"goya" poems
Dear Future Wife,
I know that it wasn’t easy going through the tides of life. It will never be easy. You might find yourself looking for someone who would fulfil the emptiness that you would feel inside. It is my strongest hope that you won’t entertain anyone who would try to take your heart. I would like you to focus on your studies at this point. I know that studying could sometimes be boring or somewhat hard, but I trust you with this one. You can do it.
I’m writing this letter for a purpose. I would like to tell you some things before I marry you or before you become my girlfriend or even before I meet you. I would like to start this message by thanking you in advance. Thank you for choosing me out of the billions of men who are better and more handsome than me. I know that I never deserved somebody like you, and it’s kind of unfair for me because when we would be together, I know that we would look like beauty and the beast. You’d be beauty and I’d be beast.
Thank you for the patience that you will have with me for the next 10 to 70 years. I appreciate how you would make me smile and laugh and even cry at times. It wouldn’t be hard to be with me, because I beat a girl in terms of emotions. Thank you for being faithful with me. I just want you to know that I would not look for anyone else but you. You’re the one I am praying for every night before I go to sleep and every morning before you get up from bed.
It may not be my season yet to be in love. I promise you that I will wait. I will not rush anything with you. Forgive me if I wouldn’t give you flowers and chocolates for valentines while we are still students. I promise you that I will give you something more than that at the right time. I would reserve my hands for you, you and my mother will be the only women who would be able to grasp my very hands while walking. I would reserve myself for you. There would be lots of temptations, but beloved, I promise you that the only one who would control our relationship is God.
It would not be easy being with me. It will never be. But I thank you for choosing me. Forgive me if I can’t be as handsome as the celebrities you watch in movies. I may not be handsome, but I promise to love you with all I am until my final breath.
I’m Excited
I’m excited to be your boyfriend and experience butterflies in my stomach whenever I’m with you.
I’m excited to give you gifts every occasion.
I’m excited to text you the words “I love you” every morning.
I’m excited to see you walking on the altar.
I’m excited to hear the words “You may kiss the bride”
I’m excited to be your husband.
I’m excited to forestall you in waking up just to cook for you.
I’m excited to have dogs (we’ll name them Bacon and Goya)
I’m excited to start a family with you.
I’m excited to roam the world with you.
But while our story is not yet clashing to each other in His book, my excitement would not stop me from waiting. I will wait for you. I promise. I love you.
Your Future Husband
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 11:14 AM UTC
I am from VapoRub,
From Goya
And morisoñando.
I am from the traffic
And loud horns,
From the Caribbean heat,
And the city lights,
From the buildings
And the towers.
I am from the palm trees
And the coconut trees,
Dancing bachata
And merengue
In the beach,
From yaniqueque
Y plátano,
From tostones
And fish.
I am from Sunday gatherings
And loud family members,
From Jose, Maria, and Primos,
And the hardworking
Payamps clan.
I am from the
Madera’s baseball team,
From Canó, Sosa, y Ortiz,
From the long summer rides
To ***** Cana
And Samana’s beach.
From “work hard
Cause life is not easy”
And “family before friends.”
From Christianity
And Saturday morning sermons,
From God is good
And He brings joy.
I am from Santo Domingo
And Monción,
From Santiago
And Spanish ancestors,
From mangú con salami,
From rice and beans.
From the grandpa
Who owns the village
Surrounded by
Chickens, cows, and bulls,
From the business owner
And the well known uncles
In my hometown.
I am from the only flag
With a bible.
From the red, blue
And white.
From the most beautiful
Island in the Caribbean,
From Quisqueya y
Libertad.
I am from the
Dominican Republic,
The country that holds
The people I love and
Miss the most.
I am from the
Little Paris box
I keep next to my bed,
Filled with precious
Gifts and letters
That make me feel
A little closer
To them.
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
I claw out of the grave like the phoenix
And for my 15 minute lifetime
I burn like the sun, the gas lamp, California, the Holocaust
Before fizzling out again
I live to die
I awaken on the production line
I breathe in the ash pouring from the apocalyptic clouds
Disappointed, I turn to my grey sarcophagus
The faceless, factory-made, invisible-as-Kether generation
Buried in the grocery store pyramid
Like Goya's dog, I peer blindly, so tiny
Upwards, into the infinite nothing that awaits
The afterlife, the void, Abraham's *****
Death, limbo, desolation row
The nihilistic emptiness from which I rise
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 2:45 PM UTC
I'm sorry
for being in a pit of despair.
I'm sorry
for not knowing how to repair.
I want to rest
but the devil knows
something
I cannot tell.
It haunts me
to the ends of the world.
It is completely
devouring my soul.
I am weary.
I need to rest.
I'm so sorry
for not being able to tell.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 1:22 PM UTC
perhaps
if there were spaces
gaps left in the english language
places meant for characters left to be invented
maybe
if there were phrases
and definitions
yet to be coined
i could finally tell the whole truth
about me
and the monsters in my head
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 2:27 AM UTC
*Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw
Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw*
I can read…donkey as I am,
I can read
Where did I learn to read?
they taught me at home,
they taught me at school
they taught me at the camps and retreats
and at all the Assemblies and Gatherings
and at various Thought Adjustment Programs
*Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw
Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw*
I can read…donkey as I am,
I can read and I can recite
They trained me well to recite
and to memorize and to regurgitate
and to repeat and repeat and repeat
at the Houses of Prayer
the Holy Ones stood before us
and they trained us, they drilled us
thousands and thousands of us
and millions and millions of us
and through years and years
and centuries and centuries
*Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw
Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw*
No variation, no change, just -
*Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw
Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw*
I can read, I can recite, I can repeat
they trained us well at Animal Farm –
word for word, repeat and repeat and repeat
and when in doubt, we have our Great Leaders
Pigs for Pigs, Goats for Goats, Turkeys for Turkeys
and Donkeys for Donkeys
who will speak for us
*Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw
Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw*
I can read, I can recite, I can repeat
so must you, if you should be pure,
if you should be saved
if you should see the Truth
*Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw
Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw*
I can read, I can recite, I can repeat
*Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw
Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw*
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 6:24 PM UTC
Recuerdo exactamente como si fuese ayer. Recuerdo cuando en los veranos mi padre se iba a jugar al campo de futbol y nos llevaba a mi hermana y yo. Andaba un overol estilo chor morado con flores amarillas al lado y teñís negros. Suena como estilo feo y raro pero yo desde peque me vestía diferente. Pero se veía bien. Vale. Miraba a mi papa jugar el futbol como si fuese campeón jajá. Cuando el era joven de 18 anos le había dicho que si quería jugar futbol profesional. Pero mi padre decidió que no. No se porque no tomo esa oportunidad? Estuvo buena.. pero años después se caso con mi mama y nacimos nosotros. Mi hermana gemela, yo y mis dos hermanos.
Las Malta Goya's fueron esas bebidas que me encantaba tomar en esos días súper calientes. Al principio no me gustaba mucho. Wakala dije yo! pero no se como explicar este sentimiento pero mi cuerpo deseaba mas. Ahora que tengo 18 anos los sigo bebiendo. Wow. El que lea esto debería de probar Malta Goya. Cuando lo buscas en Google dice que es cerveza sin alcohol. jeje ;)
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
afraid to close your eyes at night
you think of the pieces painted on
the back of your eyelids
less like Van Goghs Starry Night
more like Francisco Goya's Saturn's Sun
the walls of your mind holding black paintings
Quinta del Sordo
you are engulfed in them forgetting your roots
roots that have been torn from the earth
from a hand that now wraps around your waist
pulling, pulling, pulling
you awake and realize the hands are from a girl
who paints cherry blossoms in your mind
instantly you feel warmth rush through you
as you press your tear stained cheek
against hers
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 9:37 PM UTC
Some types of blood arrest this mouth.
Yes, some types of lips breathe fire and shout.
Some types of women shuck men of their gain, then some women run hurriedly back to their beaches again.
Some people catch anons between their legs. Others swallow vespers BeSpoke by the lust that they crave. Then envelop Gonzo love on the tip of their quill, if only boiling themselves for five minutes to ensure themselves potable.
I live for the taste of rust. I sit in the second-to-last seat on the back-left side of the bus. And I greet her legs with my aching skin, touch my fingertips to my lips to prove that I’m alive to myself.
If her scent was obeyed by royalty. I’m traversing the world if only once more as I’m praying that she’ll see me. I’m praying for our faces to believe in we. And her taste is the bang that is big from the beginning of time, one twist of the fresh zest of a lime, while the years are turned back into the furnace of time. I’m craving faces and loves I once saw. I need to feel the skin tailored for the female gods. I’m certainly loud and catering forth, I turn up the pre, and force the gain and amp up. If only to be noted again, in a bed with my goddess together we’d spend, every moment together in eternity. Immortality conceived of the beasts we achieve. Trampled by the light and tortured by the sound of ourselves. Please won’t you help me to not be forgotten myself? I’m pursing my lips and shaking my hands, I’m jumping off rooftops and eating mouthfuls of sand. Is our hero here or has she she run? Help me find Britni West, my one true love. She’s in California last I had a taste. It’s only everyone else that I lay chaste. With her I’m on top of the world, I’d quaff her spit and champion her skin. There is nothing nor no one that could come between. She’s the only one that is for me, and I’m the only he she’s told me.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 6:53 AM UTC
Hello.
Good evening and welcome back
This is tonight’s program
The air is ripe
Ripe with social abundance
And whimsical latte grooves
A warmth in the air
It caresses your body, this warmth
It walks by your side, this warmth
It’s there holding your hand
Knowing that you’re alone
Because this isn’t the same warmth of a
person’s hand
But this comfort, this invisible hand, this invisible other
Is the warmth of the free midnight air
The city lights: fluorescent metal plants with flashing neon insects and prowling jungle dwellers
The soft ambient jazz that plays from the dripping rain.
Giving your life the harmony of passion
The melody of joy
But with the rhythms of melancholy
A lone phrase that passes by each composition
Your world goes black and white
Full becomes hollow
Radiant becomes dull
Trust becomes deception
Love becomes hate
Life becomes death
The rain intensifies with translucent color
Reflecting the street illumination of grandeur
and sensual subtlety
Urban poetry doused by mythic ambition
Perplexing the eyes of the unknowing artist
Raising the half full glass to the half empty person
Objects in mirror are closer than they appear
You are that much closer to your reflective self
The part of you that will never leave the gaze of reflective surfaces
There when you look away from your noon time coffee on the café window
There when your mind wonders away from your spouses’ arguing; the mirror behind them
There on the puddles on the asphalt and street corners, asking you with voiceless faces
‘Where are you now?”
“Is this the dream of God subconscious?”
“Is God asleep? Is this all just a dream of something bigger than us/’
Having a conversation with your reflection can turn out to be quite enlightening.
This program is brought to you by the following sponsors; Oatmeal, tea leaves, voiceover actors, large print books, Lucretius, Bill Shakespeare, handmade leather wallets, chocolate kisses, long hair, motorcycles, Frank Gambale, Daft Punk, Martin Scorsese, Goya, Kevin Smith, Evan Rachel Wood, Jones Soda, Cappuccinos and all the little people (excluding mole people…they know why.)
Please swing by again.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 7:40 PM UTC
In the art section of Retiro Park’s book stalls: Picasso hides in the shadows of Goya.
Along the streets of Lavapiés: graffiti strikes a blow against the crimes of Franco.
Atop the boulders of La Pedriza: hikers spread out the city like a tent.
And in the sea-swept climes of Asturias: we adorn our plates with pulpo.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
welcome to this dream
I will spin you in c
es ir
cl
with me trying to fall asleep
melatonin completely absent from my veins
voices blur in messy paintings
(Goya total sense does make
compared to cinnamon gum
washing
the bitter sweet taste of someone away)
sirens scream too loudly
mesmerizing half of me
slowly spinning
spinning
(little me with a top on the porch in the summer sun)
except there's no sun
and this spinning cannot be stopped
life
too tangible now
and I suddenly need
cinnamon gum again.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 1:21 PM UTC
*The Clothed Maja, sister of The **** Maja (both painted by Goya, and both enjoyed by Raj Arumugam), speaks:*
Hey, you boys…yeah, you…
OK, all of you good boys, if you like…
come see me in my white dress and golden shoes;
see me reclined in my luxurious couch…
Look here…I’m in this room…
Oh, you adorable, silly boys;
I’ve been hearing you the last hour
as you searched one room after another
and all you grown men giggling like little boys…
while I’ve been waiting here all the while…
And you’re Frank? And you?
Sean? What a **** name you’ve got baby…
Oh, hmmmm…you should be…O Patrick,
you think I’m cool?
I was made by Goya, how can I not be?
And come on other boys at the door, don’t be shy…
Ravi, Kesav, Eliot, jp –
my, my, what a short name you got;
you can get it long too? ...jp…lovely name…
and Jack Chappell, and Sean Critchfield –
and why didn’t cheeky Raj come?
Oh, leave him, he’s probably just best left ogling
at ***** shunga pictures
from Hokusai…
So welcome boys all…
Yes, yes, you can come close
You can’t resist the scent can you?
O, my name? Just call me Maja -
Maja pretty and well-dressed
and I just love good company and wine
and pleasure and fun
…what?
You guys think I’m sweet, and seductive?
Oh, that’s nice of you…
**** too?
Oh, boys! Oh, you boys!
If you think I’m ****
Oh wait till you see my sister, my double –
Oh, yes she’s always reclining in a bed too
unlike that stodgy Mona Lisa
Well, my sis didn’t want to come
but really, I’ll tell you a secret -
my sis, she doesn’t wear clothes -
and she hasn’t been in clothes since 1800!
Oh, you guys got to go?
Reluctant, but you must go?
Yeah, you can always see me – just google Goya
and I’ll always be there
and my sister?
Oh, you naughty boys, that’s who really want to see,
don’t you?
and that’s the reason for your sudden hurry?
Well, she’s always placed beside me –
I’m always The Clothed Maja and she the Naked one…
See you soon, guys –
see you at Goya...
Hey, come back here boys –
the least you can do is to kiss me goodbye…
Aug 7, 2011
Aug 7, 2011 at 2:32 AM UTC
Goya's not gone
his nightmares and realities still shadow us -
the Los Desastres de la Guerra
still palpitate in our desert lands and hills
beating like hearts the Aztecs offered the sun;
and the barbarism of an axe over heads still thrives -
and barbarians can never hear the plea of a mother
Tampoco
tells us of women and girls ***** in war
and Oh, the Fight with Cudgels
looms large over our skies
and the horror of Saturn devouring his son
pervades the earth
and the Black Paintings
run amok in the form of men shrouded in black
Ah, Picasso is there too in our madness:
Guernica bares its teeth and monstrosities
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 8:18 AM UTC
I'm sitting in a strange man's house reading, "stranger in a strange land",
and resisting the idea that I am another on a strain of poor
marginalized Americans.
I'm a night janitor at an elementary school that goes unnamed.
The kids smile and run past without a second thought.
My boss doesn't ask questions for his own reasons, and I
just want my story to be heard.
My girlfriend is curled up on the futon behind me, and I'm wondering
how I got so lucky.
There's a Francisco De Goya **** hanging above this overtly
post-modern desk, and I'm eating at the soup kitchen tomorrow.
I stay inside most days, wrapped in a blanket, not realizing until too
late that it's actually warm, and that the AC is turned up way too high.
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 1:32 AM UTC
How did you find your faith?
did you stumble upon it
was it discovered on a beech
was it heroically sought after
in the fissure of a breach?
Did you ever lose faith?
did a great expectation dwindle
was a deep held trust betrayed
did a dear friend disappoint you
ubiquitous suffering and dismay?
Where did you find it?
in the grandeur of a sacred place
in the contours of a beloved face
in the splendor of anointed grace
as balm to salve a deep disgrace?
were you riding a subway
or floating on a pink cloud
were you kneeling in a church
were bombs exploding loud?
was it the embrace of a lover
was it a crisis of deep plight
was it a soul stirring chorus
did you lose an awful fight?
in the glory of a painting
dripping petals of a desert flower
the majesty of mountain glaciers
a surging river filled with power
Could you lose your faith again?
If you did, would you know how to find it?
Where would you look if it happened?
How will you know its faith when you find it?
What does faith feel like?
What do you do when you got it?
What do you do when you get it?
How do you know you got it when you get it?
How do you know you get it when you got it?
Or are you formally faithless in a formal sense?
Signed,
Trying to Keep the Faith
Music Selection:
George Michael, Faith
Art Selection
Caprichos
Francisco Goya
101098
Stamford, CT
jbm
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
So many words
Such little meaning
Its not your words that tell me your feelings
Don’t have to guess the way that you’re leaning
I’ll crack the sky or at least the ceiling
So many lines
Some silver lining
I am the alchemist synthesizing
Live with the knowledge that you’re declining
While I ascend
Uproot the uprising
I am the king
I am the diamond
I am the one who says so, the Simon
I am above
I am the legend
I am the force that drives every engine
I am alive
I’m more than alive
I am the spark igniting the *** drive
I am the fiber
I am the source code
I am the dynamite set to explode
So many gods
So many temples
It’s not the gods that make me a-tremble
Translate the power
Speak to the devil
He is the writer
I am the pencil
So many guns
Such little patience
I am a curator of the ancient
I am the book
I am the history
I am the meaning
I am the mystery
I am the giant
I am the titan
I am the hidden strength
I’m the lion
I am the love
I am the hatred
I am the ******
I’m the naked
I am the tomb
I am the symbol
I am the complex
I am the simple
I am the rule
I am the riddle
I am the equal
I am the middle
Such little love
Such little content
Is it unfair to ask where the love went
I touched the body
I touched the soul
I mastered the secret to self control
Such a disgrace
Such paranoia
You are the dark, Francisco de Goya
Die with the damage
****** and grotesque
You’re the decree
A half-muttered protest
I am the one
I am the master
I am the one survivor they’re after
I am the hunter
I am the hunted
I am the needed
I am the wanted
I am alive
I speak for the living
I am the one who’s taking and giving
I am the blight
I am the plague
I am the one who needs to be saved
So many strings
Such orchestration
I am the heart of every nation
I am the puppeteer
I’m the puppet
I am the base, the peak, and the summit
So many worlds
So many timelines
I am the multiverse
I’m the road sign
I am the white
I am the black
I am the siege
I am the attack
So many words
Such little meaning
Its not your words that tell me your feelings
Don’t have to guess the way that you’re leaning
I’ll crack the sky or at least the ceiling
So many lines
Warning the caution
I am the single choice
I’m the option
Die with the truth that you’ll be forgotten
I loved a world but that world was rotten
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
This is somewhat of a surreal writing and so is the title
well here goes...
Foolin' around with chaos
Kickin' at the cosmos
Not quite known' where
my left foot and right foot
really belong
Wondren' if the stains
in my undershorts
are the results
of nicotine
Imaginin' the Philly goliath
clothing statue around 15th and Market
constructed to clamp
onto Willys Nose
Wittnessin' the "Parkin' Authority"
rhythmically writin' on pads
their violation ticket songs
to the quarter meters of cash flow
Drizzly watchin'
The multitude of "Ben Hurs"
precariously skim
and fly around the corner
at 16th and Market headin' north And
seekin' self-infliction
by seriously
tellin' a waitress
that she really serves the best food in town. And
salutin' every Admiral dressed doorman
that I pass. Then later,
overhearin' a good "Samaritan"
tell a street ******
that four roses
can also be sniffed as well
Thoughts of Christ
nailed to the " Charles Schwab" edifice
with a thorny looking crown
made from antiquated ticker tape
His side pierced by
piggy bank breakers,
and the outpouring of green inscriptions
that state, " In God we trust."
All these things
race through the squeaking
reels of my mind already
corroded by seen corruption as a
passing Krishna group's chant permeates
the thick city air
And an unnoticed dying dove raises
its quivering right wing
as if in a last salute to peace
And all too well I know,
how the city devours its youth
like Goya's " Saturn Devouring his Son"
All too soon, in the sunlight
of my benevolent youthfulness within,
a chilled blanket of knowing about ignorance
overwhelms me
Tormented by indefinable tormentor,
The love-lust for life diminishes
and captured by surrounding greed
and torn asunder
Driven away, sitting in Rittenhouse Square,
touched by two lovers
as squirrels
scamper playfully
over dead dried
Autumn leaves...
...that crackle...
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
Flight of Rococo
The marina was quiet this Sunday afternoon
The horde had gone back to their offices and factories
The pensioners who take vacation in September
And October walks slowly about and eat well they are
Not going dancing, the women will be tiddly and feel
As they did forty years ago, perhaps tonight the hubby
Will be frisky, but having drunk wine he will fall asleep
She has been going in and out of shops I'm outside
Pretending to be elsewhere I think of Goya's women.
Ah, this slimming craze why do so many women think
It is **** to look like freed concentration camp victims
She is tired now sits on a bench I walk around and look
At boats, I could never afford, except for a few ocean
Ship made of wood polished by rough hands by men who
Are not politically correct calling the ship a she that have
Or possess what men like about women
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 8:01 AM UTC
Truth is the daughter of time.
Lies are at best her half brothers.
Truth longs for a lover to come;
her milky whiteness uncovered.
She does not wish to be ruled
by the Crown or by Papal decree.
She is not Agenda's handmaiden,
she simply longs to be free.
Had I but the skills of a Goya
I could make Truth's beauty well known.
Michaelangelo, too, could portray her
for truth's often captured in stone.
Some will tell you that
Truth is quite beautiful,
as the last of her veils hits the floor.
I agree that her figure's impeccable;
She always leaves me wanting more
Feb 10, 2012
Feb 10, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
Why are the traits of creativity and insanity
An hourglass and sand
Is it an unintended genetic defect?
Or a simple wonderment of man
An anomaly of nature
A chemical imbalance in the Ribonucleic acid
A minuscule knot in the DNA strands
Many minds revered and unknown don the genius crown
The emotive disturbing creations of Goya’s dark-stained hands
The deaf Beethoven composing the illustrious symphonies of sound
The imagery of Hemingway before he felt disposed to lay the pencil down
Leonardo da Vinci the scientist and painter who dreamt of Mars
The Kaleidoscope of inventors, poets, visual and musical artists
The unseen silent ones who walk among us
Who glimpse and grasp for that which lies in secret even beyond the stars
They socialize freely with death and depression
That colors that taunt the fingers and feed the obsession
The impeccable word so elusive often sought in panic
Never-ending questions of the universe that must be answered
So comes the genesis of the melancholy, bipolar. schizoid and the manic
Why are creativity and insanity
An hourglass and sand
Is it an inherited genetic defect?
Or a singular wonder of man
A chemical imbalance in the Ribonucleic acid
A minuscule knot in the DNA strands
All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby Oct. 4, 2019.
All Material Stored in Author Base.
Oct 4, 2019
Oct 4, 2019 at 10:12 PM UTC
Draw your sword in the mist of the dawn and let gratitude burst forth from the deepest crevice of your ancient soul, just like a bubbling brook in the forest of tidal convergence.
The romantic lane of nostalgia is decorated with encapsulating country milestones, and the era of Spanish Enlightenment flaunts the sombre excellence of Francisco Jose de Goya Lucientes.
So, what is your philosophy?
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:19 PM UTC
Isn't that who you are baby?
Goin up town in your red dress,
face painted like a Goya,
clinking glasses with high life
at a fundraiser and older rich
men laughing at your ****** jokes.
You having a hole to fill,
a need to be more than where
you came from, no ***** trailers
to wake up in anymore girl.
Spent the money on this ticket
that coulda bought ramen for a week,
but you need this night more
than you need food.
I don't want to sound judgemental,
because I'm not judging at all,
just commenting on a life
so many women like yourself
have wound up living.
Least you're not turnin tricks anymore,
so I hear, and for that I'll thank
whatever deity is responsible,
hopefully you never need to sell
your perfect body like that again.
All those boys you thought were the one,
all those nights with a needle in your arm,
all those mornings waking to sadness.
When you get home tonight,
to an empty bed and dusty memories,
I hope somewhere deep down,
you know my heart goes with you.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 3:45 AM UTC
When we get back
from holiday
Benny
we have got to get
some more modern art
you know
stuff from up
and coming artists
and not clog up the shop
with old master prints
Abela says
I mean we've had that
Goya print for ages now
I sip my beer
and light up a cigarette
and gaze at her
sitting in the street cafe
with that
I've just
woken up face on her
in that green dress
that comes up to
her backside
and those green stocking
that do nothing for me
other than me thinking
she's playing a role
in Robin Hood
and his Merry Men production
and you need
to be more assertive
she says
grab the customers
when they come in
and don't let them
out of the shop
without buying a work
of art or print
even if it is only
a postcard print of Sussex
I think of last night
and how she
undressed for bed
and being a bit tipsy
she fell over three times
and lay on the floor
at one time
like a wounded gazelle
are you listening
to me Benny?
yes
I say
I was just thinking
we buy in some of those
watercolours by the young girl
who is always pestering us
but to whom you said
her watercolours look like
bad art left out in the rain
Abela stares at me
it won't sell
it will hang around
the shop like a bad smell
it's art though
it may sell
she shakes her head
and sips her white wine
and lights a cigarette
and yaks on about
more abstract oil art
and I recall how once
she had got into bed
and her head touched
the pillow
she was off asleep
and all her rather
inebriated promises
came to nothing
and I lay there
watching her
with her mouth open
and hands tucked
between her thighs
with deep sad sighs.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 3:02 AM UTC
-on his painting of the dog
It's such a strange place here,
we're always ready to go.
But when we think of leaving,
it seems we just don't know.
Did someone tell us to linger?
Was it death that asked us
to wait for its eager return?
This sulky sullen guard,
this safe and sorry heart
will steadily keep on beating
until the night's black start.
Did someone tell us to pray?
Was it life itself perhaps
that came to us and went away?
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 6:08 PM UTC