"glockenspiel" poems
catch the last wave and i'll be there
combing the beachhead of our misery
swollen with big love, choking on the theory of our negative heavens
you and i,
we marvel at the heresy of our wisdom
and cherish no giant over divine
we david the furies that are nephelim
but conjure no gods where the plastic can't be useful
we dunder in the bluff of innocent cupids
we -
the idiots on the cliff -
dancing
when the glockenspiel itches !
clock faced and *** up
i'll be there with black honey, " With You "
no doubt
pondering the wrinkles in your sleep breath.
the sweet killing of tomcats and mackerels
the plain fact that our noses
are numb from eskimo kissing
in the igloo of our perpetual alaska
the arctic furnace of our wild fires of pure illusion
to trod stunning over hell's paradise
and catch a glimpse of snarky
stark Silence...
You
catch the last wave -
and i'll be nothing but the singing bones of the wind
in the throes of an ****** of " need you " and only you.
a chosen cyclone from heaven
i'll be just a little boy
in the clutches of a dead teddy
where the poppies sing
hallelujah !
and our hearts blight the orchid of our accord.
and down -
comes, what ?
what do we do ? what could we possibly ?
we hopscotch the bonnets
and glue ravenous bumblebees
to a blanket
of snow.
cause we have the technology -
we can disassemble it...
discretely.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:24 PM UTC
the glockenspiel of our daily raid of sewers in heaven
and our Jovian dwarves appalling the rapturous capacity of forever and ever.
the kooky jingle of our serpents, darning socks for the antichrist
and our elaborate rats. the simple maze of our condition
in the hell were at. the creaking gate to a twilight
and a lost chapter
marooned on an
island
of undead Librarians.
starving for brains
tardy with the
Harold
Robins
knife in red breast.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
Is not only ordinary in the most vile sense
It also lacks the creative imbalance
That which pulses through the blood of cryptic elders
Although being encaged in a box
has the comfort of rigidity
It destroys the fetus of all that pretends to be beautiful
Contemptuous moments ruined
Because we are weak enough to ask, why?
To pander For a something as feebly human as a definition
Why must everything be placed
on the hand of the glockenspiel
When the world has clearly indicated
The presence of a divine anomaly
The trees are freezing
into crocked chapels
The blackened oasis
tearing slightly along the buttons
Through this all the celestial ambiance awaits
Its complexities weave
each stroke unparalleled
r
The urge is to destroy
That which makes our eyes sting
And our brains blast through the unseen hallows
Riding the coattails of a blastiod
This gusto is blanketed over in our simple minds
Forged into a hammer and sickle
Of absolute and definite terror
Destroy it all
All of which can chemically mix and produce
A new mystical pattern of deficiencies
Naked spayed on the cutting room floor
We must destroy it
By forcefully coding its gnome
Correcting what appears to be a hint of insurrection
When we already no the what already know the why
but the current answers will make us their slave
They will bind us in hopeless ecstasy
So we form new words that don’t do it justice
Outlandish plans for this invention
Destroying its capability to be
simple
beautiful and
without purpose
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:01 AM UTC
Fish heads for dessert
Confetti-saltwater taffy for lunch
Canned laughter for snack
And peptide bonds for a well balanced breakfast
"But whats for dinner?" says The Windbag
"But whats for dinner?!" screeches The Mimick
Hmm, well we have a choice between the sociocultural criteria and a toxic relationship
"Can't we have popsicles with answer-less riddles on the sticks?" asked the Windbag
"Can't we have popsicles with answer-less riddles on the sticks?!" copied The Mimick
"Leeme alone!" cried the Windbag
"Leeme alone!!" yelled The Mimick
In the end the decided to eat the pockmarks of bird feeding cohorts
They picked their teeth with proven points
Then watched The Windbag play the glockenspiel
Followed by The Mimick on the xylophone
As I put the leftover scraps in Tupperware, making sure to burp it before I put it away
-Tommy Johnson
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC
In twilight sleep,
thoughts out of control,
images take hold.
Viewed against the canvass of blackness,
dead people dance
with succubi an incubuses.
Tiny gymnasts
balance on sharp edged swords
in le cirque du soleil
under a moonless sky.
Grimm’s tales
of baked children
and hungry wolves
play out. On a runway
starving women show
the latest fashions in cardinal red.
The Grinch stole my green silk Balenciaga gown.
Gave it to the frog prince.
Sleeping beauty is just a ******
She had too much of all of it.
Hermes glass slippers are sold
Only too few and deserving Cinderellas,
trophy wives of mummified kings.
What they really deserve is not on the menu.
Just le plat du jour of ortolans.
The three pigs are out of breath,
Not enough air for a blow job.
Rose colored glasses take on a nasty
hue of watered down blood.
Bottle green is not la couleur du jour,
rather that bile color
with a tint of pus yellow.
There is a storm brewing,
A tsunami rising,
the earth shakes,
Volcano red lava
licks down the mountain.
Destiny?
Fate?
Apocalypse?
A voice whispers:
put up a shield, a bright canvass.
Paint with bold rounded strokes
in earthen tones. Mold vessels
to hold the morning dew.
Catch rays of sun
in a glass glockenspiel.
Hum the world, sing life.
Touch, feel, be alive.
A ray of sun sneaks through the blinds.
Dust dances in a shaft of light.
I am safe, for another day.
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
There was not much to do down at the zoo
They were all getting bored, wouldn't you?
The keeper was called, we're out of our minds
Help us out, if you'd be so kind
The keeper said, so what can I do?
I'd like to help but give me a clue
Well, said the giraffe it may sound daft
But I've always wanted to play the harp
You know what, said the baboon
I would like a big bassoon
The emu said, I really do feel
A hankering after a glockenspiel
The lemur requested a violin
Certain he'd coax a tune from the thing
The elephants stood all in line
Already they could trumpet in time
The gorilla said he could use his thumb
To bang away on a big bass drum
They all got their wish, it was quite a scene
And proudly they played God Save the Queen
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 6:13 AM UTC
Feet floating six inches above the ground
A glockenspiel chorus of radiant talking
Have stumbled upon something I thought I had found
Under an emerald sky we are walking
A glockenspiel chorus of radiant talking
I am almost too awestruck to peer at the stars
Under an emerald sky we are walking
We love all of life, stretching off beyond Mars
I am almost too awestruck to peer at the stars
I know that this feeling can not last forever
We love all of life, stretching off beyond Mars
This memory, these people I promise I’ll treasure
I know that this feeling can not last forever
Have stumbled upon something I thought I had found
This memory, these people I promise I’ll treasure
Feet floating six inches above the ground
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 7:54 AM UTC
It is
a lazy nod of orchid shift that sees
the poppies lean in times, where
glockenspiel lanyard clings are
goat herds on a Cretan rise.
Sweet boat-words claim a beltane fare
that calls to mind all Summers gone
in spools of warming solitude
that talk of when the Earth was young.
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC
you won't bleed because you're not about to burn. you saw my lips curl straight talk
and mock the glockenspiel of my garrulous tongue. you stun my assets. my accent falters. but yes... you hear me yearn. you gnaw at my shin splints. we resist what ain't lost.
we grog the real liqueur of our tepid angst. get ****** up.
i'll craft a promise when i'm tongue-tied...
i'll say anything with my tongue; yup.
i love you.
but our disasters are so beautiful, i could love that...
i just might hurt you with my mouth full...
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 8:27 PM UTC
LISTENING TO YOUR FAVOURITE PIECE OF MUSIC
Oh you were so
quiet
I hardly heard you
tiptoe silently in
settle yourself
amongst the strings
talking to me
now in cello
now in violin
the heartbeat of a drum
the exchange of laughter
between glockenspiel & xylophone
making a point
with either
the tiny ******
of a triangle
or the crash of a symbol.
I listen to you talk
to me in music
the candlelight
grows dim & then
as softly as you came
you leave
leaves
(fluttering against
the windowpane) .
I feel you leave
leave before the movement ends
footsteps
in the silence of my memory
me nearly
forgetting
that you've died
listening on
until the end
as the music
cries.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 6:47 PM UTC
They twinkle like a glockenspiel
Sparkle in pairs a sky apart
The signs and symbols in the wheel
But one sign has no counterpart
The one who steps down from the North
Where arrows sail and eagles twirl
By ancient power to bring forth
His shadow from the underworld
And lo, although the sky has turned
The shadow waits so close, so far
To reach up when the Sun returns
And take hold of our shining star
Although they each may hold the Moon
Our star shall grace only the one
And still the other every June
Stands reaching for the midnight Sun
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 2:21 AM UTC
LISTENING TO YOUR FAVOURITE PIECE OF MUSIC
Oh you were so
quiet
I hardly heard you
tiptoe silently in
settle yourself
amongst the strings
talking to me
now in cello
now in violin
the heartbeat of a drum
the exchange of laughter
between glockenspiel & xylophone
making a point
with either
the tiny ******
of a triangle
or the crash of a symbol.
I listen to you talk
to me in music
the candlelight
grows dim & then
as softly as you came
you leave
leaves
(fluttering against
the windowpane) .
I feel you leave
leave before the movement ends
footsteps
in the silence of my memory
me nearly
forgetting
that you've died
listening on
until the end
as the music
cries.
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 5:53 PM UTC
I’d only been gone for a moment,
A moment was all that it took,
And up to the edge of that moment
I’d been sitting, and reading a book,
Then I looked up and saw you were staring,
But your eyes were glazed over, I see,
And I swear you weren’t looking, but glaring
At something you hated in me.
Then the room began twisting and turning
To the sound of the storm’s rapid roar,
As it went racing up to the ceiling,
And dived in a twirl to the floor,
It snatched at the book I’d been reading
And it flung it straight up in the air,
On the cover it said ‘Time is Bleeding’,
And I thought, ‘I don’t want to go there.’
Still you clung to your chair, my Miranda,
While the furniture skittered and slid,
Some had headed out to the veranda
Where the glockenspiel lay on its lid,
But your face and your skin became older,
As the years yet to come hurried by,
And the air in the room became colder
When I heard, ‘You’re much younger than I.’
And that’s when I felt it receding,
That eddying moment of time,
That had shown me the love that was bleeding
It hadn’t been yours, it was mine,
I sheltered there on the veranda
From the clinical glance of your gaze,
For time was against you, Miranda,
And it showed, in a myriad ways.
I’d only been gone for a moment,
A moment was all that it took,
And up to the edge of that moment
I’d been sitting, and reading a book,
Then the storm battered in through the shutters,
And it snatched at the book in my hand,
But you’d gone, slipped away down the gutters
With all I had loved in the land.
David Lewis Paget
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 6:31 AM UTC
right now, i am a glockenspiel
drunken tin can symphonies
bells on broken pavements,
cracks where lullabies sink beneath the waves
right now, i am a myth
the bringer of the end, whereby
i flood the minds of a writer
who describes the way i love her to the death
right now, i am the full blood moon
aligned to fit your path, alone but
cross’d the broken heart and
hope to die, among the living spoken still
there is light, you know.
yet i remove it, force a halo -
rip the life-lines clean
from veins of liquid gold
Jun 22, 2018
Jun 22, 2018 at 6:50 AM UTC
I once had a glockenspiel
One I wish that I had still
Nothing to me is more real
Than the sound of a glockenspiel
I would take it to the streets
Where crowds would gather around me
Tapping toes and keeping beat
To the sounds of oh so sweet
I never charged a listening fee
Bringing pleasure to them and me
One thing we all lack yet need
In this world of Make-Believe
For a moment all too brief
At this point in history
There was comfort bathed in peace
Before I had to take my leave
I once had a glockenspiel
One I wish that I had still
Nothing to me is more real
Than the sound of a glockenspiel
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 6:50 AM UTC
Footfall sang like
glockenspiel chimes,
a metallophone
path of linear strides.
Back and forth, to and fro
jiving in and out of time.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 8:03 AM UTC