"kandinsky" poems
audio me in... tell the b.t. off standards
to change the connection to lie to get to syria...
i wanted to become a butcher too...
not butchering people though...
onomatopeias of resonance of blah... blah...
you know... woollen trill...
i want the target bacon, i want to target bacon
on that **** head-banging with a pony
while blowing a sheen into a rodin marble
for the glisten of a haircut mare...
dark ivory like purple of a grenade of indigo
blotched with blood...
and spanked / spiked by kandinsky...
i told you i woz a barking gimmick, a barking cult-piece of mafia...
you’ve been warned dear bouncer allotment and semi-detached...
hey kieran - had his kidneys transplanted aged 15...
took to having a ****** aged 16 on the south park fence
when two ******* eyed us and the boys came to make cake...
oi boys r’ us you mention st. petersburg anywhere south of the thames?
i thought so...
make that spelling spaghetti for a kebab of dead meat
appealing:
it’s making headlines, people are fed fat but sugar headlines...
when fat headlines... people will be fed sugar...
salt will never compromise the use of steroids for balloon pop protein
for a mere attire of the bow tie undone with laze.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 8:00 PM UTC
Ride high on your
Blue horses
into Into.
I don't mean that.
Fix the hole I have
In my blue wall
I have no wall.
Scream happy no sound
here in the gallery
(Look! You got a wall!)
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 6:44 PM UTC
the sheer irony kicking pounding slapping biting
from the 19th century, a book entitled the gay science
sits pretty now, pretty with an ironic glee of puffed cheeks
and teeth showing, pretty enough to be a daffodil
smile, and why? why?! but of course the book looks
at 21st century and says: not much gaiety around here,
in the dirge dungeons of expression, maybe i should
be called episteme eulogia / επιστημη ευλογια,
i.e. the science of eulogy, praise indeed,
praised as if dead or dying; where the dionysian madness?
where the randomised polychromatic kandinsky moment
of frenzy? it's all written like vectors of cradle
unto the grave: (a) happend, (b) happened, (c) too
and follow on through to (d, e, f, g)... but where was (a2)
and (a3) a quick moment of (c) but actually following
through into the sub-plot no. 3 tier of (b)?
through and through, i think i'll have to lose all the airy
fairy ******** and dig in, from england all the way
to china, and speak with mao tse tung and emperor puyi
in māori, or sign language, for a bit of a foxtrot,
for a bit of a laugh - should i find any gaiety here,
it would probably sound as dumb as spike milligan's
ning nang nong nim com ****
(shh... they'll discover you're feeding a young angry man persona),
it comes with the face and the age, by the time i'm fifty
i'll just be a cranky old man persona: angry at my bladder,
angry at my legs, my wrinkles my half-witty jests,
i'll be angry at my wife, at my mid-life crisis in the form
of a harley davidson only ridden once, you name it,
anger will turn to crankiness, and it'll be too late to then
poetically confess.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
Kandinsky was smoking ***
when Picasso came over to
sell him some hash: Wassily
said sure, O, Mondrian wants
an 8th; sure said Pablo, tell
him to swing by my place;
Picasso didn't go straight
home; stopping at the cafe for
a coffee; Mondrian was in
a corner booth making out w/
Colette & didn't see Picasso,
but Pablo saw them & said
nothing, not wanting to bother
Piet, who didn't get it all that
often; Colette a nice married
girl whom everybody 'knew'
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 5:41 PM UTC
Two things happen
when you get old, your *****
are scratched more
and used less;
your *******
itches more;
two things happen
when you die,
your *****
get ****** up into your esophagus
(two new tonsils)
and your *******
becomes a Kandinsky.
This is not poetry;
but I like to think
about what will happen
to my *****
and
*******
when I die,
and it's humbling
to not know what's going on
down there
when I'm not looking.
Feb 9, 2012
Feb 9, 2012 at 12:42 AM UTC
the heartbeat rumble
in your ears
is the signal
you’ve been waiting for
a warning
that too much
has piled up
and your head
has gone all Kandinsky
blood lights
blinking like sequins
in the crook of your vision
tangle of duvet
half lolloped on the floor
echo
of a neighbour’s conversation
a gloopy mumble
through the walls
and you’re thinking
of skin the colour of wheat
un-lipsticked lips
a song that hasn’t been written
but the words exist
longing for you to pluck them
like a novel from a shelf
in a second-hand shop
a thunderclap
snaps you back
to the same room
the same face
looking back from the mirror
with its wet blueberry eyes
and you say
you have a story
fashioned from mashed potato
and sticky tape
all it needs is a listener
to kiss a whisper
to your neck
drip syllables
that glow as torches
tell you everything is fine
your listener
as the shower rain
leaves a network of streets
jogging down your cheeks
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 6:46 PM UTC
i never understood why people decided to couple such symbols into images esp. in fictional narratives rather than see the sound in lipstick smooched for symphony; how hard you try, the a to z will not provide you with a mental cinema image of a giraffe; more like a gaff, and what's a gaff in photo? leopard on giraffe or a giraffe on a leopard, because it's all very fine telling the narrative of traffic coordination evolution coming back from africa with the zebra to suit pitchfork stoppages in hay on the redneck lazed walk. the sole reason why it's understood: fiction is the use of lettering for the creation of images, poetry is the use of lettering a bit like a waterfall for a bored emperor apprehensive of the sound of thinking; and philosophy is the reverse of all that, strike two flints together, and enter the realm of ideas with the onomatopoeia of the image - given that onomatopoeias act like surgical scalpels, or a miscarriage of ideas bundled up for something else by kandinsky; actually, saying that, onomatopoeias are images in motion, prior to the movies, when all you had was a painting embraced by a fancy rim - still life of decay of the royal flotilla on the thames with a mouth moving: chatty chatty boor of a bloke who talked.
i see the dead sea when i cry,
and i wager
a salmon with other sea fish cropping up flying
into a butterfly net:
before the assemblage of bacon
into the mouth watering eye.
i see the dead sea when i cry,
and i wager
to have seen a thousand flamingos
strut invoking tide -
on a boneless march into marsh of
a bubbled gill of fish popped for whatever name alive,
or dead in the disco crescendo for a nixon:
tears of a robot had always the glory of man laughing akin;
since annexed was the dualistic ambiguity
of the theatrically mistaken two masked.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
you would never say about a Kandinsky: where's
the Mondrian?
luckily we have enough information
about Goldberg's sardines,
without asking another poet (other than O'Hara)
to sniff out Billingsgate - and so too:
if Burroughs said: all writing limps behind painting
by 50 years - enough said,
hence came speedy Gonzales
with his shotgun and his canned paint...
and i know just as much as sardines in
see-through tins -
well: it was worth a joke,
someone was bound to **** into a champagne
bottle at some point, and celebrate:
in abstract - or to the point:
in concreto - ecce artifex!
at least enough
humility would be worth the same dosage -
specialisations are such:
demanding concepts as aboriginal
in anthropology -
likewise anthropological:
schizophrenics in urbanity - after all...
a concrete jungle - like any half-wit
and butt-naked in the Amazon...
applause for
comrade Gagarin and Laika -
and if Darwin wrote in
cyrilica - then it too would have been
Mohawk and Brain - salutations and applause -
and if ever in doubt:
call it versailles - to denote all forms of
luxury -
i know: versailles better hides luxury
than the hermitage -
or as King Duck could say
being a burden on the Vavel Mount -
even the Vavellian
dragon died from laughter, even though
he was given a sheep stuffed with sulphur -
and drank the Vistulla dry...
but only when King Quack was laid to rest:
and the volk - the naród said:
Katyń 1 - Smoleńsk 3...
and there was even
a composition by wojciech kilar.
so then... 50 years lagging?
disorientating? muddled, spaghetti loops?
well, as the introduction already mentions,
painters can't write - suddenly everything
has to have geometry!
any geometrical instrument
in an art's class is seen like a Sunni in Iran -
or a Buddhist, at a Bar Mitzvah:
boom-town slap-head -
choppy waters, brightly illuminated
by the polished
cranium sheen.
so why except a Mondrain from a Kandinsky
?!
what a brain-drain!
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 3:18 PM UTC
It was humanity that was the mixed bag of jelly beans at summer camp that spilled out into the scorching sun restless for *** and sun-tans.
All before they melted away into Kandinsky paintings pretending that happiness was something of a virtue.
And while the paintings ignited into a righteous firestorm of white men in white robes with hope and faith, flying out the church doors and taking to the sky, morphing into airplanes to destroy the great peace in the form of two obelisks pointing to Allah.
To the american hypocrisy that we drink like cough syrup to cure nothing.
While pretending everything was alright.
While dead men are worshiped more than a word of the past that is the future.
Let us forget about innovation.
Let us look back onto the great circles of cycles that we overturn on the great history
of the 4th of July flagpoles that I grasp, feeling the pulse of the blood-filled stripes.
Let us look to the cold-blooded blue square that we plant ourselves on as stars, making our marks in this smooth and creamy void.
Let us walk into the white absences were color is uninhabitable to the Negroes or the Latinos who used all of their angry fixes in activism and cigarettes that burn holes through eternity.
To the Chinese who were thrown out of our stars like mutts in order for our stars to shine the plastic glow that stays illuminated in the lights of Chick-fil-A that sells homosexuals with a side of Leviticus.
Taking, taking, taking to the past and somehow justifying death to natives, then scalping the land as some sort of victory of great imperialism that still hangs to our hearts like a collective tumor.
But I have been kind, I have been free.
To the breath of foreigners breaking the normality that is conformity.
Let me scare you with your greatest fear which is locked away in gravestones and darkness.
Locked away in Kerouac, Whitman and Ginsberg
For that which is change.
I speak directly to the inner gashes that are your soul.
Change before the fireworks turn into mutually assured destruction.
And you won’t.
Change before the feminists shoot me with their trigger warnings.
And you won’t.
Change before the immigrants last breath murmurs **** dreams”.
And you won’t.
I am America and my flag is paper, white paper.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
the first time tristan tzara put his hand
into a bag with clippings from newspapers
of individual words and started rapping
at the cabaret voltaire,
after william burroughs extended this
method and instead jumbled up paragraphs
and even sentences rather than single words
to avoid being poetically terse:
and later proclaimed that writing is 50 years
behind painting... you can still get
it wrong in terms of defining the mood of
an era of a method... preceding them was
piet mondrian - with that new york grid
depiction in the vein of minimalistic cubism...
just squares and lines... what tristan tzara
stumbled upon was how to translate a jackson
******* or a kandinsky with words into words -
the chaotic splatter of colour into ink monochrome;
it really isn't that easy to write out a jackson *******
it requires a sort of automation, a knowing automation,
it's primarily intuitive - you don't know what
the exact content will be in each case, but you do
know that you're writing in a context of translating
your very own kandinsky - even though you're
not necessarily looking at an example of kandinsky's work;
but let's be pedantic, first tzara, then mandrian,
then burroughs, the painters retreated into
mathematics and a theory of colour, putting them
on equal footing with plato's theory of forms,
but to get the setting, poets scout, poets are scouts,
writers of fiction are the actual army, who
come with bulging sentences, clear depictions
(clearly blood will be shed, the uproar of two sides
clashing and the sharpening of swords
and the swift swooning down of sharpened pin-like
arrows with hussar wings to frighten even more),
poets scout the new territories - the plateau
is never jumbled in fiction, such writers set out
with clear vision and aim at running for miles
without anything changing, but scouts enter
difficult terrain... many twists, many turns,
such obstructions as trees, mountains, bees
butterflies and seances of witches, not to mention
gnarling wolves - for these scouts are obstructed
by images, and because of that, some of them
report very little for the army of paragraph
hunters... but some join rank with them,
after all the scouting is done - they too take up
a weapon and stand shoulder to shoulder
with the giants like tolstoy - although lessening
the narrator's role a little.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
you know, you are allowed a Kandinsky or a *******
moment in poetry:
it's like the development of the cut-up technique
beginning with Tristan Tzara and the Dada "school"
of "thought", developed later by William Burroughs
et al., it doesn't have to be fixated to a definite
curvature, a smooth narrative, this is poetry
in a boat, during a storm on the sea, it's not a Cambridge v.
Oxford boat race on the pristine Thames...
some critics ascribe such methodology as either
outright stupid or by psychiatric definition a *word
salad*, but it's simply kaleidoscopic juxtaposition,
it really is a dog drooling ultraviolet saliva onto a
canvas, while someone shakes his head
(preferably a bulldog, or a boxer, or a St. Bernard)...
oh look at him, such ***** eyes, gotta just cuddle him...
i'm not using newspaper snippets, as if writing
a stalker's letter, cutting out letters and gluing them
together on a piece of paper... it's spontaneous
combustion (most of the time)... the only method in it
is that there isn't a method to begin with...
unless randomisation of a gaseous substance with
that hectic squash game of atoms is the adequate
simile... if i were to say that was a metaphorical comparison
i'd be walking through foggy streets of London (circa 1884):
after all words have only a one dimensional interaction
that's the existential recipient of all of them,
the existentially affirmative aye - i left the other
affirmative word thought among the others,
since, sometimes, as in the cases of melancholia, thought
isn't necessarily categorised as affirmative, relegating,
drowning the prime affirmative aye with its awkward
structure (form)... all the words must pass through the ego,
not all of them have to pass through thought,
the ones that bounce against the squash cube wall that's
ego make it onto the page... more do so when compared
with treating thought as the wall and the effective structure
for the rubber ball to bounce against.
me playing squash? oh yes, very much so, loved it,
played about 4 times a week, better than tennis,
which is why no squash tournaments are televised, it's
not really a spectator sport, it's too enjoyable to have
a passive public... it's a sport with the player in mind,
like a horse attached to a carriage with those shutters
over their eyes; so now what? is poetry not allowed to
look like a ******* painting, randomised and incoherent
when compared to the standard practices of narrators?
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
Kandinsky
as his own head fell off
pushed out by a black line
all he see's is red and blue
as the turps burns his eyes
he can all most taste what he felt
as he paints
his surprise
into the art
of only
what we are worth
but only love me.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 6:07 PM UTC
'Forget him!'
These words are ringing in my mind
My skin still burns from the places where his hands were
The blue, the purple, and the red
A rainbow painted on my body
'Forget him!'
Oh! I could not agree more!
And yet I long his presence, desire his acceptance
I pray to God for his return
My savior, my angel
'Forget him!'
I am drowning, suffocating, and yet I need more rain
Because the freezing drops are soft kisses against my cheek
The kisses that you promised me
The kisses that were stolen by Time
'Forget him!'
I am on my knees. Crawling,
Through the garden of roses you named after me
My thighs are bleeding and yet the thorns feel pleasant,
They feel like home
They feel like you
'Forget him!'
But I cannot...
Because the cuts and tears and broken bones
Will not stop the warmth of sunshine that I feel
When I am wrapped in his Loving arms
By : FreeMind
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 8:36 AM UTC
this is hardly an observation,
if it was, it would be classified
as such...
American politics,
the great European investment in
H'america....
want to gloat?
compliments right at you....
yes... you!
at this point i ask:
so...
who's who?
got style:
but no limousine....
tux at the dry-cleaners....
mama wanna hum-pah-hump-a-side
order or a ride?
i'd buy... but no...
i also don't gamble either...
the ****** sort of thing....
you know, schizophrenic
qua ******* my imaginary sister....
came round shooting metal
pellets and cherry pips
into bricks,
thought we might aim
at a new Kandinsky....
guess i was wrong...
by the looks of it...
i stopped guessing,...
as i was, basically...
very, very.... wrong.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 7:02 PM UTC
bo po ci Łacinie niet łatwo? tzn. łewo? to po co huj znać polschen!? a... huja darmo.
it's an "alternative" - or it's an
~alternative: a hypher-inflated
(see how the conjunction
reverse skipped? ski ski scalp?!)
the germanic peoples are so:
quasi! they...
you feel Asiatic?!
then why the ****
are you squirming?
Pogana Syn...
piszem to jem spokojny...
a tym, czerp co?!
huja w windzie!?
głowa wisiąca w stajni?!
grob twe matki
na: pochybel!
i to: stos!
gwar i rydzyc kto i
szto... hujah skor:
na Krem wasz; Pan:
ŚCZ! - jew! say the rest,
what's missing? I!
widzi? o! ser myj "blady"...
nad sejm...
bo niby 'ski...
o pats ty! niby nie!
se: gavron na sto
radzi! ha ha ha...
bydle skuf-wyryte!
a tu smakiem:
szemlać? tak ?
daj chlopu schować:
co dar ziemi chce zabrać...
ty chańbo, ty srokim zgiem:
by dać Ukraine w baw: chowanego:
oddać!
tyś! Azjatyk...
a czym ti zapomni: tym ci ja:
przypomne!
pełzag: Y, I, J -
klątw i hubris zza dnia:
na codzień -
o nie...
ty po polsku będziesz mi mówić
z pod nóg...
i ja ci nad glowa ci pendem nad
glow...
a wskarz ani pier ani po:
bedzie wart prawd;
co mi tam:
ink rusujy jeno: bleh... cyli germana
blah... cyli: ь... ali to: niewigoda!
zed miszem tlo?
ah... harcik! harcik! myszem zle!
no kaza-g'nock... miszem sto razy źle!
funny, isn't it? punctuating from
above?
you can't reflect on this but
you can ingest a Kandinsky?!
i'll say it a second time:
if i need to acquire a fascination with
IKEA manuals... i'll tell you!
p.s. a lesson in:
how you counter learning the alphabet.
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 11:37 PM UTC