"gouache" poems
well then shepherd in the mess why does that sharpened cowl of wheat surround those sweet yams in the satchel, some scene of loosening transgressions, no pear ripening itself one dull, and one unfulfilling afternoon, rolls down over its branch of sister and brother father and mother Bartletts from the stem, only to make its way into the bottom of that stretched out tawny hide. Where by the wayside every other nobody can see straight inside when a hand moves in, sweeps its fist and then goes deeply down into that can of rotten novelties we all hate, but you feel keeps us in suspense. I wonder will it ever end? Bells busting from the insides of their guts, another candy shock, up and bounces, popcorn kernels, roasted almond slivers, and some preceding green vegetable posted on the 8th St. Diner marquee display on 9th, another advertisement fighting at the sore, devoured hunger for that silhouette following closely behind the moistened wells where my brush dabs lightly into the cup before the gouache and paint mixture begin to dry, that is where I wait and wonder why? Why? Pained with hunger but besmirched with fright, skin sweaty, knotted like muslin yards growing weak against the coil. So humbling were the groans that nearly a decade crossed swiftly across his face, only five or ten minutes had passed before another twenty years flowed into the vast matrix of the rivers of blue sweat marked by estuaries, creeks, and streams across the brow, down the cheeks, and ultimately across the neck, lazing down into the chest, before settling its heavy panic soaking in the guts. Where a heavy glass brick has been vitrifying in the sun, never have two people seen the steamy and piping-hot quarry go from its conviviality and festivity of life, into this shriveled up tree having found its way into the prairie where giant winds bend its branches and enormous thunderstorms nearly strangle it with its own roots. Frisked by sin and pangs of nostalgia in which a thousand thoughts intersplice the whorls imprinted upon our brains.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
froths in lichen:
gushing on its bark,
it looks like pollen
was smeared on in
yellow gouache,
ulcers spread to lick
on to each branch.
I let it take over
in the way you
spread your arms
over bed and torso,
in the way your kiss
through the mornings
paint my cheeks red.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
a good too many
snaps and cracks
from the skeletal forest
a gentle brushing
from an acrylic wind
that promenades itself
on marble toes
that crack and shatter
in gouache throes of
violence that
gilds the branches in
flowing starlight
a craggy ribcage
of sprouts and succulents
that paint a scene with
watercolor irony
an eager scrawling
of earthbound rabble
that hops freight trains
and skips life away
a conflict of self
flourished in opals
and ravished in
scented velvet
a good too many
fears and
desires
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 10:33 AM UTC
All I want is a stick-up light, so I can read at night,
between my bedpost and bedside whiteboard
beside the baseboard,
outlet occupied by a black power cord,
the bookshelf, both coffeemakers,
the power strip duct-taped to the cream brick wall,
the bush outside,
the sidewalks, the brick walks,
the burnt caramel steel fences separating Washington babble
from Lyco small talk.
With one touch,
I’m lying against the wall
on acrylic-painted stretched canvases,
photo booth strips, a brick and sky scene,
gouache and ink sketches, that Giant
receipt with teal pen in the margins,
and developed photos of storm
troopers, ****** microwaves,
and forklifts moving trash sofas
around from film class.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
I've said too much, I've lost my head, I've given up
I have nothing left.
The parchment paper rips down your throat.
As you tear your voice down every note,
The word “ihateyou”
**** every song.
A chill in the ear is a bell tones throng.
Believe that somethings wrong, cuz it ******* is! Believe that you're in love, cuz you're a ******* kid!
You cannot hold onto,
Stuffed blankets and pillows,
Live by a matchbook,
Head next to the gallows,
The heat from a sun has now died with the billows.
No air or ox-y-gen is capable resuscitation,
To stoke up this flame from dead coals in this bastion,
Each illusion is frozen by the heat ******* electron.
Division/deviation from a path that I abandon.
The futile, failure, falling to the knees view of a god that I do not cling to.
This songs about existence,
The pain in a distance,
Reminiscent,
Of a horizon,
Built on grandeur and heart omissions.
****** by a necropolis,
Of soul stealing black hole mouths.
Forgotten by its maker,
When the heartless chopped him to the ground,
Fraught with false oaths.
Suburbia disintegrates to ash and leaking gouache.
Bleed out.
Bleed out.
Bleed out.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 1:54 AM UTC
You cannot see me but I am
Somewhere Underneath
The surface Just underneath
About to break Always still
Just Barely Under
A gilded barege of light Shifts
Liquid leaves in gouache Fall
Trinkling Over my face.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 5:56 PM UTC
a loop in upper atmosphere today
with a model's figure of grass
to postpone his next canvass
this desire to retouch in a wanton lapse
his brush fitted in a cloud
and he steamed aloud
a bubble's glow in a tip of the pen
to exclaim foment
as shape blew doctrinaire
with clasps of tarter
where his strokes were ardor
that trend would enhance with finale
while he deeply supplanted the soul
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 4:10 PM UTC
Sometimes you can hear not with ears, but with a skin: with your fingers on fabric, with your hair sinking thought the palms, with your muscles on anxious joints.
Sometimes you can hear not the music, but emotions. Words, voices, harmony, rhythm, — all of them are spiralling into one multidimensional Rubik's Cube; all of them are thickening into a rich hodgepodge of colours; and then you can’t understand if the drums are ringing inside of your brains or if the song itself is closing its eyes with joy.
Sometimes you can hear nothing.
And nothing can sometimes hear you.
Today you hear winter.
Being on the ground floor it’d be like being outside.
Your elbows are on a windowsill. Your droopy eyes are chained to a sleepy late-night path.
You are therefore one short step from that path: just breathe and touch the earth with your cosy socks. The earth is chubby because of yesterday’s raindrops.
Smells like roaring lorry. Hears like water and warm winter.
The colour palette is in shades of a half past four morning.
On the opposite side of your street your neighbour still keeps Christmas: the garland made of white-blue lights flickers during four finger taps, and is lit during three. One-two-three-four, one-two-three. You can almost hear ‘Fantaisie Impromptu’ by Chopin. Right. Four. Left. Three.
That white-blue trembling sneaks into puddles along with the low smiles of lanterns further down the block. The blue glow is dancing, the copper illumination is dearer.
The cat runs — grey mouse — grey stain — on the canvas.
The windows are like card backs in Tarot spread on the walls like on the tables.
The windows are mirrors, and the mirrors are caves.
The windows run with perspective.
With the cat.
Tell us, sky! Do you exist? Have you been always franking us? Both on the left, both on the right one cannot find a difference. Your colour is lullabying.
Your colour is dual; at first glance it’s pure blue-plum gouache, but looking closely… The sky is scarlet. Scarlet as a wisp of a tapestry.
The scarpestry breaks through plumouache.
Suddenly a little white twinkle hops into winter, and suddenly dies.
Your heart has grown to your tongue root and to your little alcove under your ribs, and the heart is writing-writing-writing, and is escorting passing cars, and is fuming-fuming-fuming, and is sweating like in a sauna.
It’s dribbling outside.
Homely.
Nothingly.
Nov 5, 2019
Nov 5, 2019 at 12:33 PM UTC
Think, rich and heavy, like flattened layers of gouache paint slathered onto a canvas, meant to portray peeling layers of pearly alabaster, glowing white stripped away to reveal dusty blues, steely grays, and muted purples.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 3:34 PM UTC
Of artists blocks
and charcoal pencils
lines drawn
blackened white
with hearts the stencil
gouache pastels
in dusted hues
smudged
whetted thumbs
by moistened lips
colours gently bruised
with fingertips
stroked by brushes
firm tipped certain
outside the frame
of loves drawn curtain
softly washed
in watercolour fade
the painter plays
loves serenade
emboldened strokes
in oils dramatic
his canvas laden
replete
climactic
© J.C.
Sep 14, 2020
Sep 14, 2020 at 12:24 PM UTC
where can i lay my old hands
these days
35 seems so close.
i haven't had a child
i feel like an orphan.
my music doesn't suit me
i'm too young to feel this old
i never moved to new york
i never started my band
i never painted for hours
with oils,
and gouache.
i never loved you,
i never held you like a lover,
i held my own body too closely.
i watched my hours
too swiftly
you are not enough for me
oh here i leave you everything;
my gentle comfort and the way i used to love you
ill leave you with my questions
my "can i's",
i'll take back my keys
and the decade of my woman
You made things so hard
okay, okay I’ve had enough
2003 was so long ago
And it’s all I remember.
How much more can I take of this time
May 8, 2019
May 8, 2019 at 1:30 AM UTC
Of artists blocks
and charcoal pencils
lines drawn
blackened white
with hearts the stencil
gouache pastels
in dusted hues
smudged by
whetted thumbs
from moistened lips
colours gently bruised
with fingertips
stroked by brushes
firm tipped certain
outside the frame
of loves drawn curtain
softly washed
in watercolour fade
the painter plays
loves serenade
emboldened strokes
in oils dramatic
his canvas laden
replete
climactic
J.C. honey- tiger 09/08/2019.
Aug 8, 2019
Aug 8, 2019 at 6:44 PM UTC