"lacquer" poems
I hate to be the bearer of bad news baby
but I was broken a long time ago.
I had hoped
when I showed you that video
on kintsugi, the Japanese art
of repairing broken pottery
with lacquer and powered gold
that you would've seen our history
was not meant to be hidden,
that our imperfections,
the cracks in our ceramics
were meant to be illuminated
with gold
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC
In Japan there is an art form
called kintsukuroi which means
to repair with gold
When a ceramic *** or bowls
would break the artisan would
put the pieces together again
using gold or silver lacquer
to create something stronger
forevermore beautiful than before
The breaking is never something
to hide
It doesn’t mean that the work of the art
is ruined or without value because
it is different than what anticipated
Kintsukuroi is a way of living that
embraces every flaw and imperfections
Every crack is part of the history of
the object and it becomes forevermore
beautiful
precisely because it has been
broken
I’ve told this story to tell you this
People are the same way
Being hurt or heart broken
or feeling broken generally
is not who you are
It is something that happens to you
Rise up stand proud and move forward
Stop looking about what the world says
about you and who you are
The value of your worth is more
than you can ever conceive
and when you trust
in your heart you’ll understand
the Power you house within
Cracks and all your true value
can never be lost in translation
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 3:00 PM UTC
Heart skips
like a warped record,
trembles over scarred vinyl
until "I love you"
tastes incomplete:
(I) love you
I (love) you
I love (you).
My Swan Song mewls off key,
cascades across the
marred terrain of my soul
in a thick lacquer of tears.
Notes flatline
in unison with my
waning pulse
(waning, like the face
of the moon on the night
of my eighteenth birthday).
My breath
resigns to static,
dances in slow decrescendos--
sputters its way
towards nothingness,
slipping rapidly from
my consciousness until
I no longer hold
any recollection of the music
(or the poetry).
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 6:00 AM UTC
She calmly unlocks the front door
as the wind flings the screen
through wild tantrums. She droops down
into her dusted rocker, pushing
with her lavender heels to start the sway.
Her sole taps softly,
as the chair creaks onto fallen lacquer
and the porch plays in discord
through dancing lace.
Interwoven hands lie atop her lap
in a sea of navy with floral ships
at its surface. Silver strands
fall from her clouded bun
and a few locks float past her sunken shoulders.
With jaded eyes she looks at the corner
to a poor table, where a cold candle
peaks among a grassy field of melted wax
riddled with burnt fuses.
And near the candle, a dusted white hat
remains anchored to the wooden surface.
She can still smell the stale cigar smoke
lingering in the room. “He’ll be here soon,”
she thinks as her daze slowly sets in.
The world seems quiet
as she fills her eyes with sleep
and the chair continues its march.
Her hands unlock from their grasp
and the screen door gently knocks.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC
Skin
Fingernails, moonlight, low-light
What’s the beast in the mirror I see?
It stares at me, it’s features moaning a sad soliloquy
I find it’s eyes, green, green, the colour of envy
Envy. Envy.
I find myself stretching skin.
Skin, it’s anthropomorphism deeply disturbs me
Why can’t I take it off
Peel it off, rip it off, burn it off, cut it off
Snip, snip
The more I stare the more it crumbles, it crumbles
I paint it’s mask with lacquer but the same pair of green eyes stare at me
What is that, who is that beast
The low-light consoles me but still I see it for what is
Me
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 4:16 AM UTC
Lacquer metal, finest degree
Eggshell maiden dancing, skirts turned free
Tossed leaf nestle, a glory in a hidden theatre
Dark privileged passions creep in and listen.
The dirt around your feet compacted,
The dress around your friends contrived
But you look so natural in those seams of transplacental
Defied by the native over-leaf
What privileged thought found comfort there
What Rubenesqued dresses blushed in joy
At white marble hugging thought
And privileged smells adorning your excitement
The path beyond your feet leads nowhere
For your sight spins where your eyebrows lead
Round and round in close circles
Amongst those eyes who cracked your paint
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 5:12 AM UTC
And so,
I painted my nails
the black lacquer,
'cos they'll remind me
you are always here.
"Just like a rockstar",
you whispered softly,
leaving melancholia,
I live life in solitary.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 9:00 AM UTC
Lumber and lacquer
Nails and elbow grease
Blood from the splinters
Before you were stripped down
From the wood
Of the forest behind our home
Standing sturdy and steadfast,
On the patio
I laid
Brick by brick
Gate keeper of the orchard that grows,
Thick in the summer
And curls up barren,
In the cold months
As if sitting on its mahogany shoulders there are
Mountains to the North West that seem
To smile with their peaks,
And valleys against the blue satin
Sheet of a sky
You who bare witness to my body and the bodies of
Countless others
Those that would just simply use you and fewer,
That would become your very grain
You are watching our conversations,
Through knots for eyes
Through bird-burrowed holes,
Hearing us,
As we break bread as brothers
Wood through the trees
Flesh from bone
Feast to famine
You are,
Beautiful and complete
As the steak,
Cooked rare
A glass of summer port–wine:
The color of the red russet potato,
And the earth-soiled hands that dug them up
Dec 23, 2009
Dec 23, 2009 at 9:25 AM UTC
"Beauty just is."
I have an 80's wooden plaque with a picture of an ocean somewhere and waves crashing on the rocks, written on the sky in the photo is the quote, "Beauty just is."
I believe it. So should you. Whoever you are.
I could pick apart the picture. But I won't.
Don't look for ugly.
The quote was given credit to anonymous. Deservedly so.
Anyone anywhere at anytime can recognize beauty.
This is not a duty, choose to be dutiful in all things beautiful.
There is lacquer over the picture to protect it. The lacquer makes it shine.
I find that part ironic, protecting the beauty from spills, unkind graffiti,
from any ugly thing that might happen to it.
That might mar the beauty.
It is not an easily recognizable coastline,
not a celebrity coastline
or a model coastline
or a physically outstanding coastline,
no archways of rocks
or large rocks
that have stood the test of time and erosion and wind and well, pollution.
"Beauty just is" so accept your beauty.
I am not talking to your cat or my dog, the aquarium or the stable full of horses, all those animals do not measure life in terms of beauty, only we, humans do. Animals do not judge anything on the basis of beauty, smell maybe, not necessarily good smells but strong smells, even odours.
Only we humans; also decry, put down,
use the word ugly
and write each other
off,
for not being beautiful.
But "beauty just is", beauty just is. Period.
If you are talking about a piece d'art and
you are going to shell out cash, from your stash,
make sure you buy something significantly important to you and beautiful.
As for another human being...
You have not the right or responsibility to say that someone is not beautiful.
I do not think there is
one person with the wisdom,
alive to recognize what makes
each of us beautiful.
Beauty just is, no parts, no assembly required, accept it, accept one another.
I know there are those that already get it.
I don't want them to read this and sweat it.
They don't need to. I want the bully to read this, out loud.
Beauty JUST IS. You might not get it, yet.
Keep rolling it thru your mind, a beautiful surprise awaits you.
Meditate on it.
Meditate on not the author of the quote, he is anonymous, but the Creator of beauty is not.
Be surprised, as this revelation once understood, will change your perspective on life, after all you're beautiful too.
Originally done by © DWE 2011-5-11
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
in the east
a dry man stumbled through the lush panacea of a dessicated prayer
his faith moved mustard gas. gasping for clarity, he spoke a thing no god could answer.
he languished in the Eden of empirical Dodos
a succulent squab in the oasis of fables. he joined the throng. his shackles were mended.
his bonds, repaired.
in the west -
a rye bread crumbles along a path to a candy house -
to a furnace of blank stares.
it waits moonlit and rustic, alas - it's mad and verily cloaked in a thing no ' nothing ' would ask for.
it leads to a breach.
weary of " who knows ? "
a truculent husk of a drought mislabeled. an actual flood.
it rankles the vision...
it plots despair.
in the north, a gunga din fumbles through the arid Earnest of our Importance. There -
we play crude brass. Profundo. at last, we nearly...
and even though we wide spark the char of our scorched affair
we vanquish any Southland
and the warm sun
frosts a glass eye
like pyrite.
and polly wants a lacquer, dark enough to maroon...
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 10:24 AM UTC
It was startling - this pessimistic world,
I opened the window, a storm raged,
attic whipped windy cobwebs,
scurrying spiders slid under debris,
and cracks appeared in her flesh,
where red oozed, yelling its escape,
collar bone protruding, thin layers fading,
wine trickled from blue corners,
knuckles scraped. I heard their drag,
whilst fibres caught up in nails,
burrowing beneath red lacquer,
snagging....scraping their terminus
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 7:08 AM UTC
I don't know if it's the caffeine
or imagining your stoic ****** expression,
but something's got me shaking, violently.
Not with anger, but with fear,
do I drink this *** of tea
shouldered with an innocence
in love without possession.
Part of me has died a very lonesome death,
and yet, with every passing
comes promise of a wailing newborn.
A sense of solitude is born again
and in that, I am
am born again.
I don't know with what blanket
to cover my silver, Saint-Christopher-shivers
from the cold, elated stare
that your eyes possessed.
Yes, it was the cold, elated stare
of your eyes
that chilled my spine.
A newborn you are,
a world inexperienced,
a longing fulfilled.
An empty me,
a teacup without the shakes
of spilling over brim,
and a table sacrificed
from experience.
Sated is the wood
from a lackluster lacquer
and spot-drops on the knots
that will never be noticed.
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 10:46 PM UTC
Lipgloss dripping candy lacquer aquamarine
Wrought silk enfolding shadows of her shoulders obscene
Drugstore ribbon laced her feet just as in my dream
She reduces me to liquid in an urban machine
On the asphalt a virile shellac.
Power like a thousand ships of industry steel
Columns fall to soldiers at the clack of her heel
Sirens’ polished poisoned fruit that drives one to ****
A Dahlia's vitality shunted and left to congeal
In that pool, then a wave of relief.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 9:36 PM UTC
stone ground mustard Venus burns. She's not concerned that constant falling
and orbits, elliptical - are the same thing.
Her eyes are deaf. My eyes adapt to the pattern
that rattles the chain of events.
my Spartan theories dangle in dubiousness.
I find a trap, and call it Seattle... for i see cattle -
grazing a state of mind; north, north west of what God meant.
washing tons of pocket lint by hand.
chewing their cud
in the dark. meanwhile - outside the ranch...
My eyes refract. ***** and un-twink in the black lacquer that came -
with the oblique miracle. they sustain things that would sunder a doll-eyed bovine
to ever breach The Fence.
my hardened arteries jangle like numinous. I pine and snap ruinous barbs from Death's
prattle... for i see battle, razing the Grace of Time
more at war, than at our best. more -
bereft of what Reason defends.
tossing guns at bullets
by telekinesis.
[ undefined ]
i come from where i've never been. you were there. and ewe were there; fleeced and bleating
in the snow that fell as soon as shearing ceased. i recall, you were never there. but remember
passing you by... shilling an ocean roar you swore you'd plucked from a Seashell -
salvaged from the divine dry sockets of Poseidon's skull.
you were hawking your unawares. i played a flute made of question marks and glass drum skins.
i went where my stride was inclined, and never where i went to.
i never arrived by approaching the destination. only by always being somewhere else
till i got there. i came from where i'd never been and -
ain't been Nowhere since.
but i'm sure i pass
through There
ever since.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
The Louvre would have been better had I
come here by myself.
I know why you’re here.
The Mona Lisa calls
your name, coy and quaint
eyes glazed with lacquer
beckoning
behind the bulletproof glass
that curdles her beauty. You want me
to see her with you.
Don’t you?
But clouded eyes watched
as you passed
The Winged Victory
Liberty Leading the People
Venus de Milo
Six Raphaels and a Michelangelo
just so you could catch a glimpse
of her smirk
behind a masterpiece of spines
and cameras.
So go ahead, call me
stuck up
I don’t mind.
I’ll admire all the beauty you missed
along the way.
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 11:55 AM UTC
Some just think
It's cool
It's fun
It's right
To hide behind masks
Of leather and paper
Of plastic and lacquer
The ceramic and glass
Of half woven veils
Across their faces draped.
Bald lies, averted eyes, in disguise.
Core of apple rotten
Loyalty all but forgotten
Maggot of doubt
Seed of betrayal
Lips loose like lathered leaves
Shamefully still, do secrets drip
Like the dewfall.
Hearts painted with
The pain, the agony which
When caused to others, you relish.
Go then,
Go away
Go back to your little game
Of showing off your masquerade
How you hide your blackened face
Behind a gently painted facade.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 11:17 AM UTC
Butterflies dissolve like honey-colored lacquer
as I wander the insides of this bright amber moon.
I look for Mother behind a shaded glow-tree.
It is there that I find her folding clouds while bluebirds
dance in the hollow of her heart…
She’s redolent like star-oil from a night-blooming cereus,
With hair never-ending like shadows
sealed from the palest of light.
Her eyes are like tanzanite orbs set ablaze.
She wears robes made of koi scales, and silk from the sea.
As I gathered pearls for her from the mouth of lapis lazuli
shores, my feet touch the chilled sands as shells scurried
from my foot-falls.
As I fetched gossamer from a crystal spider
hiding in a nearby constellation, gold web danced through
my cramoisy hair.
With all of these things, I sat beneath a niveous dune,
out of sight from Mother as I made her a necklace that
resembled the remnants of a galaxy that she once lost.
When I presented my gift, she smiled, then gently
whispered:
"The bright galaxy standing before me is more than enough."
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 10:22 AM UTC
you hung peach tea-lights
from my ribs spoke across
the plates and ceramic cups
filled with single origin topped
with daylight and smiled down
at my fingertips which sounded
something like silver spoons in
homemade jam jars or wheat
toast singing straight out of
the oven---but you're still
there blooming out of a
black lacquer chair
in dreams that smell
like pancakes and butter
you're there, somewhere
smiling at my fingertips
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
Barometrics (A ****** of Fates)
By Andrew Robinson
[Solo intro]
[Clean Phase I (instr.)]
[Clean Phase II, verse]
At the blistered contacts
At the suit of flies
Come to recover
Come bite to pry
Careful corrosion
Ornate rusts, they run
The rotten circumference
Expire in change
The fade verse subsides
As wounds bleed their age
Lacquer sick on the flesh
Drunken fathoms
Drink me!
[Clean Phase III]
[Distorted Phase I over distorted Phase III]
[Distorted Phase II, verse]
Seeped warp of walls
A sanguine distance
Steeped liquor, combine
An astral chance
With combustion and form
Fevers masked in blood
Calls dissonant pulse
Drag our sour roots
Throats of the rip tide
Choke lecherous grooves
Bore forty knots haste
Set bones with the mud
Come Skye!
[Distorted Phase IV, chorus]
Over the silence
Nerves contract
Over the sun
The waves sing back
From the rubble
I’ll come home, to you
[Distorted Phase II, verse]
Wet mottled and suture
Yet the coursing ache
Brims ******* flotsam
Pulls at our wake
My contour dissolve
Key strokes soak
Color!
Me a new world
[Distorted Phase I over distorted Phase III]
[Distorted Phase IV, chorus]
Over the silence
Nerves contract
Over the sun
The waves sing back
From the rubble
I’ll come home, to you
Cover the oceans
In ashen stars
Cover the night
Our tempest hearts
Somewhere I have a mind
To hold on to!
[Cesura]
[Distorted Phase V, bridge]
She wanes
Wading out the shallow
Of the lights, an engine of ink
‘hind my eye
Due depth
Shake horizon’s fray
Withered wind of the sea
My decay
[Clean Phase III, bridge cont.]
When hell wakes
And manifests the clasp
Of the calloused oil
In my hands
And the blade
I’ll send my pride and crass
Beside my crimes and guilt
Out to shore
With brittle oars
[Distorted Phase IV, chorus]
Over the silence
Nerves contract
Over the sun
The waves sing back
From the rubble
I’ll come home, to you
Cover the oceans
In ashen stars
Cover the night
Our tempest hearts
Somewhere I dream of you
In tides!
Oh, in tides!
[Clean Phase I over Distorted Phase III; slow and fade to end]
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 8:30 PM UTC
I am a stone immortal
No work of erosion can seep through my cracks
Like I'm covered by the love of my mother in a Lacquer
Peep the sayings of old world negativities with a nonchalant dilemma
Riding this saddle ***** shrouded and denim and leather
You can not play the game
I will lead myself astray on a road born of dirt and blind footstep
I cannot believe or follow
I cannot fathom colors
I have a non existent black covering my gaze
Still I press
May I rest
The good die young They say
But I'm allergic to living forever
Still I am a stone immortal
Ever crack and every break you make from other stones rocks and pebbles
You will not
You can not
You couldn't even perceive to insist and persist the same or other methods to make me break
For every path that's walked I choose the one that will make me falter and dare I to attack
My stone is immortal with eyes as black as sun
Stick to me like toasted oats
I'll make it burn with poison oak
So believe me when I spit and slur my words to sound
Hear the echo less speech of kings yet to be
Then hear my roar raspy ruffled and deep
I'm a stone who can't see anyone cheap
This stone will attack the unsweeten with its iron side and pile drive
if you want the upper hand
Starve me till my saliva taste early sweet with calories all for me like the best snack or a favorite treat
I'm still the stone immortal see where I can't see the rich or cheap
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
Divided by lock and key
bolt and lock
hold solid in stolid monotony
strong oak lacquer knights are guardians
standing vigil in front of dark rooms with darker secrets
Glare in glass panes and through the shattered splatter- splintering shards dance over musty old ground-mold dusty without sound because whom is here to hear the whispers flowing out from within
But resist the steel boot brutes kicking and screaming to steal in
killing hostages on your floor
treasure chests and gold chalice -might be within
no crusaders disturb what you strive to preserve peace and prosperity deemed unimportant
with outstanding austerity
don't give up your mystery
because then what are you but history adrift
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
I press the scalding hot washcloth against my face while it's still soaking wet and inhale. This is what it feels like to drown. I think about your eyes, how they are so dark, like solar eclipses and I think about how your nails leave crescent moons in my heart. This is what it feels like to fear. In a dream, your weight is resting on my neck and you tell me to tell you that I love you, but the minute I open my mouth, my throat is filled with butterflies and my trachea snaps. This is what it feels like to love. I take off my black lacquer polish and I can't hide the blood under my fingernails anymore. This is what it feels like to know. Your mouth touches my face again and again and I cannot break away to take a breath and I am overtaken by the sweetest darkness. This is what it feels like to die. This is what it feels like to drown. I am drowning drowning drowning drowning drowning drowning dro
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
Should it come to this, without remorse? Like that orange, feeble
and deciduous, while we waited with binoculars through that gray on gray
afternoon for the owl to spread its wings. Perhaps it did, past dusk,
behind the trees, under those vaguely baleen-formed clouds.
The clouds cast shadows on other clouds, as if holding them up against reality, even for our affirmation. Did you think of me this morning, over your Life cereal, and did you miss the fruit? The “organic wholeness?” What is the determinant thing that dissolves?
The dissolution of the self-contradictory comes from the dissolution of the determinant thing. Arguments formed in apartments over a bowl of cherries or a bowl of **** or some such. Loss of a determinate thing (under Article 1262, par. 1.) is the equivalent of impossibility of performance in obligations to do referred to in Article 1266. We are left with the form of a bowl, perhaps a ginger bowl, or some form of lost lacquer.
The distinct lack of skyscrapers from SoHo up through Chelsea was said to be a function of Manhattan bedrock. But modern materials seem to have overcome that problem. Getting on the subway, he heard someone say “…as if each word is born with another word, and spends its life on lines looking for the perfect rhyme". "You know they mate for life," he thought, "the swans. If one is killed, the other often dies of boredom.”
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 11:36 PM UTC
383 small block, double-hump heads,
fuel injection, supercharger
a midnight cruise
flaming hot licks on black lacquer paint
street lights blowing past
That’s chrome, baby.
That’s chrome.
Road signs, blue eyes, blonde hair,
cherry red lips framed in a billet mirror
long legs hang under
a plaid mini-skirt straddling
a 4-speed.
That’s chrome, baby.
That’s chrome.
Exhaust fumes, tire smoke,
high octane fuel, perfume
waters both mouth and eyes
Detroit steel never smelled this good
Red fingernails dig denim at 5500 rpm.
That’s chrome, baby.
That’s chrome.
Chrome bumpers, chrome grills,
chrome smiles, chrome thrills.
That’s chrome, baby.
That’s chrome.
© 2010 C.T. Bailey
Apr 9, 2011
Apr 9, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC