeling limited
faust’s first two albums
tom waits & alan holdsworth
compilations of local prog rock
modern blues & albert king
old newsweeks
a black t shirt & blue scrubs
a folder with poems & instructional material
the brain death protocol
a stethoscope
but why is it so heavy?
must be the hot sauce
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 6:31 AM UTC
FAUST. My sweet beloved child, don't misconceive
My meaning! Who dare says God's name?
Who dares to claim
That he believes in God?
And whose heart is so dead
That he has ever boldly said:
No, I do not believe?
Embracing all things,
Holding all things in being,
Does he not hold keep
You, me, even Himself?
Is not the heavens' great vault up there on high,
And here below, does not the earth stand fast?
Do everlasting stars, gleaming with love,
Not rise above us through the sky?
Are we not here and gazing eye to eye?
Oh, fill your heart right up with all of this,
And when you're brimming over the bliss
Of such a feeling, call it joy, or your heart, or love, or God!
I have no name for it. The feeling's all there is:
The name's mere noise and smoke - what does it do
But cloud the heavenly radiance?
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
I met a man on the winding way in the travels of my youth.
I set off from my home in good spirits; it was June. I remember.
My walking stick light in my hand,
I skipped each step as I began,
but there before me stood a man;
Never had I seen such a man; a beard so grey; eyes so green;
Not a man, then, he! He could only be
a soulful spectre dark. Sadly, quietly, he whispered
"Stay...
Thou art so beautiful..."
His melancholy took my heart in its hands, and squeezed...
Such words... What sad prophetic words are these?
His eyes were glassy, yet far from crazed; so clear
were they in their manic daze. He drew me near
by my collar and whispered to my fearful ears
so close that I could feel his breath
and see in his eyes this looming death
of which he was not afraid. Yet still his words bespoke such fear.
"Stay...
Thou art so lovely."
I saw it then, he did not speak to me, and at this I shuddered violently,
but his voice was a gift to the world, and given free;
had I but the grace to listen.
I left the man, or he left me, in mist that weaved and glistened.
Green it was, like those eyes that so vainly searched.
Formless, he dispersed and formless still he fled.
No soul rose above my head in search
of Heaven; Limbo; Hell. No spark at all in that tattered shell.
Yet still, my skin crawled with a shiver,
as in a dream I heard me whisper; in mirror with his knowing knell,
"Stay...
Thou art so beautiful."
My lips closed, and so too did my mind.
The skip gone from my step,
I turned and left
that wayward man behind.
But now my time too draws near;
even as I relate the story of that day,
my walking stick digs into the gravel and I suddenly remember
that man I met on the winding way,
and my eyes alight even as my vision sways!
I understand his lament on that long lost day;
his final, faltering cry of
"Stay.
Please stay, Oh pains and joys of life...
Thou art so beautiful
in thy own light. No more so than in thy strife.
Thou art so lovely
in the dark. Even lit by scarce moonlight.
Take my hand, Mephisto, and walk with me a while!
Take my hand, sinner! Take my hand, you who thinks yourself so vile!
Let us taste a while of life, my friends, and bask in its rich delight.
And Lord! Let me scream such words as Faust,
Should I speak my last regrets tonight.
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 2:02 AM UTC
The little earth-god still persists in his old ways,
Ridiculous as ever, in his first days.
He'd have improved if you'd not given,
Him a mere glimmer of the light of heaven,
He calls it Reason, and it has only increased
His power to be beastlier than the beast.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
C'est plutôt le sabbat du second Faust que l'autre.
Un rhythmique sabbat, rhythmique, extrêmement
Rhythmique. - Imaginez un jardin de Lenôtre,
Correct, ridicule et charmant.
Des ronds-points ; au milieu, des jets d'eau ; des allées
Toutes droites ; sylvains de marbre ; dieux marins
De bronze ; çà et là, des Vénus étalées ;
Des quinconces, des boulingrins ;
Des châtaigniers ; des plants de fleurs formant la dune ;
Ici, des rosiers nains qu'un goût docte effila ;
Plus **** des ifs taillés en triangles. La lune
D'un soir d'été sur tout cela.
Minuit sonne, et réveille au fond du parc aulique
Un air mélancolique, un sourd, lent et doux air
De chasse : tel, doux, lent, sourd et mélancolique,
L'air de chasse de Tannhauser.
Des chants voilés de cors lointains où la tendresse
Des sens étreint l'effroi de l'âme en des accords
Harmonieusement dissonnants dans l'ivresse ;
Et voici qu'à l'appel des cors
S'entrelacent soudain des formes toutes blanches,
Diaphanes, et que le clair de lune fait
Opalines parmi l'ombre verte des branches,
- Un Watteau rêvé par Raffet ! -
S'entrelacent parmi l'ombre verte des arbres
D'un geste alangui, plein d'un désespoir profond ;
Puis, autour des massifs, des bronzes et des marbres
Très lentement dansent en rond.
- Ces spectres agités, sont-ce donc la pensée
Du poète ivre, ou son regret, ou son remords,
Ces spectres agités en tourbe cadencée,
Ou bien tout simplement des morts ?
Sont-ce donc ton remords, ô rêvasseur qu'invite
L'horreur, ou ton regret, ou ta pensée, - hein ? - tous
Ces spectres qu'un vertige irrésistible agite,
Ou bien des morts qui seraient fous ? -
N'importe ! ils vont toujours, les fébriles fantômes,
Menant leur ronde vaste et morne et tressautant
Comme dans un rayon de soleil des atomes,
Et s'évaporent à l'instant
Humide et blême où l'aube éteint l'un après l'autre
Les cors, en sorte qu'il ne reste absolument
Plus rien - absolument - qu'un jardin de Lenôtre,
Correct, ridicule et charmant.
904
Unlike Faust, where he gained by wagering his soul for unlimited knowledge,
or Robert Johnson, meeting at midnight, tuning his guitar, becoming the father of blues,
I gave today for tomorrow. Agreed to live in this world
unseen, densely untalented,
in perpetual poverty,
for the sake of a clear conscience.
my conspirator, the Devil, I confused, signed the papers,
consigning me to happiness after I leave this Hell.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 5:54 PM UTC
It's not that I don't appreciate
the glorious struggle of this life.
But when I'm crowbar hopping until I can hardly stand up
guilty of smashed in windows and foggy afterglow afterthought
I can't help but wonder
how I can be anything but off the wagon
when they've been circled to fend me off?
They want their stereotypes?
Fine.
I'll be the station wagon burner of their suburbs
but even if they're entertained I don't want their thanks.
I reserve my thanks for being alive
for being allowed to rise each day
even if my thanks are abstract marks lining
my arms.
Sorry if this is disjointed.
I'm writing from the heart
but shooting from the hip
with those familiar revolving killers
slung low on fun belts with
the chambers of my heart spun
until I'm dizzy.
I've always been an avid subscriber to chaos
but I can't deal with this disorder any longer.
I know that each and every one of you
are precious and dear to me
but I can't break away from the oubliette of
my dreary words.
They're like my alchemical dependency
burning dread into gold.
I give thanks to know you
even if showing it is difficult.
I'm a barren mined strip.
Now I'm discharging thought heavy metals into your
water supply and I can't help but think I'm
poisoning everyone.
I've been a misanthropologist all my life
discovering what makes us so awful at times.
Now I just
want to be a sincere apologist.
I need you more than you need me
and I love you.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 10:36 AM UTC
Trapeses strung on Shakespare lines;
vivid like the richest wines.
The arts unite and intertwine
in stunts of cruel dimensions.
Trembling hands in steady hold,
tears behind a mask so bold.
Go for silver, go for gold;
the thirty piece temptation.
Hazard games in clairvoyants’ house,
a faceless crowd he can’t arouse.
-Another jester, another Faust
or another fallen angel?
Unimpressed, the shroud of frost
between him and his viewing host
blurres his polished contraposte
to an unknown, misplaced stranger.
“A twist and spin performed so well
from a drape-framed prison-cell
a droplet from an empty well
to myriads of eyes.
A face so wet with silver tears
behind the smiling mask he wears,
like gems behind a dragon’s lair,
drop diamonds where he cries.”
Irae, the jester of the court,
the one and only of the sort,
knows his tricks are running short,
and whispers; “come what may”;
All comes down to his final jest,
the only unseen joke that’s left;
his very own zoolock-life-theft,
and thus then, dies Irae.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 6:19 AM UTC
One day I made a deal with 'The Devil'
I sold my soul for the bass and the treble.
He came from the flames,The original rebel,
We chilled, got blazed, Got ****** like a pebble.
It turns out that he ain't half bad,
He just went and had a fight with his dad.
I think you know we can relate,
When god got ******
And the devil got a fist in the face.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 8:25 PM UTC