"installation" poems
I'm not a writer... Or anything resembling that
I am just me... Sharing my words picked out from life's hat
I can't find the most accurate to say
So letters I dabble in various permutations
Layers of letters turn into words and come to play
Could call them journals, these text-laden creations
But I'm not a writer... Or anything resembling that
I am just me... Penning the words picked out of life's hat
I'm not a poet... Or anything mimicking that
I am just me... Relating experiences out of life's hat
I can't conjure poems... About anything or everything
Can't use my words to incite or inspire
These are just ideas and I just like rhyming
They are just experiences that fuel my fire
But I'm not a poet... Or anything mimicking that
I am just me... Spouting rhymes out of life's hat
I'm not an artist... Or anything pretending to be that
I am just me... Drawing scenes from life's hat
I can't sketch a portrait with a simple pencil
Can't put together an installation and call it art
I can paint fairly well; of which I have done several
I can draw out emotions and depictions from the heart
But I'm not an artist... Or anything pretending to be that
I am just me... Producing paintings out of life's hat
I'm not a musician.. Or anything fantastic like that
I am just me... Playing melodies from life's hat
I don't have the quality of voice to match that of a crooner
I can't play instruments that could earn a place in a band
I can sing in key without the help of a tuner
I enjoy music best with a guitar in my hands
But I'm not a musician.. Or anything fantastic like that
I am just me... Singing songs from life's hat
I'm not a writer, poet, musician or an artist...
I do a little of everything, not excelling at any one title
Although I wish to have everything clenched in one fist
All I ever really do is just dabble....
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
All I wanted was a cigarette.
We weren't allowed to smoke.
He knew where to go.
We swept sidewalks together.
Raked sand together.
Talked about life together.
His window was across from mine.
I think he saw me changing once.
Maybe more than once.
He was getting dishonorably discharged.
I didn't think he was a good man.
I didn't think he was a bad one, either.
It had been two weeks since I landed in Monterey.
I only wanted a cigarette.
He knew where to go.
I bought the Southern Comfort and bottom shelf gin.
He carried them with him to his room.
I didn't think anything of it.
We raked sand together.
We ate lunch together.
We watched movies together.
We sat on a makeshift bench by the ditch by the installation fence.
We drank and smoked and laughed.
I taught him Farsi and he taught me Russian.
Russian for "hello" and "goodbye."
Russian for "This is allowed."
Russian for "This is not allowed."
I think he saw me changing once.
He tried to kiss me on the cheek.
I told him no, my boyfriend wouldn't like that very much.
We smoked some more.
We drank some more.
We laughed some more.
It was 2130.
I had to be in my room by 2200.
He said not to worry, I'd be back in time.
I insisted and tried to leave.
I fell to the ground.
He didn't help me up.
I only wanted a cigarette.
He kissed me on the mouth.
I did not kiss him back.
I was immobile.
Paralyzed.
Drugged?
He kissed me again.
And again.
And again.
I did not kiss him back.
I had a boyfriend.
All I wanted was to smoke and drink and laugh.
He grabbed me by the ankles.
Pulled me over the ditch behind the army barracks by the installation fence.
I could hear soldiers coming back to their rooms.
I was paralyzed.
I always thought I would fight.
Fend him off with car keys stuffed between my fingers.
I looked up at the tree branches above me, my watch said 2147.
That was the last time I prayed to God.
There were leaves in my hair and dirt on my arms.
There was something less than a man between my legs.
It looked at me with hate in its eyes.
We swept sidewalks together.
God kicked back and swigged a PBR
while I was ***** behind the army barracks,
over the ditch by the installation fence.
He helped me up.
I couldn't stand on my own.
How sweet.
I vomited by a tree.
I was disgusted with myself and him and God.
I wanted to drown in Southern Comfort and bottom shelf gin.
He walked me to my barracks building.
How sweet.
I made it to my room by 2200.
All the girls watched me stumble down the hallway.
I was so violently alone.
Taps wailed outside the window.
I left my hat by the bench by the ditch by the installation fence.
He brought it to me the next morning.
How sweet.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 8:38 PM UTC
Because I could not draft for Ice,
it did kindly draft for me.
Does the Ice make you shiver?
does it?
Pay attention to the chill,
the chill is the most shivering fear of all.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the chill,
Gently it goes - the chill, the trembling, the unsteady.
A thawing, however hard it tries,
Will always be Melting.
Does the thawing make you shiver?
does it?
The big winter sings like a Sun is directly above the Tropic of Capricorn
Now cosmic is just the thing,
To get me wondering if the winter is mature.
wooly glaciers sings like Iceburgs
"Rushing water", said the glaciers,
And "rushing water" then "rushing water" again.
How happy is the frozen popsicle!
Does the popsicle make you shiver?
does it?
The freezing that's really crystals,
Above all others is the frost.
Does the frost make you shiver?
does it?
Because I could not draft for Ice,
it did kindly draft for me.
Does the Ice make you shiver?
does it?
Because I could not draft for Ice,
it did kindly draft for me.
Ice, Ice, every where,
Yet not a drop to draft.
How happy is the cold surface!
Down, down, down into the darkness of the surface,
Gently it goes - the perfect, the gelid, the stone-cold.
Pay attention to the floe,
the floe is the most Dence ice mass of all.
Floe, floe, every where,
Yet not a drop to drift.
The thawing is like a gentle voice,
it tends to cause significantly.
Does the thawing make you shiver?
does it?
The athletic game that's really zany,
Above all others is the hockey.
Pause to assist, like the hockey does.
It does assist, it does draft,
Should it also induct?
Why would you think the snowfall is gradual?
the snowfall is the most sudden downfall of all.
Pause to last, like the snowfall does.
It does last, it does accumulate,
Should it also range?
I saw the the antarctic installation of my generation destroyed,
How I mourned the water.
I don't like the fact that it,
learned to reside before it knew how to flow.
You can reside, you can flow, but can you supply?
Because I could not draft for Ice,
it did kindly draft for me.
Does the Ice make you shiver?
does it?
Because I could not draft for Ice,
it did kindly draft for me.
Pause to draft, like the Ice does.
Don't belive that the snowfall is small?
the snowfall is big beyond belief.
Never forget the braggy and large-scale snowfall.
Pay attention to the cold,
the cold is the most wintry respiratory disease of all.
Are you upset by how springlike it is?
Does it tear you apart to see the cold so frozen?
I saw the the little demoralize of my generation destroyed,
How I mourned the chill.
Now small-scale is just the thing,
To get me wondering if the chill is trivial.
An iceman, however hard it tries,
Will always be cunning.
Are you upset by how adroit it is?
Does it tear you apart to see the iceman so attractive?
I saw the the Frozen excretion of my generation destroyed,
How I mourned the water.
Never forget the sleety and unchangeable water.
Pay attention to the freeze,
the freeze is the most Frozen fractals act of all.
Does the freeze make you shiver?
does it?
Because I could not draft for Ice,
they did kindly draft for me.
Do Ice make you shiver?
do they?
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
An exit for expression
An admittance with no fee
A mind free from excluding
An exhibition without end
The centerpiece- an installation
Ever moving within its frame
Its contents constantly disappearing
To reveal a blank canvas to be filled once more
The artist turns out to be me, and me alone
Leaving my post is an improbability
As the gallery holding me hostage is my own mind
Yet in truth, I find happiness in this prison cell
Without sleep I find energy from passers by
Who refuel my passion with their coins
Thrown into my hat beside me
Tokens of positivity that they cannot directly give
The door is always open
Even to those who find fault with the artist
Who tease me in my chained feet
And hurl their abuse with intent to delay completion
Yet still, I welcome companionship of viewers
Without noticing the deviants who scratch away at my painting
My selflessness renders me unable to notice evils
Blinding me with the future I paint before my eyes
My piece is never mastered
For I am distracted by evils constant approach
Presenting me with gifts of seeds, that grow in my soils
Only to blossom as weeds, and eat away at all goodness
But my grounds are open, and my job demands time
Rarely do I have the time to look upon works accomplished
But I steal a moment as sun and moon change shifts
Only to be met a view that gives no happiness as before
My stubborn positivity keeps defences up
Protecting myself from taunters and ghosts who take refuge in corners
I am distracted by my own optimism, the joy of what I do
But it hinders me, in ways I cannot defeat
My ability to seek vengeance was never yielded nor encouraged
So instinctively as always, I turn not to the voices behind me
And paint upon the canvas once more
The doors still open
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
early morning
and the same sun rises over distant lands
and close-by skyscrapers
searing rusting infrastructure
with its harsh orange glow
spreading westward,
stretching over asphalt pathways
that connect, divide, structure, and destroy
alighting wearied faces of automobile drivers
careening through their morning commutes,
consuming caffeine like *******
while they deftly maneuver their 2,000 pounds of steel behind,
along, aside, and ahead of their neighbors
this,
is New Jersey,
where all roads lead to Newark
and there is nothing left but roads
approaching the colossus,
the cars cram and crawl into curb-side cases
narrowly avoiding calamitous collisions and condescending traffic cops
doors, fly open
and a mad flurry of arms and legs,
boxes and backpacks
come whirl-winding out onto the entryway
rushed goodbyes and abrupt adieus
color the palette of the doorway
dripping inside,
bleeding into the harshness of late businessmen
and screaming families.
Shoes Off.
Laptops Out.
and pray dearly that the TSA
doesn't shove their fingers inside of you
today.
arms up, legs spread
exposed to the imperceptible energy of American exceptionalism
the magnetic arm swings,
impregnating its subjects with the Joy of Fear
and the awe of empire
swings again,
and releases the hapless passenger from its total control
Through.
Checked.
Complete.
Pass Go, collect $200.
and into the international installation itself.
Enjoy your flight.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
~
dark early pre-dawn
body suspended between the-dark ochre earth tones of night,
and the teal pealing notes of warning of an impending morning,
signs aborning, me rising with urgency of the leaden half deaden,
torn from the bed casket to venture into a different kind of twi-lights,
nature demanding both intake and outtake, a restoration of balance
but first a bumbling wobbling, the body as carnival bumper car,
installing soon-to-be-bruising for later examination-exhumation,
lurching from handhold crevices in the walls like crazy cliff climbers,
my balance disturbed, eyes try tearing apart the sticky glue of night,
my sense of direction keeping me from free falling into green glass
edges of glass tables, barely, and not always, red cuts evidentiary
“my balance disturbed” words fresh formed, and a poem expulsion
required to balance the unjust scales of spirit soul and the body cage,
patch an negotiated agreement between warring cousins, just a
twenty four hour ceasefire to retrieve the wounded and the
corpses unfounded in the small copses of false shelter,
like my ancestors expelled from Spain, making escape to be
strangers in strange lands, or remain hidden in place neath disguises
of clothes of new poems, prayers for old and new gods
this new poem comes quick like a young man making first love,
for the poem has been written by thousands nights of practicing,
so ready for quick retrieving in a smattering of a few minutes,
expulsion expulsion
what a perfect verbiage to capture the night terrors, the differentials,
the procession path between what was and what will be,
when my balance restored and this poem’s completion installation
in the body of my work, as a nail disguised in the works of my body,
entering by command of the pitch black gods
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 8:42 AM UTC
after Alexandra Leaving, a song by Leonard Cohen
<>
to go where?
to a city self-consuming in madness,
giving every excuse to stay, and yet,
it came to me just now when the poet
must be leaving his redoubt, with doubt,
and return to the concrete and anomie
of a different kind of splendid isolation
when the last leaf meanders slow down
to the battlefield, and the falling terminado,
and the tree branches are stick figures, each
finger pointing skyward in an j’accusing manner,
accussing & conceding defeat, begging for mercy,
their pleadings too much for me to bare and bury
when green has been wiped clean, and deleted
from the dictionary of colors, my moth eaten soul,
can no longer be granted a stay of execution by
merely looking at the landscape and seascape
to admire their friendly contrasting schemes,
their installation in me of the awe of a visual
quietude, that was an astonishing injection
not truly appreciated till now, too late and
still early, the awe colorations of nature’s vibrancy
The gods have come, my soul hoisted upon their
broad shoulders, the dead-appearing tree branches
can no longer keep their poet safe, hold him back from
meeting his fate; now, he too is a leaving but
floating upward, unlike like the fallen crowds that have
come to rest upon the soil that born them, now to be buried,
all saying: Goodbye Island Poet leaving,
Island Poet
has no poem, no good understanding, no vision,
had no plan, no foresight, only a hope against hope,
that safety was/is not seasonal, Van Morrison reminds,
“These are the days of endless summer,”are memories,
to be held onto tightly, until when if I pass muster, angels
will return to my island abode, where my natural friends
will greet me again, with a flowering and new births,
and The Island Poet can once again revel in ideas in words like
future, sanity, when boarding the ferry with a one way ticket smile.
Sep 2, 2024
Sep 2, 2024 at 2:23 AM UTC
another construction friday:
smash, lift, grunt, clean, sweep, collect, empty . . . (grind)
lift up (hup!) doors, hang 'em, nail 'em in.
rap up the stairs, feet heavy in big old boots
thighs aflame --- heavy--fuck
clomp
clomp--stomp. swish.
stop for lunch: sandwich/grapes/arizona
sandwich only cheese so not satisfied full..
dusts in the mouth
(and nostrils) so i sneeze & sneeze
raw-nosed in the attic cleaning
---brooms and dust dust dust.
good view to the bay up second level tho:
autumn vistas and panoramas and waves on white shorelines
giant's tomb in the deep, breast heaving
big wide windows w/wasps buzzing eternal
buzz
whack each with rolled window installation guide
grind with the heel
grsch
each one dead is replaced with one more
crawling from odd upstairs nest
---from rest.
feel guilty & awful killing them but
so aggressive in their slowness (compensating) this time of year that
moving material presents good risk of sting.
---zing.
hope they will forgive me.
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 5:54 PM UTC
~
*gone to earth
left for dead
everything is tickety-boo
forget your iron-on measures
and scuttled installation
your life is a bakery
that cake is like your head
bittersweet
and full of regret
what am I reading these days?
a book across the stars
where dreams in the throes
of giddy aerosol cans
**** the passersby
and sleep against
the exit sign*
~
May 16, 2022
May 16, 2022 at 10:32 AM UTC
explain to me why destruction is considered an art?
if i were you, i’d find a way to fight it.
as if destruction was an abstraction to describe to one’s self in a physical installation for all to see in a rarely visited gallery
we lock the doors because we are ashamed of the critics marking and making spiteful points as they leave red marks all over the walls
almost as if the surfaces were like a test paper without any attempt of answering or the tear and wear of the skin you bare
it was always war that we wouldn't label with a numeral to go down in the big books. instead, we whispered it under the sheets. we posted our thoughts on anonymous accounts that go hand in hand with a little lock sign in the corner. we used thunder in our words knowing that reaction that resulted resembled lightning.
as if a tattered canvas could make up for your bruised and battered soul
here’s my advice ; leave the doors unlocked just for a day, you might be surprised at what you find
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
Pitter patter,
pitter patter.
The rain echoed in your head,
as you tried to remember what the drizzle sang
On that cloudy noon in November.
With its rhythmic tune
And endless repetition,
It danced its way to your sun roof
installation.
Staining the back of your mind with images of tear drops,
shed by the clouds.
For the skies missed your company.
The rain drops,
Quietly tapped on the,
Glass panes of your apartment; reminding you to use your umbrella.
Their warning useless,
Because you never wanted one.
Never needed one.
Even as the cool shower
came rolling through town.
You were there: Umbrellaless.
See,
The dreary weather here seemed so...
Relaxing.
Well,
not to anyone but you..
But it was as if the rain that day,
brought a hint of restlessness.
The aroma of coffee shops
became tempting,
like little boy's feet
drawn to sidewalks full of puddles.
They teased and tickled your exposed skin,
Those parts unsheltered by your favorite grey cotton sweater
The rain left the scent of wet pavements and fallen leaves,
lingering on the tip of your nose and top.
It seemed like one of those days:
Reading your book;
Your body tangled up in the couch;
A blanket to warm you;
Freshly brewed tea on hand,
as the endless chime of drizzling kept you company.
To you,
it was the most sensible thing.
The bustle of the city went mute as you walked along the avenues and streets.
(Especially without an umbrella.)
For where you went, you felt the rain.
While others got wet.
And for that brief stroll around the city,
slightly damp.
You were lost in the rain.
Calm and free.
For the rain was your friend,
And you were his..
Pitter patter,
pitter patter,
pitter patter.
I hope it rains today.
Sent from my iPad
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 9:34 AM UTC
4:11 am - The nighthawks are starting to resemble pigeons.
Train station is deserted.
An employee checks the bins as the tunnel fills with the ringing of a distant bell, heralding the arrival of the morning train.
42 minutes till my train.
I can smell the acrid fumes of the Ferny Grove train.
The behemoth pulls away-
empty.
At least I'm not existential anymore.
There is an installation of a coffin made from old bits of railroad,
"Not everyone makes it across the tracks"
This reminder of mortality is strangely fitting in a place of transit.
The true face of memento mori is shown.
Remember that you too will die, and everything will come to pass.
It's times like this that make me wish 'The Sound of Silence" was never written.
For its perfection in this moment comes as a burst of pure divine bliss.
The kind you wish would never fade away. But inevitably does.
And all we are left with is a memory of that bliss,
everytime we hear the song (after the first time).
As if we are recalling the curves of an old lover from the shadow of yesterdays gone.
Dancing beneath our fingertips, always out of reach.
Memory is never as divine as the moment that burnt it in.
----
4:29 am - It was ephemeral.
The trainyard announcer has a cultured voice.
----
4:41 am - I fear the muse has left me, beauty fled.
DEAR GOD - PLEASE LET THERE BE A CAB AT THE STATION FOR ME.
Selection 11 gave me the water i desired.
11 minutes till the train.
D.O.B. 11/2
Aquarius, 11th sign of the Zodiac.
Will I see the dawn rise from the train?
There is no light at the end of the tunnel from where I sit.
Inexplicably: I recall the cool river air that bathed us as we lay naked in your apartment,
the smell of cigarettes on our skin, the evening peppered with
scurrying, fighting possums
that danced upon your balcony.
I recall being inside you.
(Then I imagined you being eaten out
by a woman
her lips inside yours,
her curled tongue
inside your hot, bald
golden ****
And I came.
Warm and glorious
my children of pleasure
caught in a latex coffin.
Your heaves of pleasure pushing against my chest
with the rhythm of waves.
----
4:46 am - On the train.
Fluorescent lighting is the devil.
Everything is garish yellow.
We pull up to the station near where you lived.
Your blue rose lives in a Chinese vase
and no longer smells
of Marlene Dietrich.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
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Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
Dedicated to the Hard Hats, ..for holding it all together.
**** frost on the green grass
There's a cold moon in the sky
The estuary waters black and calm
Where golden ripples lie.
Dawn's horizon lightens up
Bright stars begin to dim
Hard Hats all arrive for work
And with frozen breath...log in.
Work boots crunching on the stone
The men disperse to trucks,
The diesel motors roar to life
Their departures forming rucks.
Swarming in the morning light
Each to his own job's task,
Bridge building work underway
As dawn's first sunbeams bask.
Amazing the complexity
That building bridges has,
Amazing how voraciously
It eats up time and gas.
The planning and design work
The funding of supply,
Those organizational matters
And the labour standing bye.
Digging, lifting, shoving, shifting
Moving this to there,
A logistical nightmare
For the novice, unaware.
Steel and timber by the ton
Concrete pours en mass,
Gravel, sand and aggregate
And reservoirs of gas.
Procurement of supply ensures
A smooth transitional flow
Of successive small procedures
To make the project mesh and grow.
Day after day the massive trucks
Carting tons of sand
Are authorized by gate men
To unload on to land
Where motorway construction
Is steadfastly taking place
And progressing at
A gradual and steady building pace.
From concept to completion
A million multitasks,
Which involves a caste of thousands
And a schedule which asks,
That the finished installation
Be completed by the time
Of the Rugby World Cup kickoff,
Our global status on the line.
Like ants the Hard Hats swarm about
Each does his little bit
And gradually, over time,
The bridge emerges from the pit.
It emergeth like a phoenix
In a drab and sombre gown
But on completion, shines like fire
To be the nation's most re known.
The Manukau Harbour Crossing
A project for the Gods,
Of massive lengths of concrete
And miles of reinforcing rods.
Of an eternity of effort
From everyone involved
And an asset for New Zealand
And a beauty to behold.
Marshalg
@theGate
MHX
Mangere Bridge
14th March 2009
Please view the following link
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VzQZ-M90Zig
Nov 14, 2009
Nov 14, 2009 at 1:07 PM UTC
THE MELAMINE TABLE TOP WITH
THE PINK GINGHAM TABLE CLOTH
You're kidding?
The goat is on
the table.
The goat comes in
( doesn't even bother to knock )&
stands on the table
for a good half hour
as if it were an art installation
or some obscure goat ritual
that humans are
unaware of
as if it were a phrase
in a foreign dictionary
the equivalent of
the cat sat on the mat.
And when the goat
is done
it just jumps down
and leaves
just as it came
as if it were
the most ordinary
of ordinary things
to do.
Even now, I still see
the ghost of that goat
even though it was long ago
made into stew
as if the goat realised
that a time
would come
& come it would
when it would end up
on the table
but not of its own
volition.
But right now
it is standing its ground
on the Melamine table top
with the pink gingham table cloth
and becoming that something that
just can not be
forgot.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC
Number Forty Two: “You're trying to undermine my rehabilitation. Disrupt my social progress!”
Number Six: “Strange talk for a poet.”
-The Prisoner, “A Change of Mind”
Installing a poem to factory specs
Setting iambic feet into concrete
And lifting adverbs to the tops of verbs
Through the use of heavy machinery
Metaphors must be government-inspected
For solidarity with the collective
And images most closely interrogated
For their relevance to the latest cause
The Good, the True, and the Beautiful
As cleared by United Auto Workers Local 2110
So you’d better like it; youknowwhatI’msayin’
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC
I taste blood as it fills up my mouth
biting down chewing the thoughts of you.
The crashing hope settles in a drought.
Rust will not discontinue
their metallic lick along my teeth,
leaving blankets of acidic cavities.
Every time your name appears beneath
the frenzy that I tried so hard to ignore, I write my eulogy.
You killed me by leaving me.
The installation of expectations
that perhaps you could return, fully
set me up for devastation.
Corrosion slinks in the pores of my sore tongue
demons replacing your face stung.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 2:49 PM UTC
my mind is cyclical,
Battle Bot on Hamster Wheel
installation art soon to be in
Tokyo, San Francisco, New
York, Chicago: every city
I had the languorous pleasure of
kissing You in.
being unkind to me is terrible and
yet I love being able to vent
my emotions like so much
sulfurous smoke. [redacted]'s in
his bunk bed, 30,000 feet up and
only 1 girl is invited;
****** brain frizzed out, wasted
girls coughing kush while we
contemplate wasted opportunities.
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 8:25 PM UTC
Follow your thoughts to a garden of ideas
That grow on green trees, ripe for the picking
Sweet cleansing rain falls from velveteen skies
Each drop a word, every word a bomb
Turn to see the look on your face
And you're gone
Off to some other ridiculous place
Caught up with you, no easy feat that
Almost got lost in translation
Thank God you're a thief
I'd be wandering aloud, alone in the woods
Without those touchstones
To set me back on course
Fields of neon wheat and poppy seed
Another shadow world
Hidden behind curtains
A poor man's veil
This house is alive
The wood, the mortar
It moves, inhales, exhales
It dances with the wind that blows
From the southwest
A breeze that breathes
Some semblance of life into it's architecture
Something for the old ghosts to dream about
It's over my head
They've chosen and called elders
To propagate unreality
Men who have believed a lie for so long
They can convince it is the truth
A subtle manipulation of the obvious
It's not a game to them
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 1:06 PM UTC
for three hours i sat in a forest
with today's newspaper -
Leicester foxes are champs,
Corbyn on anti-semitism:
don't mentioned ******
or to be precise eva braun,
who was a jew, ha ha...
and the leftovers of the cantos
(30 pages till the end)...
i put so much life into that ****
book, flowers to be mummified,
a su doku square,
mirror with shelf installation instructions
(richard von coudenhove-kalergi
graffitied),
a drunk girl's scribbles about
a thesis on chocolate...
a real Frankenstein of a book
should you find it in sotheby's
auctioning rare and the macabre
of people involved in writing history...
i sat there thinking about a black
hole in a conversation from friday...
who the hell was the last Travelling Willbury?
ah... Steve Lynne, the guy from
Electric Light Orchestra - also amused by
a red pond mite, scuttling on the moon
or mars surface that my book represented
in a forest environment it's used to...
finally in Wales and China...
peering at the remnants of rex reptilian...
alien, alienation... insects, we're improving
our search;
insects, yeah,
first the reptilians, second the mammals,
the last to evolve are insects, aliens -
and you will not want to meet a massive
fly that spits hydrochloric acid saliva
as an inversion of an internalised digestive system,
i.e. with a digestive system outside -
remaining arguments for an exoskeleton,
meaning you have to digest things outside your
body to keep up the overall mush inside -
forgive the anti-muscular leisure,
internal-muscular meaning mammalian;
what? you sold me Darwinistic historicity
that kinda makes the 19th century irrelevant,
or last Sunday... **** you not i'll sell you this;
backup monkey chew of an eucalyptus branch
and you expose a Chimpanzee
baby-sitting a Koala.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 3:58 PM UTC
I am a temporary installation
they--
don't know who
don't know what
will someday take me down
and disassemble me
and put me away
under the ground
make room for the new ones
I am a self-constructed
statue
bear the label
"human being"
just that.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 2:45 AM UTC
Let me drown with codes
Like it's the only language I know
Colorful paragraphs
Tab within a tab
Let me drown with installation windows
Full of "Next" buttons
To click
And wait
Let me drown with email, online and phone supports
Along with "How can one person be so stupid?" questions
And curses to bossy clients
With evil wishes of their servers' deaths
Let me drown with corny jokes
Thrown to friends to make them laugh more
Pretending that there's nothing wrong
'Cause I'm the joker - I'm the clown
Let me drown with songs
From a noise-cancelling earphone
Full of memories
Of where I want to be
Let me drown with poem ideas
Unwritten words so vast
Crowded in the back of my head
Shouting when everything around me is silent
Let me drown with other things
So that I do not drown
With my own tears
Because, now, you're gone
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 5:55 AM UTC
An intensely timely attempt to right a Ship of State,
The U.S. Constitution, from a Supremacy Court decision,
'Citizen's United', wrought by it's being dragged
Across the Plymouth Rox, that landed on US, 'cause
We didn't land on it, by the tug, the S.S. Tea Party,
And it's ignoble leader, not ebony, but ivory, working
Together in perfect harmony, merx for more to mercs for war,
Amongst the 21 flavors of, in this 'baskin and robbins' of
Supremacy, the united **** of assassins, through the lack
Of 'separation of church and state', demanded in it's
Fallen noble leaves, the Founding Document of this great
Nation, that actual religion of the bi-headed false gods
Of mammon, wealth, avarice, and mollock, extreme violence,
Grinding up seed, exemplified in king george and his ****
Cheney's, along with the republican conspiracies' elite's,
Purposeful non-prevention of the attacks on 9-11 and their
Unnecessary, "unending war on (supposed) terrorism", the
Coup that divided a people, dictating they choose exigency
Over humanity, continually, which set-up the invisible coup
Elections of 11-16, it's installation of Trumpler, etc.,
Not being separated from the state, being sociologically
Programmed into everyone, by the corporate structure's
Convolution's devolutionary direction, undoing Evolution,
Is practiced by almost all behind the masks of supposed:
Christianity, atheism, Hinduism, science, art, Wicca, etc.,
Possessing everybody in that form of self-possession,
And we need to be exorcised from it before we can
Again exercise our responsibility, necessary to again
Realize it's Siamese twin sister, freedom, for the
Intellect can't lead, as the life doesn't follow.
Then illimitable, indivisible you, walking in nature's
Balance giving back to nature's abundance can remember:
Compliance is suicide, we're defiance; if you're not
Taking bullets you're making them; an injustice to any
Is an injustice to all, and if it isn't addressed
Individually, it becomes a global injustice as well;
"Be the change you wish to see in the world", "the root
Of all oppression lies in (supposed) science", Gandhi;
Materialism isn't, abolish scarcity based global fossil fuel
Slavery by using abundant renewable energy, now. reality
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 8:07 PM UTC
LIFE IS A HORIZONTAL FALL
"I...wouldn't do that...if I...were you!"
smiles the mirror
in a voice
silvered with silence.
"Well. . ." I tell it
"You...are not!"
I retrieve my image
from the back of the mirror.
"The bird sings with its fingers. . ."
I say in an Apollinaire-ish way.
This shuts the mirror up.
It not being au fait with the French poets
But, Death takes on
innumerable forms.
Here, it has no human face.
A tablecloth full of holes
more present by its "not-thereness"
than its...
"there-ness."
Only the table tells
what it is.
It haunts me.
"I am the door to your death!"
it says in its holey voice.
There, a staircase climbs into the air
only to turn and return
to where it began.
"I can connect
nothing with nothing!"
so says the rocking horse
staring me in the eye.
Death shows me a room
I will never ever know
as if I were to live in
an installation
in some future
art gallery.
I run & hide
from myself
in my
self.
Death is waiting for me
in my every cell.
She smiles
like cancer.
As Death kisses me
the world turns
on its axis
&
day
becomes
night.
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 8:16 AM UTC
Maybe the distortion of this portrait will create an even more captivating picture than viewed before.
The difference in the pigment of pixels may provoke a deeper message,
triggering currents of the subconscious to bring beauty of illustrious moments ashore.
Perchance an installation of last minute alterations won't lead to abdication but rather depict a trail of a beneficial journey embarked.
It'll be titled. . . "Matters of the Heart"
An abstract image of two roads diverged apart.
And when viewed from different angles, it's comeliness is untangled.
Conveying new meanings of art.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC