"gawkers" poems
3:8:15 - Kosher pinot noir toasts the snowflakes that the eider brings, just as the Ash bows ache; naked and starving. Hurdling through old bedroom windows, giving those reasons why pennies are wished first into window wells. Smoggy gawkers, locked into an image shaped by organic lines and gestures. The two smoker- cure their hours reconnoitering in skyrise stairwells, discussing recipes for fixing wounded hearts without the peaceful frequencies she speaks into two styrofoam cups with strings pierced through their innards. Much like the story of how two people meet within the timespan of the living.
Even the Moon Men eat space cakes to loosen their chests, from the apathetic laws that began to govern their personalized truths. Not a mug with a name on it bought after an almost very cool free-art reenactment of Pirates of the Caribbean.
Love is not a sentence I can choose not to awaken.
It's the difference between having a one night stand rather
than keeping a toothbrush at each other's places.
Even on a Saturday night, we could fasten ourselves
to one another. Even if it's only you and I, who are you to
say it's not a party.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC
Pulsating honor doth corroded hearts impound
A blustery breeze echoes cries from each, preceding battleground
A recurring, eager parade of reporters, gawkers freely roam distant mound
Below, fatigued, tidy mass of steeled infantry; to death's throes bound
Neighing horses conditioned to mayhem the pageantry doth confound
On opposite ridges, mounted turrets prepared hell's fury to expound
On signal, a synchronized, concussive chorus doth its dark melody propound
Scraps of metal shards initiate; commencing another, toilsome round
After lengthy barrage, wits collected a more lethal volley to stound
Familiar, urgent order to charge christens hallowed ground
With youthful ardor a wide-eyed bugler doth the bridled expanse unbound
Shrieking rancor from recoiling rifles; a familiar anthem doth resound
Recurring cacophonous medley, weathered nerves drowned
Once more, a mass of flesh surges into the abyss with mortal hopes crowned
Anon, shattered limbs; gory wounds misery's cache compound
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 9:59 AM UTC
We play with the past,
us gawkers
laugh out louders
and marry the fun. Or
purchase t-shirts to remember
The Thinker plopped upon a porcelain throne
Rodin in the bowl
a powerful internal struggle
philosophy flushed for comedic blue cleanser
carved beautifully
The Vitruvian Man in full windmill
Townshend style
over strings in sextuplicate with limbs to match.
Perfection at eight heads high and
these amps go to eleven
The Persistence of Memory in any variation
so long as we don't have to consult our own dreams
Or Dali's
We shake the dust from our
feet and smile, forgetting things like The Thinker
was originally named The Poet
because that's not funny
and we're cleverer (more clever?) cleverer than that
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
I ran back
down to Piccadilly Square
just to get a closer look
at that doll baby.
She rambled by so quickly in
striped red & white stockings,
her lemon yellow
draped her shoulders,
bouncing like springs,
like her gorgeous *******
& that sweet sexy-tune.
She had vibrant graffiti
sprayed on her arms,
wore come-do-me ruby stilettos
as she glided like a storm trooper
along the promenade.
Her blackened full lips puckered,
with slanted paparazzi shades,
leaving a wake of open-mouthed
wide-eyed gawkers speechless.
Man, she was tough,
a rare cool bird,
struttin' her pretty
hot stuff,
it left me breathless.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
There is an ancient woman
In the market near my home
Who walks the timeless amble
Of a battered soul alone.
Her pasted orange tresses
A marmalade cascade
Fall so stiffly down to where
Her hand is always laid
Clutching her treasure bag
She goes her way careless
Ignoring chiding glances
At her faded evening dress.
Her story hides in rumors
Whispered by those who work
In the shops and restaurants
Here near McArthur Park.
They say she was a movie queen
Or an extra in the silent days
And an accident at the studio
Made her bald unto this day.
She refused to remove the wig
She ran out crying, in costume
And now she is still wearing it
Hoping he will find her soon.
The woman at the pharmacy
Said her hair caught on fire
At a movie in the twenties
Her boss calls her a liar;
Says the leading man did it
In a fit of rage and jealousy
When she wouldn't marry him
He set fire to the scenery.
Others heard that she was fired,
But she wouldn't leave the set
So deep inside her mind
She really hasn't left it yet.
Some have tried to talk to her
But she never speaks that much
Except inquiring prices and colors
Of the goods she chances to touch.
To direct questions and advances
She turns sadly away and leaves.
You can tell she is sensitive
You can tell by her face she grieves.
It is easy to see she is living
In some world that is not ours
Her world seems a place of gloom
Of thunderstorms and showers.
She caresses with her fingertips
Along the banisters she passes
And she seldom lets her gaze linger
Behind her smoked sunglasses.
Her satin dress has faded,
Like the color of her hair.
She still lingers in each moment
When she walks down the stair.
She never seems to notice those
Who stop and goggle at her
And they are many, these gawkers
But they just don’t' seem to matter.
She seems to have accepted
What her life has now become.
She has been coming to the park
For decades more than some.
This may be a playground
For popeyed urban gnomes.
But this is where she shops
This decaying place her home.
This park is very much like her
Many ages past its prime.
The vestiges of past glory
Have not been erased by time.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
There is an ancient woman
In the market near my home
Who walks the timeless amble
Of a battered soul alone.
Her pasted orange tresses
A marmalade cascade
Fall so stiffly down to where
Her hand is always laid
Clutching her treasure bag
She goes her way careless
Ignoring chiding glances
At her faded evening dress.
Her story hides in rumors
Whispered by those who work
In the shops and restaurants
Here near McArthur Park.
They say she was a movie queen
Or an extra in the silent days
And an accident at the studio
Made her bald unto this day.
She refused to remove the wig
She ran out crying, in costume
And now she is still wearing it
Hoping he will find her soon.
The woman at the pharmacy
Said her hair caught on fire
At a movie in the twenties
Her boss calls her a liar;
Says the leading man did it
In a fit of rage and jealousy
When she wouldn't marry him
He set fire to the scenery.
Others heard that she was fired,
But she wouldn't leave the set
So deep inside her mind
She really hasn't left it yet.
Some have tried to talk to her
But she never speaks that much
Except inquiring prices and colors
Of the goods she chances to touch.
To direct questions and advances
She turns sadly away and leaves.
You can tell she is sensitive
You can tell by her face she grieves.
It is easy to see she is living
In some world that is not ours
Her world seems a place of gloom
Of thunderstorms and showers.
She caresses with her fingertips
Along the banisters she passes
And she seldom lets her gaze linger
Behind her smoked sunglasses.
Her satin dress has faded,
Like the color of her hair.
She still lingers in each moment
When she walks down the stair.
She never seems to notice those
Who stop and goggle at her
And they are many, these gawkers
But they just don’t' seem to matter.
She seems to have accepted
What her life has now become.
She has been coming to the park
For decades more than some.
This may be a playground
For popeyed urban gnomes.
But this is where she shops
This decaying place her home.
This park is very much like her
Many ages past its prime.
The vestiges of past glory
Have not been erased by time.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
Time slips backward over little slivers
Of love and broken lives,
Gathering them up, using the soft mess
Of once-blessed feeling mixed with
Grand passion,
Until it knits together the pieces of
Hate and love like a potion:
Unseemly, neither black nor white...
And we refuse to see it.
Time rolls forward as we ignore it,
Over hurt as well as joy,
For we have taught ourselves to lie,
To say that nothing matters in
The “grand scheme of things”...
And so our life passes us by.
Until, one day, we discover
We are alone even as we stand
Beside those we love.
And we know them not.
Where love resides,
There loathing and resentment
Peek from amidst the ruinous
Muddle, which we created,
Simply unaware.
We two may stare into each others’ eyes,
As if two strangers,
Wary of false hopes and lies.
Stale passion bonded to forgotten vows
Leave us helpless, caught in a patterned
Web of half-truths and hidden threat.
Soon we are reduced to stiff civility,
“Sly apologies and polite regrets”.
Love dies more slowly than the ability
To end the dance or forget.
We settle in, like corpses in a crypt,
To the slow departure of ourselves.
As the mind rises up above the scene,
We take it in, gawkers on a highway,
Aghast yet unable to refrain
From still more self-flagellation.
Another empty day drags by
And in our lonely, separate prisons…we stay.
Rediscovered on January 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 3:07 PM UTC
Today was the first day of class.
You should have seen all the people.
Everyone couldn’t have had class, some of them must
have been gawkers, the types that slow to watch
flat tire changings and car wrecks.
Some were carrying maps - freshmen.
Like student drivers they clogged the paths,
drawing a few looks.
They gaggle together like geese,
Jeeezus - shut UP and get ON with it, freshies! I thought.
Not ungenerously - I remember being lost - back in the day.
I have class, myself - in both the intrinsic sense - of style -
and in the “research for credit” ‘check in on the first day,’ kind.
Still, we’re parading, and I’ve always loved parades.
My one regret is that there are no mimes or elephants.
ok.. poetry..
Stress is somewhere in my propinquity.
See, it’s known to stalk this vicinity.
I’m not a freshman, so it hasn’t struck yet,
but when it does, and it will, you can bet,
that initially, it will shake my tranquility
and end our start-of-year festivities.
It will creepily creep, destroying my sleep,
until I prove my scholastic resiliency.
.
.
Songs for this:
Violently Happy by Björk
Schoolin' Life by Beyoncé
Aug 28, 2024
Aug 28, 2024 at 9:24 PM UTC
You peek from under
the prettiest head of hair,
thick like your accent,
heads twist,
almost break,
when you willow by
the gawkers gulping java.
You have the rare magic
to stop the wind
wanting to pass through
your lady-essence.
Stardust trails your way,
such luscious curves
memorizing those behind,
you have them trying
to read your mind
with your kind
radiant-eyes.
And me,
I wait with anticipation
as you float right for me,
opening the door to
your workplace,
wishing it was your heart
instead.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 12:44 PM UTC
Dark and dankly dripping,
It groans out its low bellied cry,
Not heeding
Stop or stare of rubbernecked
Gawkers with gaping lips, ears, eyes;
Thence echoes a ventriloquy of sound--
From that great yawning throat
To dumb puppet mouths
Of men who stand transfixed by such awful
Lamentations of the Earth’s cold flesh.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 10:59 PM UTC
If the land is giving
then we are finished
all we really need
is self control...... control ourselves
All that we really feel
Is strain
all that we really know
Is marching
Burn the piggys
We'll hold the tower steady
everyone stay focused
We'll hold the tower steady
Until birth
we will never know
Life will progressively flourish
and the gawkers will learn
That there is not much time....... maybe
I hope....... maybe?
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 9:45 PM UTC
Sunday sewn on Saturdays seams and dreaming freedoms stitched in black and white,
night light salad greens and where sleep used to lay grows a new day.
Tea,at most a slice of toast,the morning views,who's in and out and what's news is this?
kiss the crumbs of toast goodbye,licking lips,another dry day in the dock,pock marks on the hoarding,lording advertisers selling premium this and other things and the Baptist church brings pamphlets to a table set before the door,selling the hereinafter before we've been before.
It's City Sunday when the marketmen come sell their wares down in the lanes and trains are full of gawkers gawking at the hawkers and the good Samaritans which are few and far between are seen along the dusty tracks collecting tax from income earned,where nothing's taught we never learned the basics of how to live a life of ease.
I please myself as to when and where and who I share my hard times with,just give an inch and some take the whole **** mile
but it's Sunday for a while and so we let the dogs at bay go on our way as if it's Sunday everyday and nothing's new,
Sunday sews a string of beads around the neck of late last night and pulls it tight and we might decide that Sundays are alright or not.
Spot on spit upon my hand and shake it well,agreed that Sundays ****** Grand a day of rest and love to test and takes the best of all we've got.
I like this day an awful lot and there's not a lot I like no more and tomorrow's Monday,what a blinking bore.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 2:22 AM UTC
I dream a dream of skill,
I gather pictures of best practice
(methods best enacted off the couch.)
I house,
crisp corners, soaring beams and posts
where gawkers marvel, ‘cos
the high is feeling good. I see
the woods
and watch the owners.
(What good grip they have! enough to claim
what they could never care for-
let the lessers sing their lives!)
I drive a drive
not fast enough for fastness-makers,
flaunting logos, polished chrome,
I drive a loan.
None say it, none will ever hear
these soft confessions to
the “here” I hold right now
in its un-good. I slip
a “should” on, halfway,
dumping it for snacks and cons -
I run for miles
to lose it on the lawn.
And as I break, I pause to
watch a bit to see how not to fail.
I land in jail. The wardens
never speak to me,
the only copy of the key
described in stories, but
they’ve scattered every page.
And every day I fail
to reconstruct it out of naught,
I age.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 12:52 AM UTC
let the gawkers
make haste
may thier
make
it
frozen clay
showers
of
frost
clung teardrops
my depths deaths
shall they swallow
birds admiration
aspirations
on
man
that an bird would ask it's wings
why it it you choose
to feather me
tickle me
from
the
sky
ask let why
that my flesh be
peeled
from
the
back
of
mine
eyes
say not
let the gawkers
?
...
..
.
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 9:17 AM UTC
Hair trigger-by me. . . . an explosions coming, the media is buzzing with news destructive to young minds! old,deaf,blind. Awake your inner sense, remorse will be lit at torches, your libertied statue will crumble to rich mens sinful imaginations. For whats your relationship you talkers an gawkers? you do nothing about the violence! your streets will flow of red wined blood. Martyrs turned **** Awaken you american dictators, murderers and haters! the seas will split as mountain peaks will pop to thine own hell youve unloosed. For heres thy noose to tangle upon thine own necks! all love turned dissrespect! Your dollar will be your downfall oh dire innocent! or are you an innocent after all? The flames you have lifted upon your own streets will singe your every day class citizen! your towers shall fall, have you seen what i saw? Oh bountiful land? A callus you have been made, for its to late to turn the page, the prophecies have already been written. No thanksgiving anytime soon! You make bars and saloons your god and dope your bible, cant you smile? can you hear me you deaf an breathless mess! For the suns darkening is bound by gods artistic hands. . . . .
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 4:20 PM UTC
the whales
have started to come
gliding past with a wave
or tail breach.
occasionally they breach
thier entire bodies in the air
even if only for a moment
we are blasè about it
joking about the tourist boats
that race to be near the tails and fins
but really when the season is running
on a good day you can see three or more
so many more than when I first came here
then I kept a log of fins tails and breachings
now it is like when you see your neighbor
mowing the lawn you smile to acknowledge it
but still continue on with your day
and on some level I think the whale prefer that
cause when you think about it, would you want
some group of gawkers chasing you down
when you went up the coast for a romantic holiday
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 8:52 AM UTC