"franz" poems
I can name you
The exact date
On which he was shot:
June 28, 1914.
Who killed him?
Gavrilo Princip,
Member of the Bosnian Nationalist
Movement: The Black
Hand.
Suddenly this montage
Of bullet chambers
And dead wars
Shift -
Hands. You. Me.
Your fingers,
Which I long to hold.
Your voice,
Which I long to hear.
Which I have forgotten -
Sometimes it is hard
To trace the annals
Of history. Our
****** pawprints
Make the trail of
Arms and hatred
Harder to keep straight
Than sin and so
We walk backwards.
****** trail of footsteps
Perhaps stepped
Into
By a meandering
Mao, or ******
Or Tojo. Muddied further
By the presence
Of an Alger
Hiss -
Your voice
Is a whisper,
It sings to me in
Secrets - I do not
Know you but I
Am in love,
You are beautiful and
I don't know why
But there's a
War. In my heart.
A war of attrition. Subtraction
Of causes. And the Archduke,
Well the Archduke
Is glad to see you.
Hear his dates blur
Into yours -
History tests,
And love notes
Crumpled away folded
And stored
In the same junk
Folder.
I imagine his hands
To have folded
Quite slowly,
Searching for something
To latch onto.
Like mine.
Empty palms flickering
Amidst a trail of
Blood and dust -
Oh, and yeah
The history lessons
Of course.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
MONKEY IN A RED FEZ DANCING TO ABBA
I watch the children play
on a sunny Sunday in Rotterdam
like a stereotypical alien
studying humans.
Their cries rise and fall
like seagulls as they swing
sea-sawing or blurring into one
on a brightly coloured turnstile.
A man looking
like a badly drawn cartoon
turns the handle slowly of
a broken down barrel *****
A monkey in a red fez
dances on the end of a chain.
The barrel ***** spews out
everything from Abba to Franz Lehar.
The decrepit old man
and even more decrepit monkey
appear as if they have
stepped out of another century.
I am far from home.
The day is dying.
I read from my battered book
Hamsun's HUNGER.
It's lurid cover torn
half hanging on/off.
The park deserted now
as night steals its colours.
The last words of
of this the final chapter
are lost to me
swallowed by the dark.
The barrel ***** peersists
the soundtrack to some forgotten film
The monkey red fez
fallen at its feet.
The monkey blissfully
asleep.
The music caught
entangled in branches and leaves.
I watch the yellow lights
blossom one by one
a silhouette of houses
like a stage set.
Houses like cut-out silhouettes
a stage set.
The last lines revealed
under a passing lamp
"...where the windows shone so
brightly in every home..."
I laugh at such
a coincidence.
Leave the book on the bench
for some other me
to discover
when the sun comes up.
And return
to my space ship.
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 5:17 PM UTC
I lay awake tonight,
sleep departs from my weary soul.
It might be the effect of the caffeine i took this afternoon..
Or the moon in it's full bloom.
But i think it's something more.
Something more alive.
A reason with no explanation.
I think...
I think it's her...
The way she walked elegantly towards me, holding the tray of my order.
*I saw flashes of the future;
a bride of mine,walking down an aisle*
the way her scent-a mixture of vanilla and rose-caught inside my lungs when she got so close..
it felt like every breath i have is branded and exclusively for her
the way she smiled and the way her voice sounded when she asked "do you need anything else?"
like the melody of a violin to the tune of Franz Schubert's Ave Maria
So gentle and calm and warm
And the way I was hypnotized or crazy enough to respond...
You .
I need you in my life .
Will you marry me .
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
A random provocation of amber light
A blond redhead
The cruelty in everything more complicated
Like falling asleep alone
Or Franz Kafka in an ally
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 1:45 PM UTC
EAST BOSTON, 1996
ON THE BUS
Franz Wright
It's one thing when you're twenty-one,
and I was way past twenty-one.
With unshaven face half concealed in the collar
of some deceased porcine philanthropist's
black cashmere rag of a coat,
I knew that I looked like a suicide
returning an overdue book to the library.
Almost everyone else did as well,
but I found no particular solace in this;
at best, the fact awakened some diverting speculations
on the comparative benefits
of waiting in front of a ditch to be shot
alone or in company
of others, and then whether one would prefer
these last hypothetical others
to be friends, family, enemies, total
or relative strangers. Would you hold hands?
Or would you rather like a good **** sapiens
monster employ them
to cover your genitals?
What percentage would lose bowel control?
And given time restrictions -
and assuming some still had the ability to move -
would ostracism result? Anyway,
I knew the rules on this bus.
No eye contact: the eyes of the terrified
terrify. Look
like you know where you're going,
possess ample change to get there,
and don't move your lips when you talk
to yourself: the destroyed
and sick, the poor, the hungry
and the disturbed estrange.
The badly dressed estrange, even,
and that is uncalled for. The degree
of one's power to estrange will increase
in direct proportion to the depth
of need for others. Do not cry.
This can only bring about, on the one hand,
an instant condition of banishment
from the sole available companionship, or
on the other, a near
fatal beating (one more disappointment).
Just follow the simple instruction
if you ever come here.
It's easy to remember - any idiot can do it.
Don't cry,
the world has abandoned us.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 7:59 AM UTC
What was Kafka thinking? Felice Bauer-
blonde, in a homely sort of way- couldn't
think of him the same way after. He'd asked
her that question (hidden behind his obsession
with his own self-hatred, his surety that she hated him too).
Could you- might you- do you think you'd be able to bear it-
M a r r y i n g m e?
History tells us they didn't tie the knot.
Kafka, probably, didn't mind a lot.
Franz Kafka: that hopeless man,
couldn't look in the mirror without shying from his own reflection.
Kafka, who'd balk at the slightest hint of romantic attention.
More story than man, really. Had more eloquence in his
smallest finger than ever came out of his mouth.
No wonder Felice had her doubts.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 9:32 AM UTC
Speeding away from gravitational orbit
The moon ablaze as gazes glare from the cockpit
A jacket of jet leather with patches abound
The Dead Kennedys and Franz Ferdinand
Keeping political war on Earth's ground
Flying away into the plains of space
As the plane of time gives hearty chase
Hollow youth filled with snippets of old age
As their battlecry channels an inner rage
Death to all earthly matters that muddle our future
The neon glow hums as the last remnant of a culture
So make way for this warrior who shall bring us all closure
Rebelling like a banshee set ablaze over Orion's shoulder
Ensuring the enemy's final haze destroys their dying composure
May 9, 2019
May 9, 2019 at 3:49 PM UTC
Franz Kafka once said, "You are at once both the quiet and the confusion of my heart."
I'll have to agree
I love in silence
Or through words
In lines of poetry
Confused about whether or not
I can ever stop loving you truly
I can't.
I don't really sing
But I'll sing you songs with my acoustic
Wearing a flannel, sleeves rolled up
It's a universally attractive thing
I guess it's fair to say I'm confused and quiet
Yet understanding and willing to start a riot...
Just for you.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC
Gira
la negra,
gira
la luna,
gira
la negra luna,
sobre sí propia,
gira
la negra
luna
de ebonita,
gira la negra luna de ebonita
-sobre sí propia- y canta:
-¡Bah! ¡Canciones! Y músicas abstractas...!
Y, lo que canta, es la Música Viva!
Oye el Viaje de Invierno, de Franz Schubert,
y el Rey de los Alisos,
y El Doble y Ganímedes y Ante el mar,
y de Schumann, Amores de un poeta,
y de Dupare, Invitación al viaje
y La vida anterior...,
y de Chopín, Preludios y Nocturnos:
tú, soñador romántico; tú, doliente elegíaco.
Oye la voz serena,
la voz profunda oye
de Bach -añosa encina,
inmensurable selva, órgano él mismo y templo
de la harmonía-:
tú, sereno y profundo.
Y de Mozart el diáfano y sortílego,
y de Haydn y Franck, la cortesana
y la mística voz, inconfundibles,
tú, gustador de lo pulcro y etéreo.
Los Cánticos y Danzas de la Muerte,
y Sin sol, de Musorgski,
tú, angustiado, febril, hiperestésico;
y Borís Godunov, Borís Godunov, oye,
(bárbara gesta, miedo, sangre, lujuria y fausto)
tú, Sátrapa en los sueños...
Y, catador sutil de quintaesencias,
gusta la mediatinta debussyana,
pesquisidora de inusados timbres
y lontanos acordes, 1
en un dorado ambiente de calígine.
Y, borracho de lumbres y colores,
Óye, de Rímski, Antar y Xeherazada
y el Gallo de oro -vértigo y lascivia-:
mas, si de ritmos ebrio, tú, frenético
danzarín, danza todas las furias de Stravínski
-del sabio y del bufón mezcladas dósis-:
fino humor ricos timbres, forma clara 2
(sobria, o en concertado cataclismo).
Y oye, en la noche, y en Tristán e Iseo,
la voz vigía de Brangane, plena
de lo fatal, o el corno quejumbroso;
si no los Funerales de Sigfrido;
o el Tránsito al Valhalla, milagroso tumulto.
Y tú, plasmado en bronce, los vastos himnos oye,
óye las soberanas sinfonías
con que la voz del Sordo el orbe nutre!
Las acendradas síntesis:
sonatas y quátuors, insólito prodigio, filtros puros:
la Misa en re, misterio panteísta,
denso peán a la Naturaleza!
Y el trágico clangor de Coriolano...:
oye la voz del Indomado Prometeo,
oye la voz del Sordo, oye la voz del Sordo!
Gira la negra luna,
gira
sobre sí propia,
gira la negra luna de ebonita,
gira
la negra
luna
de ebonita
-sobre sí propia- y canta:
-Bah! Ficciones! Y músicas abstractas...!
Y, lo que canta, es la Música Misma!
1.6k
DAYS of the dead men, Danny.
Drum for the dead, drum on your
remembering heart.
Jaures, a great love-heart of France,
a slug of lead in the red valves.
Kitchener of Khartoum, tall, cold, proud,
a shark's mouthful.
Franz Josef, the old man of forty haunted
kingdoms, in a tomb with the Hapsburg
fathers, moths eating a green uniform
to tatters, worms taking all and leaving
only bones and gold buttons, bones and
iron crosses.
Jack London, Jim Riley, Verhaeren, riders to the republic of dreams.
Days of the dead, Danny.
Drum on your remembering heart.
1.3k
"Take a throne, we're all royalty here"
Said the Master of Ceremonies to The Peeping Tom, The Spokesperson, The Wretch and The One Man Band
He pulled out the syllabus
It said that each of his colleges must fulfill a duty if they wanted membership into this social club
The One Man Band had to seek out a impudent amputee, a touchy nomad and give them brochures to a day spa
The Spokesperson was asked to to find his inner child, his feminine side and his sensitive side while making good conversation with Arch Duke Franz Ferdinand and ask him why he holds a grudge against Bosnia
The Wretch was given the task to sell Avon products to those who looked like death warmed over and sway their urges to burn their candles at both ends
Lastly, the Peeping Tom was told to teach the languid, rough and tumble lipid worshiping people the number line then pass out pamphlets on healthy living
After reviewing their work and the rubric, the Master of Ceremonies congratulated them, they were in
"You will all now be a part of history, figures on this brotherhood's timeline; you fit the bill!"
They all got up as the Wretch footed the bill and went on to go wassailing
-Tommy Johnson
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
GOD **** THIS CZECH SHAPESHIFTING
lost in Praha
lost in Kafka
losing myself
careful making deals
with old Nick
I said 'Beatle' not 'beetle'
***
WHEN FRANZ MET DÓNALL
'When Dónall Dempsey woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous version of a certain F. Kafka.
Someone must have been telling lies about Dónall Dempsey, he knew he had done nothing wrong but, one morning, he was arrested to find out he had been turned into this F. Kafka.
Where had his Dónall Dempsey-ness gone and why - Kafka? He knew of but had never actually read any - Kafka He had knowledge of the tropes...what Kafka could be reduced to in terms of general knowledge that could possibly clinch a pub quiz victory so that people would nod sagely and say "I knew...you being a poet and all...that you would know the answer to that."
I found that what had happened to me...whatever had happened to me...was more extensive that I had thought so that even my initial "D" become the 11th letter of the alphabet instead of the usual fourth. I was now merely a "K."
I realised I would have to go to Prague to bring some semblance of sense to this transformation. And when I did so...hiding myself among the many tourists...I discovered that Kafka had become me and that we had somehow traded places.
So that now there was a Dónall Dempsey cafe and postcards bearing my features and other such touristy attractions that would be sure to be a sure fire attraction to the traveller with a literary bent of mind.
I visited the grave...his grave...and sure enough...it was my name that was chiseled into the stone.
Meanwhile Kafka was enjoying my life and strolling around Guildford as if it was his own. He appeared to be enjoying being Dónall Dempsey.
"Ha ha..!" I thought. "Give it time...give it time!" And Franz would surely find that being Dónall Dempsey wasn't such a good thing.
And myself being a literary tourist attraction? I ****** well hated it I wanted to crawl away and die or be trampled to a pulp by a frightened child who had discovered a cockroach in her cornflakes.
Dec 7, 2020
Dec 7, 2020 at 8:01 AM UTC
funerals are a form of menticide. also, writers. undead, I don’t mean to talk. what I mean to do is approximately yearn. for something nearby. an old computer. plugged in, cursor blinking, hell’s door. for awareness. priesthood. box-cutter. wayside. what began as Franz Wright. what became Lou Reed.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
This tremendous world I have inside of me. How to free myself, and this world, without tearing myself to pieces. And rather tear myself to a thousand pieces than be buried with this world within me. — Franz Kafka
—
After some time on this earth, we come to be encased in a robotic shell; the same kind our parents were encased in and all who surround us are encased in. There’s a feeling of being trapped, of living a “semi-life”, of simply living yet not existing.
Gradually, you get dropped and dropped by the world. Parts of the shell start to disappear; you see parts of what lie underneath, yet remain encased by what you’ve come to assume. You see some lies, but at the same time, you cannot breathe in all that you see.
You get dropped and dropped some more. Your body reacts in all that has been taught; in hurts. The stabs and contractions scare it out of confrontation. The more you shield yourself, the more the shell seems to cling. You come to resist all that you once felt. And so long as you refuse, the falling will never cease. Till one day you fall so hard into the ground, shell encased, never found.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
Strindberg was born here
I said
who is he?
Dalya said
an author who
wrote plays poems
novels etc.
I said
never heard of him
she said
we were in a bar
in Stockholm
sipping our beers
she in her jeans
and tee shirt
and I likewise
(not in her jeans
but my own)
what's the book
you're reading
on the minivan?
Solzhenitsyn's
The Gulag Archipelago
I said
you don't half read
some funny books
she said
what's it about?
Russian labour camps
between 1918 and 1958
where millions perished
I said
sounds a right
bundle of laughs
she said
why do you read
such stuff?
it interests me
how evil humans
can be at times
she lit cigarettes
for us both
and we sat sipping
our beer and smoking
she said
do you know
I had relatives
who died in Auschwitz?
no I didn't know
I said
my parents told me
a few years ago
when I was becoming
an ********
and they said
what would great uncle
Franz or Abel say
if they saw
how you behave?
and I said
who the heck are they
and they told me
and I cried
but I'm still
an ******** at times
she said
sad that
having relatives
killed like that
I said
drink up Benny
we're on holiday
more beer and smokes
and she laughed
and she added
and more *** tonight
if we can get
my tent free
of the other woman
for awhile
and I nodded
and gave her
my Elvis smile.
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 2:01 AM UTC
A weak and vacillating man,
one vain and narcissistic ,
once drew a line upon the sand
with consequences cataclysmic.
Now some will say
the line’s been crossed,
while others say not yet.
Intervening in a civil war
won’t end without regret.
Relentlessly his minions beat
the drums and call for war.
Propagandists lionize
Their would be king once more.
In Austria, Franz Ferdinand
is stirring in his crypt.
Entangling alliances-
It seems I’ve read this script.
Now if the lights go out again
as they have dimmed before
We will not see them lit again
If we blunder into war.
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 9:16 AM UTC
i passed and looked at the oaks
on their foolish great peaks
to their great fairy tale words
to their unique skies
i walked around the apple trees
and rushed straight to the inspiration
i became a wind blowing away
from huge calves of fire and foxes
i passed near the oaks of mighty
and I took a couple of mushrooms and flowers
tomorrow i'll put them on my hat
put on my golden hat
because tomorrow i'm going to play on
pianoforte
and will sound among the oaks
and the cities of the franz liszt sound
25.07.18
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 7:55 AM UTC
My music i s me,
I am my music,
It reflects the kind of person I am
in music and in song,
I love The Carpenters, as well as Franz Liszt,
I love Gordon Lightfoot as well as Fredrick Chopin,
I love to sing and I love to dance,
It tells you who I really am.
My music is me,
I am my music,
It reflects the kind of person
I am music and song,
It will tell you if I am depressed,
If I am in love,
It will tell you if I am lonely,
or If I am moody,
I am my music and my music
is me and tells you all about me
Oct 15, 2011
Oct 15, 2011 at 8:10 PM UTC
Degradation of decadent sprawling cities,
there's a beetle trapped between a house and a hard place
Wind tunnel determination, gusts like ocean waves
Traveling on pillows of air, the heir is here
and he's insignificant
Window pane, wan to the wanderer
Oscar Wilde with a bug-brain, scanning
Feral animal skulking on street corners
- and the wind dies with me
Resting place, settled, solitude
Insect evolution
Populace, putrid, passed in the past
and language dies too
(This poem was never written)
Ek Ek Ah Ek ee ee neep nee AHHH Ek Ek KKKKKRRRR
SSSSSSSHHHHSSSSSSSSHHHSSSSSSSHHHSh
And silence falls
as the world sighs.
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 8:45 AM UTC
you lied, I said, you lied to me
I have dressed myself to look pretty
who do you think it's for?
why, for me, of course, he said
his eyes searched elsewhere for beauty
Franz, my one and only Franz,
am I the one and only Clarissa for you? I asked
you waited
tick
tock
tick
tock
yes, yes you are! you said
the golden sun ripped through the blinds
you let out a sigh, a very sad one
and we spent the rest of the day
staring at each other
not knowing what to say
not knowing where to start
forgetting how to kiss and make up
must we, in this wave of falseness, lay?
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 4:58 AM UTC
This world is a prison
And plague
Also
Musty
Like a king without castle
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 10:09 PM UTC
So now the thing is over
all the pundits have gone back home
and the Rimet Trophy has been put away
to be played for again another day
some managers will now lose their teams
for not fulfilling a nation’s dreams.
But it is football, just a game
men paid so much, disgraceful shame
while others struggle to put food on the table
players cavorted like Betty Grable
but we watched it still – we cannot stop
I wonder when the penny will drop.
I remember pictures in black and white
when games were played in failing light
where players had jobs to earn their pay
and played the game on Saturday
where then the ref’s decision was law
and players didn't roll round on the floor.
Those days are gone and that’s for sure
the ***** were heavy and kit was poor
but player’s hearts were in the game
and not the glory of fleeting fame
when celebrity wasn't theme of the day
for men oft found to have ‘feet of clay’.
©Joe Wilson – The Jules Rimet 2014
I can still remember Franz Beckenbauer playing on after breaking his arm, simply by wearing a black sling to support it…a sight you wouldn't see today.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC
*Dedicated to William Shakespeare, Gene Roddenberry,
Lewis Carroll and Franz Joseph Haydn.*
The power scythe roared and quivered;
Had he chops, he would have licked them -
So rabid was he to taste the fray.
Verdure clad stalks by the thousands
Eschewed all feint of
Futile resistance -
Falling like spineless wimps
Before the carbon breathed Leviathon's
Cyclonic advance.
Pausing only to quaff
A long draft of energy potion,
Toro relentlessly carved a swath
Across the battle ground -
Vorpally snicker-snacking his way
Toward the mission's
inexorable termination.
A single command
Brought the roaring vortex to a halt.
Victorious, sans medals or ceremony,
Captain Toro was debriefed
And escorted back
To his lonely barracks
To sleep, perchance to dream
Of past and future triumphs
In the jungle wilds at the confluence
Of Prairie and Missouri Avenues.
August, 2007
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 11:42 PM UTC