"klimt" poems
Take me to Vienna where the music walks.
Where the buildings invite you to sit,
And accompany them for a cup of melange.
Where the many palace gardens have jovial pique-niques,
With their bikes resting by the trees.
Take me to Vienna where life ebbs out
Where the past lives on,
And composers wave out the windows.
Take me to Klimt's golden city,
The city where even the grey Donau is welcoming.
Take me to Vienna and don't take me back.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 3:05 AM UTC
I wish I were Frida Kahlo's vibrant Mexican flowers
Or Salvador Dali's dripping watch
Van Gogh's maleficent moon
Warhol's saturated polaroid
Klimt's ****** lips
Or Vermeer's cornflower blue and singular pearl
But I am yet to make a stroke in ones historical
aesthetical
eye
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
It was the rain against the windows
And the moonlight sonata playing
That accompanied my transition
Into melancholy insomnia
In the mid-morning deluge of the overcast sky
The reading of books and Freudian dreams
The watching of movies, Kubrick stare and all
Where emotions are captured and paraphrased
Amidst fight clubs and Fantasia
The Klimt surrealism outreaching from the walls
A lone piano listens, glistens; ripples of time
All dissimilar reinventions
Swirling in the incense smoke rings
Dancing in the flowing spirit air
Free and marvelous among vacant living room eyes
Memories recall the rain of Pasadena
Over rustic-themed modernism for
Eager tourists and the nonchalant few
Whispering words to descend the stairs
From the surface to below where thrusting cocktails reside
Years ago in the same position
But younger than I am now
At another desk with a bleeding pen
Pouring over the torn fickleness and skin I saw
Matchstick men smoking flesh roaches in alleyway shadows
Something hidden underneath the seen frailty
Single mothers courting hairless young men
Cracked anchor teens moving to a beat not of their own
Act of demon from the hand of God
Itching skin and slimy **** for sexes of all;
the men can take a turn in bearing the small.
Tales written from reflection and soul
Those wanderers and solicitors passing over the sick
The dead that laugh and the living that cry
Cold flesh injections stock markets for cattle to imbibe
Like so many humans do
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 7:19 AM UTC
You'd think Blake, Bosch
& Emanuel Swedenborg
read Pythagoras in the original
& walked with Christ & Newton;
E. A. Poe, the Horror-Poet;
influencing the Decadence of
Baudelaire, Wilde & Rimbaud;
Pinkham Ryder's influence on
Symbolism & Surrealism led,
oddly, to 20th century pop culture
depictions of Victorian monsters;
Frankenstein was the product
of the English Romantics;
German Romanticism to Sturm
& Drang led to Expressionism.
Beardsley [dead at 25], Gustave
Moreau, Van Gogh, Gauguin,
Egon Schiele [dead at 28]; ||| - -|
Klimt, Freud, Jung: Judaism;
Id, Superego, Ego, Shadow,
Anima & Animus, collective
psyche, Nietzsche's Superman,
eternal recurrence & will to
power; Wagner's Ring Cycle...
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 1:56 PM UTC
1 laugh at his fingers while he struggles.
Klimt consumer relationship 2. Time -
This is very important for the future.
The game is it? Seattle, United States,
New York, United States, New York,
New York 222 120 600 Russia, In the face of the United States in February,
with 2 of his father and others; Cicero York, Lord Jesus!
The New York Times will be Heavy;
Cheng 100, April 2, R222? In April, the same thing.
Experience experience in the United States, sir, Seattle,
New York, State University of New York, Russia 600 222 ...
Great Britain and the United States, the letters;
Now the image and climatic conditions
to avoid turning green. Egg and a half, and Klimt.
2 conference. However, all achieved.
Music World Music Seattle, New York, United States,
New York, New York; Museum 222 120 600
United States and Russian Banks on December 2
and Levinsky. Jesus Hiram time to time in Chengdu,
Consumers April 2, SR 222, April
Health and safety for the council 222 and 225
Musix Award for connections to Seattle, New York,
United States, Great Britain and the United States.
The grief; We see it now in England to help Tazer
the ****** Four thumbs and their great toes cut off.
Galaxy, 2 communications. cooperation
But we do not reach a consensus;
With music? Seattle, USA, New York, United States,
New York, New York Museum 222 120 600 Russia,
governed. December 2, post and many others.
York Cicero, Jesus! The New York Times WITT's
Heimie Cheng Du, no one, April 2, 222 from the customer
Manage and maintain in April. Museum using a banana.
In the United States, sir, Seattle, New York,
The game in New York, Russia 600 222 ...
The Latin American and in the United States;
Such a large unit and honor. Only a quarter of Klimt
2 conference. And yet. There is no agreement
as to what happened to the character of song? US
Seattle, New York, United States, New York,
New York; Museum 222 120 600 United States
and Russia Page 2 December, the Pope and other fellow Yalies.
Oh, Jesus, The New York Times, Witt Heimer Chengdu,
R. G, Feb 2, 222 customers. April care and maintenance.
The Museum Center to enjoy a bonus.
The most important city in the United States is Seattle,
New York, News York University, Russia 600 out of 222 members ...
The Latin American and in the United States;
With rods which increases towards the exploration.::
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 7:07 PM UTC
I am from piano keys
from steel strings and sticky wood.
I am from the sheet music under the stairs.
(Crumbled, torn,
it felt like old age.)
I am from the vinyl shelf,
The stack of cassettes
whose voices I remember more clearly
than my own.
I’m from van Gogh and Klimt,
from paint spills and ink stains.
I’m from sketchbook enthusiasts
and color pencil hoarders,
from More contrast! and Less lines!
I’m from stacks of canvas
with pastel faces
and a charcoal line to connect them all.
I’m from Grandpa’s radio and Grandma’s paint set,
vanilla melodies and citrus colors.
From my sister’s hands over my own
on the keys,
on the brushes with bent handles.
Between my fingertips are a
slew of eighth notes,
an abundance of contoured figures
to slip in my mind.
I am from these things—
painted and composed through—
a casualty of family art.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 9:01 PM UTC
Only the finest of artwork on my walls
Mark Rothko
Gustav Klimt
And countless photos of you
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 5:09 PM UTC
You are not a work of art.
Has the Mona Lisa ever breathed? Did the Venus de Milo blush the first time a sweaty shaking nervous palm slid into hers?
No;
The girl with the pearl earring never laughed so hard her stomach hurt. Klimt’s gold-shrouded lovers never heard a song so beautiful it was hard to speak.
But you?
You have lost yourself in the pages of a book. You have felt gravel shred the skin of your bare knees, cried when your goldfish turned belly-up in its glass bowl, extracted a sliver from your thumb. Last summer when the night seemed to stretch a million miles in either direction you sat in the backseat of your best friend’s ****** car, windows open, your eyes closed as the music and the soupy August air washed over you.
When you took that painting class you studied the swirls and whorls of Starry Night and traced the careful strokes of a master painter. What your teacher never told you to do was stare at your eyes in the mirror and do the same.
You spent all those years in awe of the lounging picnickers formed by millions of miniscule spots so close together they formed a whole. You never marveled at your own skin, at the pores and goosebumps and freckles that make up your flesh.
So begin.
You are more than marble. You are more than brushstroke. You are soul and sweat and skin and blood and life. There was something so important that the greats always failed to capture: that awful, aching, breathtakingly beautiful thing keeping your eyes blinking, your synapses firing, your heart beating and feeling.
You are not a work of art. You are so much more than that.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
The unsettling fishtank
dream remains/ luminous!
& yet confined to it's own/serene state
of sheltered existence, there is no/reaching in and interrupting this Indian fire two thousand years old/only a deep sense of burden that you couldn't n will never/
be a section of its gaze
There will be no kindling of Spirit while whispering the secret of your/madness to
a staircase/
There will be no eyes & alms to forgive and guide your restlessness at night/the sky will not forget your cowardice in absolute emotional expression
How you stray from kissing a holy lover the way you've always ached to!
The Summer will not reverse its eternal poetry from your skin/
will not smile watching you blunder through childhood, tending to your fear with higher
priority than your great wound
It (this longing to be smothered & worthy rest) will not reschedule to next week
just because you read the daily horoscope
and it "applies" to you now!
/soldier & your MobyDick heart & saintly revelations on the silence of your neighbors & shaving off ur insecurities/causing you to bleed & be sent off to the HOSPITAL & the staff is laughing down at your mangled face, anyways
& you have done with the destruction caused in a moment of blushing cheeks
Dye fills the head with ego painting & unexpressed volumes ! Oh!
The circus remains fearless but still uninformed, worn down in its senseless practice & schoolboys cry observing the clouds lose train of thought to the music of Berlioz
My terrible soul skips/unblinking from the pondrous black cat who lingers above my dreamworld/to Gustav Klimt & his empyrean entanglement/
out to the parking lot which cannot mind it's own bussiness
trees of insoluble space
haiku lion
prisons kept hush hush
so its prisoners may forget
again where they weep
(how are you dear? I wish I could be a lasting impression)
Since birth
many of us have successfully
avoided the barbaric
heat of life
I haven't been uplifted by beautiful
laughter in a long time
the laugh that uplifts this whole Earth
A child to die so early
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 4:33 AM UTC
effusion on the
melt, lingua franca
of gold.
tongued to the tip
of its flame, twine
of dusted skin--
lit with professing.
pilgrimage's keel over
into otherness, that
far off land.
tried truer than truth
on the lips.
membranous bouquets,
rippling beside rectangular
rain.
patchwork of an amorphous
doorway, administering
symbolisms that outshine
light.
scale's draw, the weight
of open arms met with
like weight.
a kiss such as the forgetfulness
of faces, as if to say: we've
come to this my love--lateness
surrounds.
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
If I could take your hair on a loom
and weave the strands
into fine golden wool
to spin out a blanket,
I would melt down
into sleep
I think
Jan 9, 2022
Jan 9, 2022 at 5:18 AM UTC
A yellow, Klimt-colored aura,
knuckles brushing,
the scent of old money. Vaguely
I get a feeling that I'll remember you
for all of the rest of my life.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 8:39 PM UTC
White walls,
No windows,
Perfect square,
Rough carpet,
Same chairs in every room,
That trademark color,
Not green,
Not grey,
But some unfortunate color in between,
Like someone ate grey,
Then washed it down with green,
And someone else opened them up,
And that’s the partially digested color that they found.
Everything gilded in dull alluminum,
Like a poor man’s Klimt,
Cold table legs
And chalkboard trays
And door handles,
Door handles all day long,
I touch the door handles sixteen times a day here,
And I can feel the hands of every sweaty, unwashed drone
That has touched it before me,
That unpolished texture grating against the tips of my fingernails,
The cold,
The vibrations of the grinding hinges,
And the herds of zombies on the other side,
Anyone touching the door,
Making that loud, resonating sound
That moves through to the ****** monotonous handles
And into me.
Linoleum,
All day, every day,
That God forsaken color,
Checkered with white tiles,
Something like white,
But not quite white,
Not nearly as white as the walls,
Speckled with another color,
Like something that would burst out of a caterpillar if you stepped on it,
In an infinite mosaic from hall to hall.
The mood is set on this liminal stage,
By a series of florescent spotlights.
The same light by which we watch the dreary, surreal dreams play in our heads,
It is this light that illuminates my waking nightmare,
The knocks on the nerves behind my eyeballs,
And I hide,
And pretend that no one’s home.
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 11:07 PM UTC
i cold write poems about
klimt’s the kiss, soiled and stained in your garage,
how we’re all a mess of basorexia and urgent fingers,
darling, take me in your hands, i’m not gonna fall apart
like dead chrysanthemum petals.
i could write poems about long nights and long drives,
how the road had seen all those **** promises,
love, we’ll never repeat my parent’s history of falling out of love.
and yet history does rewrite itself
in different words,
different phrases,
different roads yet all the same.
i could write poems about
how you resemble the moon —
exquisite, beguiling,
and i am icarus,
all wide-eyed, all moonstruck,
all aware of the risks.
but no, darling
because as it turns out, this poem is about
the kisses planted on wrong places
and our bed, it’s filled with petals soiled by the earth.
darling, this is about us,
zipping ourselves in my parent’s skin,
oh how they lead us back to blood and bones
we’re running away from.
this is about the moon’s deceptive silver shades
and icarus,
falling,
plummeting,
crashing once more to the ground.
this poem is a mess of words
about our downfall.
this poem is a mess of words about you, darling.
a mess of words about you —
a mess of words about you gone.
Sep 11, 2019
Sep 11, 2019 at 12:29 AM UTC