"impressionistic" poems
Money melting in a spoon,
let's shoot it into our veins.
Flashing Kardashian lights,
streaming into our brains.
Donald Trump! He's our man!
Mark Muslims is the plan!
All-you-can-eat-
Pile. It. The. **** High.
When you walk or
When you talk,
let the words squeak out
like they're between
Your thighs.
Thighs. American thighs,
Dreaming next to our Calvins.
Our slacktivism, our regurgitated ideas
spitballing out of our McDonald's mouths
into our peers' ears, distilled by years
And years of "almost-knowledge"
that we quasi-ascertained,
if we knew what that meant --
but we've been left behind!
No child left the **** behind!
We were left behind and there's no
possible way we slacked off, that we're dumb,
that we aren't the movie stars destined for
Lamborghini cars, five-star bars, designer bodies
for designer you and designer me:
the most special of the unique, the
Pearls that have been made in the
darkest parts of the sea, the darkest parts of
origin. Origin. ****** ****
American **** virginal ideals sliding around
the muck of a marketable **** fuckfest,
******* of the American mind, the
congratulations of the American ego,
the proud mother and father tears associated with
buying and lying, "trying" and frying our food,
our ideas, our friends, our neo-impressionistic
children in Jordans, skinny jeans, on tumblr:
the unknowing cousin of Fox News, surprised
by its own wit and wisdom: they're ******* twins.
Carbon copies, unknowing, unwilling, un-un-un.
The romanticism of mental illness.
The close-up of reality-tv emotion.
The manipulation taught to servers
from managers.
The manipulation taught to customers
from society.
All we care about is **** image, and ***
Self-preservation: **** Donald Trump
and **** you.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC
at first an unrelenting green covers everything:
the trees, the lawn, the hillsides, the marshes, the windbreaks,
everything is completely and totally green, the deepest, truest green,
so green you might even forget that it wasn't always green,
so green you might not stop to think that it won't always be green.
school children look out windows during their exams,
longing to be free amid all that greenness,
lovers sit in parks near the water, under perfectly green leaves,
listening to the wind, watching the stars come out
and making their wishes, forever joined with that unrelenting green.
artists dip their impressionistic brushes in the green and dab on canvas
pictures of people gathered at picnics in dappled, green shade,
joined with the greenness, enveloped and absorbed by it,
becoming green themselves. they paint pictures of leafy trees reaching beyond the canvas with patches of sky showing through, a perspective of endless summer that you have to look at a long time
to see and feel, but once you find it beyond the greenness, in the
blue beyond the hill, you will be part of it always: through the fading mid-summer and pale, yellowing late summer, even into the multi-
colored fall and the stark, grey-white winter, and you will know life, and hope and love, and nothing will ever seem the same again
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 7:05 AM UTC
The rigger journeyman was city bred,
But Cumberland was in his bones,
He saw the hills above the doors,
He saw the fells above the roofs
And when the great pain came,
His eyes belonged to them again.
By Ruskin Street he stopped to choke
At forty six, his wife beside,
My father's line revealed to me,
A farming, rigging family tree.
His place of death recorded so,
Not 'in' or 'at' but 'by' they wrote,
Impressionistic, vague, but true,
Or careless hand for riggers, who
In city great of small account
By Ruskin Street,
Out for the count...
The journey ends
And Benson, male,
No sails will mend.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
when i get lost
i find myself
in the most various of places
as the echo of my paces
reach outer spaces
i delve inward
like the whirlpool
at the center of a ripple
touching the banks of the pond
and defining itself by them
i am
utterly interdependent
externally anchored
and implicitly bound
to the web of meaning
spun around me
and when you found me
lost
in the most various of places
as the echo of my paces
reached outer spaces
i delved inward
and i found me,
my lost self,
all around me
in everyone
and everything else
(it astounds me
how the pronoun 'he'
implies that
which surrounds the
not-so-isolated subject.)
so when i found 'me'
lost
in the most various of places
as the echo of my paces
reached outer spaces
i delved inward.
i delved inward
and saw outward
myself
a shard of glass
reflecting and refracting
the light bouncing
between so many shards of glass
and i shattered
and i dissolved
and i splattered
so many dots of paint
in an impressionistic painting
that got smudged
and delved inward.
so when you found me
lost
in the most various of places
the echo of my paces
reached outer spaces.
and when i
delved inward
i found myself
outside myself.
like the whirlpool
at the center of a ripple.
May 16, 2011
May 16, 2011 at 7:06 AM UTC
Aye, Montecelli, that's the name.
You may have heard of him perhaps.
Yet though he never savoured fame,
Of those impressionistic chaps,
Monet and Manet and Renoir
He was the avatar.
He festered in a Marseilles slum,
A starving genius, god-inspired.
You'd take him for a lousy ***
Tho' poetry of paint he lyred,
In dreamy pastels each a gem: . . .
How people laughed at them!
He peddled paint from bar to bar;
From sordid rags a jewel shone,
A glow of joy and colour far
From filth of fortune woe-begone.
'Just twenty francs,' he shyly said,
'To take me drunk to bed.'
Of Van Gogh and Cezanne a peer;
In dreams of ecstasy enskied,
A genius and a pioneer,
Poor, paralysed and mad he died:
Yet by all who hold Beauty dear
May he be glorified!
2.6k
There is no floor
Below the water there is sand and dust
My feet disappear below the mist
And below that is a floor of nothing.
Lock and key, relative conductivity
Separation of anxieties
Generally elementary
Universal energy
Scientific inquiry
Empirical discovery
What a bunch of crap.
I bathe in fake white plastic
I swim in silent smiles
Dionysian warfare paintings
Classical textual narrating
Fitness, happiness, soporific movies
Genial tendencies, braced for ingenuity
Waiting for a paroxysm to bring forth neologisms
That test the boundaries of scientific truth
That recapture the errant minds of youth
We could make new buildings or lose a tooth
I hold the latter higher than that
I tilt the ladder there and back
Assiduous and wont, *** for tat
All a game, a joke at that
Your domain, provoked and trapped
Impressionistic spinal taps
On canvases of green and black
All from within cerebral shacks
Wind hammers palm trees on windowpanes
Wind tears down houses, rips apart planes
Wind doesn't move me, yet seems urbane
It's so jejune, it's all the same
I'm tired and lonely, powder remains
Pink like reagents in reactive flames
Quick like catalysts jumping inane
Frontal lobes retired my brain.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 12:02 PM UTC
mortality's taste is bittersweet
as death's brush paints life's new lease
impressionistic could haves, should haves, would haves
minimalist suprematism shapes dreams
surrealistic hopes
time's urgency hammered home by temporal clarity
top 10 lists glazed to topography
as future blends to present amid trees
a familiar CICU
a family gathering
beds with tubes and wires
monitors flashing and beeping
refreshing past's distance
with updated parking prices
will the ending be the same?
May 31, 2010
May 31, 2010 at 1:22 PM UTC
The elevator opened on the 46th floor, to a small foyer and one plain, grey door
The door opened and a young girl, 10ish, in a blue, polo, tennis dress, said, “Hi! I’m Karen, you must be Anais. Will is around here somewhere. Aren’t you pretty, though? You go to school with Lisa? No wonder Will likes you.”
She skippingly ushered me from a bright, windowed, off-white, staircase entryway, into a deep-red, mahogany paneled library. A persian cat was soon underfoot, purring and winding around my legs.”That’s Misha,” Karen said, “just shoo her away if you don’t like cats.”
I stooped down to pet Misha who eagerly offered herself to be petted and admired. As I stroked her charcoal fur, Karen said, “Let me get Will,” as she scampered off.
A gold framed, impressionistic painting, pin-lit in bright crystalline light, hung over a fireplace. In the painting, two girls, in summer hats bright with startling red bows and yellow flowers, were sharing a book. The colors were rich, deep and swirling - it looked very much like a Renoir (I know my French artists). He’d done a whole “two girls” series. I drew closer - it wasn’t a print.
Though dazed by the opulence, I hadn’t missed what Karen had said. Will liked me. I longed to interrogate her about how exactly she knew Will liked me, and what form, exactly, Will’s liking took.
I know Will and Lisa (who would be joining us in a minute) are just friends. Not that it matters, we’re heading back to New Haven later - but Karen’s statements were capable of activating a girl's guy-dar.
Karen, wearing socks but no shoes, came to a sliding halt, on the wooden floor, by grabbing the door frame to stop an otherwise complete slide into the library. “You guys are going to the Ritz for lunch?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder, in a way that indicated that she knew the answer quite well.
The Ritz Carlton is a block away and our mission was to grab the food and bring it back here to eat. “Mind if I join?” she said, before I could answer her first question, all wide-eyed, blinking impatience.
“I don’t mind at ALL.” I said, Karen whooped and was off again down the hall. “I’M COMING TOO!” she yelled. I chuckled, knowingly - I’ve been there - I’m a little sister too.
Nov 27, 2021
Nov 27, 2021 at 12:41 PM UTC
The mosquitoes supped histamine limpets into our puckered flesh
dew gilted grass entombed our feet in dappled domes
refracting the overhead fireworks
smears of whirling color
accented by smoke mote ghosts
I forgot to wear my contacts
my near-sightedness
makes you giggle nervously -
a hard full body ****** of a laugh
it arches your spine
pulling our hand-holding into an expansion
only the lining betwixt finger inlets
galvanized our pulse
well, that and your voltaic laugh
its flourishing timbre
resonant
reverberant pyrotechnic
thickly glazing aural canal
lascivious tomes penned themselves
densely
upon neural plane
dendrites imprinting chemical insignia
moment captured in impressionistic blurs
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
A heart deflates
into a circular fire,
burning a tunnel in reality
so a dark train of thought can barrel through.
Hieroglyphic crocodiles swim
into a stream to eat gazelle.
A universe is just the iris
of gods.
I grew up in a cactus hut
that was atop the boogeyman's hat.
'Ol Skullface evaporates like a rippling image
in water...
dreadlocked lightning
bottle sips on the venus flytrap's *******
Maybe I'm the combination of Bob Marley's dope smoke
& Dali's pipe steam.
That right there
was his psychedelic ego
he o rarely sees.
The Native American sound in my brain
reminds me of beautiful cave paintings
in candle lit screams & moans
echoing.
Bamboo lightning
sword frightening shimmers
in the light.
Tribal war paint vicious sharp drumbeats;
fangs ready for battle,
a head bobbing mystic predicts victory
in the shadows;
glowing.
Ashes from the evening smoke means we've won,
thanks to my brain eye.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
Tell me your troubles
And I’ll tell you mine
And meanwhile the
Great world spins
We are artists
En plein air
Your impressionistic strokes
Coalesce into a formless
Gray corona
Beneath the sea.
It might be a shark
Or a porpoise
I will never know
Until it rises to the surface
Will it eat
or draw breath?
My strokes are baroque
A tenebristic composition
Of dark and light tones
A bee on a peony
Your eyes fall to its
Barbed stinger
Show me your soul
And I will show you mine
And meanwhile
It’s all an art
On how we spin things
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 3:25 PM UTC
*Like Pablo Picasso's
artistically rendered paintings
& Mozart's ultimate
piano concerto perfection
you utterly moved me,
as Monet's
impressionistic wildflowers
our love grew,
flourishing amidst
poetry's cultivated gardens*
**'Til you fashioned
yourself subsequent to
Van Gogh's insanity,
leaving me beside myself
now, I want to cut off
more than your ear**
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
the crowd and the bass
flooded my body
as it flooded yours
we were just points
in an impressionistic painting
but in another universe
there were only you and me
and you tried
to bring as much space between us
as possible
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
Your droopy eyes are palpable
But their leakage is so very liquid
That everything from your frown and down
are only streaks of monochrome colours.
The shine from your bottom lip’s pout
Is the sole indication of any protuberance
In between the misty, misplaced smudges
And now I’ve gone and lost your focal point.
Your wilted close is tangible
But the reasoning is so volatile
That I’m unsure of Where the dead must head
And whether *** just simply is a sin.
The parameters are but blurred
And lead to a dissipated bit of an apex
Among smears of arrogant ignorance
And now I’ve gone and belittled your focal point.
But what is it, exactly, that you wanted to make an impression of?
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
whose flowers are these?
who brought them to the gravesite
and arranged them with such care?
placing each flower individually
every week a kaleidoscope of color
pastel petals wrapped in green stems, leaves and ferns
bouquets speaking softly from the heart
conversations of love and respect
unspoken words of connection and affection
painting a picture of impressionistic serenity
amid grass and tombstones
who cared about him this much, besides us?
who cares about him still?
Dec 3, 2010
Dec 3, 2010 at 7:42 AM UTC
The orange paints the clouds
as if it needed some care.
and everything else is painted with darkness.
Then, the sky is a an impressionistic painting.
The light vanishes bit by bit
as a lamp about to burn
and everything else about to rest.
Then, the world is a modern poetry.
The city shivers
as a cold and tender skin
and everything else shivers too.
Then, the doubt is realist prose.
The Sun lies down on the horizon
as a nightly kiss of farewell
and everything else kisses me too.
Then, love is a reciprocal.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 8:06 PM UTC
From the dim misty past
through the mind's tunnel dark
memory like a flash of lightning bursts
upon the moment unexpected-
a screen of smoke appears to shut
away the present--- a standstill of time--
pictures, smells, sounds, voices
light, shades, colours, places, faces
they resurrect
like fragments of shattered glass
where only vague images suggest
as in impressionistic paintings
with wide gaps waiting to be filled
by the imagination of the rememberer
feelings are awakened
in an avalanche
the heart beats fast
in confusion as reality
fades and sinks away
the imperious past
claims victory
and takes over
with relentless immediacy
it's as though
our human life
is a boundless sea
each wave a memory
of rapture or sorrow
of triumphs or set-backs
of remorse, regrets, aches
of dreams that perished
of hopes that vanished
of love or its loss
of beauty which once
held majestic sway
to end at the close of day
are we sad or happy
each one of us
none does know
but oneself
what would you
and I finally say?
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
Our world is screaming,
Cover our ears,
But eyes are open
To the turbulent reds
Swirling the sky.
We pose,
Some in rockers
With wry smiles,
Holding pitchforks,
Looking Gothic,
Harvesting potatoes,
Filling pockets.
We dance across
Impressionistic canvases
Framed by our art.
In the corner
Of my city
Waits an active asylum.
Put a jacket on,
Scream,
Things are
Coming undone.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC
Up flew the moonlight tide
flying like a stairway to the clouds.
The light blue stars twinkled
showing the impressionistic side
of the art that is supposed to be
the playing of dice by the four forces.
The beauty of it all seems suspicious.
Never mind it all, lets swim to the clouds.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 12:41 AM UTC
The way of your brush
And not anyone else’s
Is like rain that doesn’t think
It falls like the weight of nature
Upon our life without remorse
Or need for our approval
But you act like a student
Thinking of lines that rhyme
Or shadows that compose
Colors of word and sound
Yes that is the way you started
But no longer
Don’t think that way anymore
Don’t think at all
You already know the feeling
It is a test of yourself
Like borrowing money from a friend
They know you're broke
Your word has suddenly become important
They believe in you and it’s up to you now
It may be more than you can handle
You don’t know how you can do it
It is how life explodes through your veins
You don’t think about how you are angry
You just are and it is a world without rules
Being provoked is not impressionistic
It is real without self-consciousness
Hurry, hurry; rush to show us
It will be over soon
You will begin thinking about approval again
That is the mistake of your art
You think about us
Instead
Let us think about you
We want to know how angry you are
The honesty of the rain has become you
If only you didn’t worry about the rest of your life
The risk of being a river
Or a lake
Or evaporated
That is your risk
Don’t fix it later
Don’t decide that you didn’t really feel that way
Yes you did
You
Felt
That
Way
Show me
Just do what you want to do
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 9:35 PM UTC
They tell me I know what I'm doing.
I'm a master stumbler.
I record the sounds of my steps
along the cobblestones of thoughts
tracing me through mere minutes of my day.
I'm no predator of words,
hungrily snatching them from their sound slumber.
I've never slain a thought for
the sake of hanging its trophy on my page.
I have no brush at the ready,
no photographic,
impressionistic mind
gathering the sights and sounds
like a gambler collecting her winnings.
I could not, at gunpoint,
fire off the words to save my life,
no eloquent please,
no well turned phrases,
no sycophantic soliloquy.
I am the shell of my experiences,
my hide made only
of the ones that have hardened me.
This is no way to love.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 3:31 PM UTC
Here's a little something,
I'm not sure it's poetry; maybe prose.
My day was going well, knocked-off early, travelled home.
With the morning's mail, my new bank cards, as expected.
But not quite - the name - so wrong.
There was my title, 'Miss', but with my old boy-name, in full.
I was stunned and distressed. Upset and angry in equal measure.
It had seemed all so simple at the bank last week, and,
now. this. ******* ****
I went straight down, on the Victoria line, steaming,
holding back hot tears, and sunglasses well needed.
An hour later and I was out in the street again.
Looking around still a bit stunned.
Lots of promises and a sort of disappointment in myself
that I didn't explode as much as I had expected.
It might have been a kind of therapy perhaps?
Actually I needed a different sort - a stiff drink.
Old reaction. Victoria is fine for that, innit?
A wine and time to sort out the ****** mess I am.
In the bar I search for one calming thought, something to put me in a better mood.
I owe myself more than this furious self-pity, for Christ's sake.
I know I can do it. I'm too subjective, but I can use this weakness too.
And here it is. You and me.
Our time together at the weekend. So simple.
A fresh, vivid memory not yet dimmed by the passing of more mundane things.
Being in your arms, looking into your blue eyes, I the object of your passion.
A bubble universe of you and me that will be for always.
It's a special memory sealed just like a bug in amber.
Forever in space and time aloof and impervious to the world's crap.
Showered by your hot kisses, I became a goddess for a night.
I unlocked your spirit too; you shone and took my breath.
We were locked so close. Vibrating with mutual energy.
I glowing, you gasping and drained but happy, both dizzy.
How can this be? We don't deserve this. This is 'love'.
Actual, ****** romantic, love. The stuff teenagers dream about.
I worry that I'm not really supposed to have this.
But I know a good thing when I see it my love.
So like I said, I'm subjective, impressionistic sometimes.
It was a simple trick to switch the ****** thoughts for another
that was so, so much sweeter....
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
impressionistic, dabs at life's canvas
trying the light and dark,
usually violating the rules,
freely expressing outside the contours,
the boundaries no limit for me,
I am not tooled
or succinct in the palate
of medieval details limiting a
certain number of syllables,
I use adverbs and adjectives interchangeably
try though I may
my write hand wobbles,
and veers of the course ,
and I see
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 7:25 PM UTC
sunlight hits the pillow,
and the whole world shudders,
a breathe gets caught
and it fights to just exist
a hand reaches out,
warmth blooms all over the bedsheets,
the sun rays begin their dance
and the tears are absent
shouts and efflorescence,
a cacophonous impressionistic painting,
heavy steps filled with grace
one wrong turn and you fall
fall,
fall,
fall,
your legs betray you,
blood begins to spill from the open wounds,
it is true that a ton of feathers
is just as heavy as a ton of bricks
but a hand props itself,
the ocean rises and waves hit the shore,
fishermen hide their boats
a storm is yet to begin
and you fly,
with your broken wings,
and lilac bruises
and a heart that refuses to surrender
golden particles twirl high up to the sky,
the clouds begin to part,
and you as well
will you disappear
though as it starts pouring,
everything falls into place,
flowers need the downpour
in order to survive
yet sometimes it’s easier to fall asleep
let the body hit the mattress,
greatness is binding
but the cosmos won’t stop existing without you
so let your head clear,
and disappear for a while.
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 4:14 PM UTC
Someone once spoke to me about my honesty and how they loved watching it drop from my lips and implant in the thoughts of others
I realized tonight in the crisp coldness that I am often not honest with myself
So I released my thoughts from their cage and allowed them to wander . . .
not too far and in a minute time they discovered disgust
They discovered hypocrisy that I grew by myself that I bred like a new species
I mean I preached loyalty to crowds of souls that had the honor of stroking my heart
Yet I betrayed them by sneaking around and luring boys in
To touch my core
But not the real core
The superficial one which fed their egos and absorbed attention
( this monsteral core fed on attention )
~beastly
Why do I not feel bound to your love? Why does it not weigh me down and cage me in ? Why does it allow me to play with others?
Why does it let me engrave a rough impressionistic font onto the lips of others?
Why am I not suffocating in your embrace ?
Why am I wondering from your purity
Like a pilgrim on a journey into a domino effect
Making boys fall
At my feet , girls too
Like a goddess
It excites me to be craved
To be worshipped and praised like a deity not to be ****** with ?
Can only toxicity keep me excited
Is your holiness too safe? Is their rebellion running through me?
Why do you love me so much ?
You can’t save me
You don’t know how to play with such a force
I want to devour you
I see you bowing down to me
I’m running not to the ocean but to a herd of sheep
I hear the waves crashing behind me
I feel the pacific liquid in my ears
The flock is waiting to worship me
You are standing on the sun burning...
suffering like a servant , begging for me to stay
I choose you because your purity makes me feel holy
A little sane
Selfish?
You say that I’m not
You say that I’m kind and pure
I feel *****
Like I need to wash myself off of me
Bathe me . Stay around I want to be cleansed
I will sober up for you
From his high and from myself ...
I am softness I am rose water and I will continue implanting my beauty in the minds of creation and making them fall like soldiers in war
subtly like a fairy with dust.
And I’ll come back to you , all ready for equilibrium
... I know you’ll be waiting , you always are
Jun 22, 2018
Jun 22, 2018 at 7:38 PM UTC