"kitsch" poems
Wanderlust warlock blaspheme rapacity
Obsequious diligence pier pair appearance
Obstreperously vituperative vociferous tenacity
Consortium eclectic synectics concurrence
In extremis extremity cantilever capacity
Citadel clairvoyance pilaster conveyance
Inductive integration interpolative audacity
Derivative factor derivational appliance
Futurity fatidic’s laconic sagacity
Aseity veracity cacophony compliance
Accidence ambience aesthetics opacity
Acoustical articulation intonational occurrence
Apomixes anabolics histophysiological mendacity
Epistemological somatalogy syntactics refulgence
Refractive reflective semantics complicity
Hephestian dialectics Hegelian effulgence
Linguistic syntax synaptic intensity
totally tangential
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 9:10 AM UTC
I shot up in 70's/ 80's England
For sale, there really was only one dream
It was sold to us through Thatcher
Star wars, Magnum P.I. and The A.team.
Now that dream is old and dusty
And the world looks for something new
Will it come from India, China, Brazil
Or will it come from the shaky E.U.
Or will, as I hope, there be choice
For my daughter and her 4 year old clique
Will she choose the American dream
Or will she dismiss it as a kitsch antique.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 6:28 AM UTC
On a school trip to a gallery,
Teachers and curators will always tell you
Look upon, examine, appreciate the art!
But they’ll never instruct you
On how to be certain
That your appreciation is acceptable and right.
Conundrum of the contemplative,
Judgement of the partisans,
Cogitation of any aware,
I’ll ponder until my encephalon
Subsides under impactful pressure
Until the logical or the just is no longer right.
Through incandesce of the morning,
In the cloak of the ever-mantling night,
Here I revel in the concept of
Eternal glee through appreciation
Of nostalgic kitsch, and graffiti—
And hyperrealism as well as photoshop
Because love isn’t just omnipotent,
It’s incomprehensible.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 9:12 PM UTC
Where did you go?
I see the sun set.
I can actually see it go down.
The world gets darker.
So many bottles of champagne surround me.
I celebrate nothing.
I lose entire days.
But men that look apocalyptic fill me up
Until I put my ***** clothes back on
And trample back to my den.
Worn, apologetic, and wishing it would all pass.
Glittered nails and crooked teeth.
I think back on my past relationship and laugh.
Who was I?
Who was he?
I can't even remember anymore.
And that's a good thing.
I just want on vacation.
A long week in Florida.
Sun.
Oranges.
Kitsch.
I've said it about every ex
I'll say it again.
We're going to be okay.
It may take time.
But one day we will talk.
We will laugh.
And we will smile.
I wish you all the best.
And I know
Deep down
You do too.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 4:33 PM UTC
Grievous grace, has due yesterday’s blue
Autonomous avarice enigma entity’s hue
Identity crisis guidon guile’s due
Mystic symbiosis’ existential true
Apostrophe sabbat transcendental kitsch
Consortium liaison’s libido’s glitch
Translucent opulence’s lambent’s a *****
Metaphysical mystique is black as pitch
Terrestrial equestrian tellurian's terrene
Adamant tenacity’s obtusely obscene
Obstinate loquacity spiritually serene
Maniacally meticulous dexterity’s preen
Lucid cogent fecund’s maieutic
Incarnate’s manumissional eidetic
Spatiotemporal telemetry’s fanatic
Logistical tactician’s primal ecstatic
Chicanery dynamism’s opulent fealty
Intrinsic innate retrospective cruelty
Indigenous endemic inherent frailty
Corrupt costume counselor subtlety
Gambit alluvium aloof impunity
Immunity is epicurian absurdity
Who are we to us credulity
Nimbus nimiety nihilism’s congruity
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 8:39 AM UTC
block me if
you will
for I will never be satisfied
trite me cut with a boredom knife,
hackney me to death with kitsch,
migraine me with banal,
bromide me with the pedestrian,
if you can only sing the exhausted, old familiar,
drain me not with your jejune
write me to soar,
pleasure me with convincing adjectives
of the posterous,
never before heard, untill my lips parse your words
write me to vex
so my sides, clutching
in the most desirable agony
you want to boast of how you cut?
then cut me if you can,
bravo
carve your initials into my brain,
so when I read your words,
I scream I weep I confess
you have vexed me,
in the places where
the very few dare tread,
in the places
where good poetry goes...
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 11:43 AM UTC
Yo/ fulano de mí/ llevo conmigo
tu rostro en cada suerte de la historia.
Tu cuerpo de mengana es una gloria
y por eso al soñar sueño contigo.
Luego/ si el sueño acaba te persigo
soñándote despierto/ es una noria
que rodea tu eco en mi memoria
y te cuenta esos sueños que te digo.
Así/ sin intenciones misteriosas
sé que voy a elegir de buena gana
de mi viejo jardín sólo tus rosas.
De las altas ventanas tu ventana
de los signos de mar tu mar de cosas
y de todo el amor/ tu amor/ mengana.
2.2k
Areas of knowledge answer: How do we know?
Looking for the origins of our knowledge flow.
From mathematics to the ethics,
History to the arts,
These are the ways we tell types of knowledge apart.
First of these eight categories is math.
From axioms to logic it takes a very exact path.
Deals with conjecture and theorems; creating laws about the world.
Sometimes this complicated topic makes me want to hurl.
Next comes ethics with many complicated questions,
Using morals and values to give the proper suggestion.
Depends on people's views that differ by culture,
Questions from "Theft to save your family?" to "Killing a vulture?"
Areas of knowledge answer: How do we know?
Looking for the origins of our knowledge flow.
From mathematics to the ethics,
History to the arts,
These are the ways we tell types of knowledge apart.
Up comes history dealing only with the past;
It is only concerned with evidence and the facts.
Studies government propaganda to the plight of the peasant.
Deals with any kind of knowledge from creation to the present.
Fourth on the list are the human sciences,
From many loaded questions to our stream of consciousness.
Observations to conclusions, free will to determinism,
Deals with our knowledge of the world from the atom to reductionist
Areas of knowledge answer: How do we know?
Looking for the origins of our knowledge flow.
From mathematics to the ethics,
History to the arts,
These are the ways we tell types of knowledge apart.
Religious knowledge systems deal with people's beliefs;
Knowledge of God and the heavens to the world beneath.
From polytheism in Athens to life after death,
Knowledge coming from religion concerns us to our last breath.
The natural sciences, knowledge of the natural world,
Explaining how things work like biceps d'ring a curl.
Hypothesis, theories and all sorts of paradigms,
Knowledge so revolutionary that in the past it was a crime.
Areas of knowledge answer: How do we know?
Looking for the origins of our knowledge flow.
From mathematics to the ethics,
History to the arts,
These are the ways we tell types of knowledge apart.
Indigenous knowledge systems, the customs of the tribe,
Using folklore and storytelling to spread ancestor's pride.
Knowledge or tradition and customs of the ancient nomads,
Anything about the indigenous from the good to the bad.
Last on the list, the final area of knowledge,
Is the arts, all the way from elementary to college.
Dealing with aesthetics, forgery, kitsch and catharsis;
Without this types of knowledge we'd be stuck in the darkness.
Areas of knowledge answer: How do we know?
Looking for the origins of our knowledge flow.
From mathematics to the ethics,
History to the arts,
These are the ways we tell types of knowledge apart.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
some railway station food shops
are open now,
unlike when we first moved here
when everything would shut Saturday afternoon
the flea markets in the Tiergaten & at
the Mauerpark
are over-ridden with people
selling kitsch
it's early autumn and there
are still ferries on the Havel
& Spree rivers
& a juggling act & a couple of musicians
blend in with graffiti
in the evening we'll go to the B-flat
club & listen to Australian jazz
no need to worry
if the transport runs at night
or whether the stars will shine
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
Flower beds in every nook
was Bangalore's delight
for long long years,
even before the time
Winston Churchill lived there
as a young British soldier.
Salubrious climate turned it then
in to a pensioner's paradise,
full of quiet tree lined streets.
The one time cool "Garden city"
one finds now with a new itch,
in its mad rush to get hitched
with the so called" flat world"
every which way possible,
it kills the symphony of colors,
both willingly and otherwise;
trees fall, monstrous flyovers rise,
technological behemoths,
which fast become dinosaurs
as economic down turn hits hard,
stand daunting us, adding green house gases
now, its all kitsch and concrete **** everywhere.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 8:41 AM UTC
walking through the big flea market
off of highway 19 north of Tampa
looking for whatever and something
curious and kitsch or campy
merchants selling in the parking lot
used blenders and old cameras
burnt out or faulty devices
DVD cases and game cartridges
old rednecks shout out opinions
in a cacophony of drawled signifiers
representing visions of despotic rulers
reigning a tyranny of taxes and decline
old glass containers and windshields shine
scattering high afternoon sunlight in the Sunday sky
sitting and resting used and content waiting
waiting for the wear and reduction of time
the market continues into indoor aisles
criss-crossing within a ramshackle structure
plywood walls supporting sheet metal roofing
an aroma of every greasy food wafting into one
people wrapped in worn fashions
whites in Ts and denim
muslim women in headscarves
a black deputy strapped down in uniform
the deputy enforces commerce laws
around the alternative marketplace
a variety of commodities are still available
bongs and e-cigs and incense and **** ****
parakeets cry out down one aisle
a stack of blue aquariums drone a bubbling hum
the stench of cedar and rat **** and hamsters
reptiles basking in the arid glow of heat lamps
all is right in America’s America
the flea market is the floorboard of that promise
an opportunity for anyone to begin
or start again and over and over
a liberal conservatism can be guarded well
with rifles or tazers at bargain rates
a conservative liberalism is applied openly
in the atmosphere of everyone for anything and everything
the dream of the flea market
a black market and a carnival
all of America’s cheap art on display
its people swirled into one
equal in their struggles and desires
reaching for resources and derivatives
buying low and selling higher
stealing and selling short
walking through the big flea market
on a hot and cloudless Sunday afternoon
looking for whatever or something
it’s a fun thing to do
originally posted to my blog https://sublimeobscenities.wordpress.com on 4/27/2014
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
Arresting artificial bloom from a make believe garden,
Oh! magalomaniacal face of ill gotten glamour,
ribald queen of the kitsch, with endless variety in store,
age, cannot wither your, unmistakable garish taste-
or sadistic delights, each you do organize is outrageous,
than the one before, no doubt, how do you manage?
I'll forget all those in an instance, but, that kiss, oh! that,
the one you gifted, to show you were pleased utmost,
stealthily away from the eyeshot of your posse of lovers,
other cannibals and party animals, under the darkened staircase,
was the last godforsaken straw;
what a poor camel can do? if you so desire,
beggars, never were the choosers, you'd tell yourself,
in a self congratulatory note,
that much I am aware, my dear tormentor!
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 10:36 AM UTC
Shop windows dazzle in the sun,
attracting tourist moths with money.
They gape and point and squint and pay.
Behind the glass the ugly cuddly
stare back, glare in disgust at the stack
of dazed outsize heads on parade.
Ranks of captured trolls boil with rage,
their destinies - slobbering kids,
hot rooms, pink rabbits, red balloons.
No match for their cool mountain caves.
Beware these creatures of mischief
and fear. They bear malice - kitsch, occult.
Do not mock them. Stick them on your shelves.
They are our other selves.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
Forget the school children
of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
Or the 1,000,000 dead in Vietnam;
60,000 dead in Iraq;
30,000 and rising in Afghanistan.
How many by our proxies
in El Salvador, Nicaragua,
Guatemala, Chile?
Forget the millions dead
in nameless civil wars
or of preventable
poverty and disease
in various hell-holes
around the globe.
The rest of the world
may be sorry,
but not shocked:
they have come to know
the smiling murderers
we have become.
20 dead of madness
in Connecticut
and the US wallows
in drivel, kitsch,
hollow words,
self-pity, and
media frenzy.
A little arrogance here?
Oh, we love our kids,
(just no one else's),
so let's put black ribbons
on our cars
and call that enough.
Again, the culture
of selfishness, greed,
shallowness
and patriotic stupidity
rears its
predictable head.
No country that murders
the world's children
with a shrug
should be surprised
when that violence
turns inward.
"I am Vishnu
Destroyer of worlds
My name is Death"
You can't have it
both ways.
"We must love one another
or die."
mce
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 6:04 PM UTC
the corner shop near the railway station
opens now unlike when we came here first
when everything would shut on Sunday
the flea market in Mauerpark
is over-ridden with people selling kitsch
but we always go and we love it
everyone is so cool here that I think being cool
isn't hip anymore,
the street is a sea of hipsters in black
it's early Spring and there is still
no ferries on the Spree
but if you walk down the right street
you'll catch a couple of musicians
maybe a juggling act
that blend in with graffiti and art
in the evening we'll go to the TV Tower
like tourists
pretend we can afford dinner in the revolving restaurant
two hundred and three metres high
and look over the cars on the road to Berlin-Mitte
that look like graceful glowing bugs below
we'll get have a cocktail with dinner in Caramba
in the square (just one)
and listen to light German jazz
with no need to worry
if the transport still runs at night
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 5:16 PM UTC
Every night..
I tuck my heart in,
and sing it lullabies of smiles and light.
I caress it softly to sleep. .to sleep into tenderness
and to wake up lite
Every morning..
I wake up to my heart
broken, and sat on fire burning.
The gentle night will always fail to help
a heart that keeps on yearning
Every night, I pick my heart back up, and mold it with careful hands as I softly kiss all its scars
Every morning, my heart falls into the void you left, and shatters into pieces as many as the stars
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 5:02 AM UTC
In this cruel world
Full of scorn, hatred and unkept vows
There will always be lights
Smaller or hugenormous
They are the heroes, managing struggles while keeping sanity, not giving up
Hope is a paradox
The force that keeps them moving, alongside family, relationships, goals and the will to fight
Unwavering and strong
One, two, three and I say these
I will fight til the end
Everyone, lets fight until we redeem ourselves
To make this world better and lovely
To feel better and have higher self-esteem
To make progress and to make our lives worth living
In this cruel world, where paranoia, hatred, homophobia, indifference, kitsch, low self-esteem and hidden survellaince are in bloom
In this cruel world, love can make changes of huge importance
Baby steps we should make.
To make this world a better home and a lovely place!
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 2:27 PM UTC
When I was sixteen
I would trade
my allowance
for some feelings
every Friday night.
I'd pull on the strings
and pull on my hair
until I was discordant
and bald and
still in the dark.
I tried hard to see
what they wanted me to see
in country, when it came to metal
I just couldn't feel the steel and
hip hop failed to have
the same effect on me.
When I was a sick teen,
see, that's when I found indie.
What did you think you'd find in the avant-garde?
beautiful, new, perplexing, plexi-glass box
where rock stars go to suffocate
and die
(keep kitsch alive).
Really,
what did you think you'd find in the junk-yard?
Glad I missed the rhythm of those loops.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
purveyors of manufactured
kitsch
reminiscent of
plaster wall pool hall pastime bulls
eye
plastered
America’s
got stars
stripes
corncob pipes in
straight
lines and circles within circles
within
I’s
Jasper laid himself down on the plains of canvas in
perpetual concentrics
perpetuating eccentric eclectic economics of
subcutaneous pricetag politics.
bull’s
eyes on the prize of a new American dream
a dream deferred and defined
in straight and curved
lines.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 9:41 PM UTC
Grievous grace, has due yesterday’s blue
Autonomous avarice enigma entity’s hue
Identity crisis guidon guile’s due
Mystic symbiosis’ existential true
Apostrophe sabbat transcendental kitsch
Consortium liaison’s libido’s glitch
Translucent opulence’s lambent’s a *****
Metaphysical mystique is black as pitch
Terrestrial equestrian tellurian's terrene
Adamant tenacity’s obtusely obscene
Obstinate loquacity spiritually serene
Maniacally meticulous dexterity’s preen
Lucid cogent fecund’s maieutic
Incarnate’s manumissional eidetic
Spatiotemporal telemetry’s fanatic
Logistical tactician’s primal ecstatic
Chicanery dynamism’s opulent fealty
Intrinsic innate retrospective cruelty
Indigenous endemic inherent frailty
Corrupt costume counselor subtlety
Gambit alluvium aloof impunity
Immunity is Epicurean absurdity
Who are we to us complicity
Nimbus nimiety exorcism’s congruity
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 1:32 AM UTC
each time i see a dead man's face
i think i'd maybe known him
flirted with him in a bar perhaps
beneath a blue neon moon
forgot him as easily as i lied
about the last digit
of my cell phone number
and now he's smiling at me
from the blueing screen
and i think he might have been
one of those guys
who grew into his looks
and disgust myself when i wonder
what they could have thought of me.
call me candied kitsch
syrup blooming spoonfuls
decadent for a moment
overwhelming in two
nauseating in three
at arms-length i am half
your wingspan away from you
it's always been my way to start
somewhere in the middle and
spread from there in layers
to seep and sweep and tumble and rush
to gurgle and howl and crash
towards a boy in dim lighting
who probably wanted to talk to my friend
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 1:28 AM UTC
I do not want an old man God sat in a throne,
Judging from afar with sceptre and gold
riding on a cloud, sombre and haloed,
stern faced, woolly warm beard stroking,
Michelangelo-esque nighty clad, run of the mill deity.
I do not want a Sunday morning liturgy reference God,
inhabiting musty buildings, documented within dusty books, out dated, out rated, out of duty once a week
(twice if you include the mid-week bible study),
appeasing a sick relative, reluctant, habit God.
I do not want a jolly nodding head back shelf of the car job, kitsch icon, only when it suits me, pocket amenity,
fashion accessory, hobby gimmick God; a God modelled
from routine and agenda and TV evangelism, a convenience style digestible man made allusion.
I don’t want a controlling egomaniac parent God, bent on
setting us unattainable goals and tasks then throwing
a tantrum when the model train set breaks; or a God
who is distant, self-righteous, passive and out of touch,
an elusive, reclusive, exclusive God,
I want an ‘I Am who I Am’ God, whose boundaries are so
immense that to trace them would destroy you. A God
who is completely indefinable, that every brushstroke
put to canvas, every conceivable melody whistled, that
every imaginable word uttered, would barely compare.
I want a God who to stand before would burn my eyes out, make my heart explode; that I would be totally devastated. Yet, a God who is approachable and approaches, a God who is in the here and now, surrounding, dumbfounding, astounding, a God with promise and hope you can taste.
A God who breaks all the boundaries and exceeds every
human expectation and limitation, a God who hears and feels every longing, every desire and creates opportunity,
empowering the heart that cries out, stilling the soul when it aches, a God of promise and hope and deliverance.
I want a God unlike any parent, friend, lover, sovereign, reckless in compassion and filthy with goodness, available and ever there. So dangerously loving, so excessively wise and firm, yet tender, knowing, emotive, compassionate, A God who takes my grief. A God asking to be found and worth being sought.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 8:28 AM UTC
you sent this from jail:
"My goodness these messages just made my morning. Absoloodle. I have been trying to call you but no luck..your'e right though communicating in here is tougher than it seems. Kitsch? Sounds delicious. I dreamt about you last night so this is just crazy right now. I love you so much.. Thank you thank you. I've lost so much and the fact that you out of anyone still cares lights a fire in me, making me stronger, and not letting this system break me down and dehumanize me and institutionalize my yoked up brains. No missy, i've actually been doing hundreds of pushups a day so i'm gonna come out all sculpted and angry haha..maybe a neck tattoo."
I miss the days I believed him.
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 10:32 AM UTC