"michel" poems
Strange question indeed,
So I asked one and all;
Explain to me:
“What's a plumber's ball?”
Family and friends
Heeded my call,
But none could confine,
Refine or define it,
Yet Paul was sure
He could design it.
Still, none could satisfy
My caterwaul:
“What the hell is a plumber's ball?”
Does it sweat the pipe
Or wiggle the snake:
Can it clamp the ******
For Heaven's sake?
Could it snap on the cock-hole cover?
All these queries
Made me wonder.
Has it something to do
With hardness leakage,
Or ******** the ball-cock
To stop a seepage?
Has it anything to do
With a saddle valve dripping,
Electric eels,
Or two pipes mating?
And, I heard of male and female fittings,
And should I worry
If I'm standing or sitting?
If you're discharging the head
Or elongating the pipe,
Does the plumber's ball
Help it snug tight?
Is it in my tank,
Or in my bowl,
Beneath the floor
Near the drainage hole?
Is the plumber's ball
In the back of the truck
(Jeff laughed and said
One could rub it for luck).
I asked Michel
If he could tell,
He sensed it was something
He could smell.
I sought out Ray,
Perhaps he'd know,
But he was on call
To restrain a back-flow.
I couldn't ask Gary
For his wisdom and sense,
He was wigglin' the snake
To unclog a wet vent.
Henry, Rick, Scotty and Brian,
Gave shameless answers
I couldn't rely on.
It's not a crapper, tail piece
Or Johnnie-bolt,
Or catch basin, reamer,
O-ring or pipe dope.
So I searched the Net
With a fool's wonder,
And read of ball-checks,
Gas ***** and plungers.
I know it's too late
To ask Rolly or Ross,
For both of them knew,
And that's our loss.
And Ernie's gone golfing
So I can't ask the Boss.
With final resolve
I fell to my knees,
To pray St. Ferrer
With grace intercede.
His silence left me
In a state of depression;
Had Ferrer washed his hands
Of the plumbing profession?
So nothing could settle
My wherewithal,
I still didn't know,
What's a plumber's ball?
Suddenly, it hit me,
He's never wrong,
The Dalai Lama of dip-tubes,
I'll ask John.
Where others did falter,
John's a rock:
He knows the difference
Between a gas and ball ****
With a knowing smile
He embraced our Hall:
Here, good friend, is your Plumbers' Ball.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 9:10 AM UTC
I
I am often attracted to things unhinged. Not necessarily (traditionally) romantic, more akin to an unwillingness to ask permission, one who might say It was never your permission to begin with and not be angry or upset about having to say it. Few are so willing to evaluate situations without the overwhelming cloud of emotion. Judgment fully withheld, kind banter catching wind. A needed immediacy.
Jean-Michel Basquiat was aware of the past. He pretended to not care if you did not like his paintings. Part of him was upset some people did not understand. Basquiat strangled history down to basics: music, culture, society (not the same thing), generations of family after family. His point was not for you to obtain this. This was his conscience—tangible. Brain processing. Synthesizing. To him it was so simple. I refuse the word primal because it is misguided, it does not factor purity, clarity. Sugar Ray Robinson told Basquiat to stop painting the background. Tuxedo told Basquiat what words to place and where.
So much of my art is stripped and lucid and enacted with only me in mind.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
Mon papa, c'est le plus fort des papas.
Mon papa, c'est le plus beau des papas.
Mon papa, même quand il est fatigué, on dirait Richard Gere.
Mon papa, même si il est carnivore, moi, je l'aime quand même.
Mon papa, quand il mange, on dirait qu'il a 5 ans, mais moi, je l'aime quand même.
Mon papa, il a des voitures super cool qui font vroom.
Mon papa, quand il conduit, on dirait Michel Vaillant, même pas peur.
Mon papa, quand il me dit bonne nuit, j'ai même plus peur.
Les monstres sous mon lit, eux, ils se désintègrent avec la force des bisous de mon papa.
Mon papa, parfois, il ronfle et je l'aime quand même.
Mon papa, quand on est dans la piscine, il joue au crocrodile avec nous.
Mon papa, quand il porte des choses, les manches de sa chemise se déchire sous les muscles.
Mon papa, avec une barbe, on dirait un homme des caverne, c'est trop cool.
Mon papa, quand il fait des câlins, on disparait sous ses couches d'amour.
Mon papa, quand il nous emmène faire du shopping, il supporte des heures et il sourit.
Mon papa, il nous laisse faire des trucs qui lui font peur, mais il veut nous faire plaisir, alors il dit oui.
Mon papa, il m'a laissé faire du saut en parachute, et je suis même pas morte.
Mon papa, il râle parfois mais on sait qu'en fait, c'est parce qu'il nous aime.
Mon papa, même quand il voyage, il pense à nous.
Mon papa, il nous emmène en voyage avec des photos tout le temps quand il travail.
Mon papa, il nous emmène en voyage tout le temps quand il est en vacances.
Mon papa, il fait des trucs de papa trop génial.
Par exemple, il connait nos restaurants préférés, et il sait ce qui nous fait plaisir.
Alors il nous y emmène.
Mon papa, même quand il est en colère, il est beau.
Mon papa, quand il sourit il est comme Thor, le dieu du tonnerre, il est puissant.
Du coup, parfois, ma maman elle fait un nervous break down.
Parce que mon papa il est trop beau c'est même pas normal.
Mon papa, il a un double menton pour que si un jour Game Of Thrones arrive dans la vraie vie, on pourra pas lui trancher la gorge.
Mon papa, il fait du vélo plus vite que le Tour de France. La preuve, ca fait des années qu'ils sont en France, mon papa, lui, il est déjà à Dubai.
Mon papa, parfois il oublie notre anniversaire quand on lui demande au pif, mais il oublie jamais de le souhaiter, donc on lui pardonne.
Mon papa, il voyage en first class.
Mon papa, il connait les aéroports mieux que James Bond.
Mon papa, il regarde des series TV de jeunes.
Mon papa, il porte des costards.
Mon papa, il nous emmène manger des dans endroits incroyables.
Mon papa, il nous emmène dans des hôtels de luxe.
Mon papa, il devrait être président du monde.
Mon papa, il est mieux que les autres papa parce que c'est le mien.
Mon papa, il est irremplaçable.
Mon papa, si on m'en donnait un autre, j'en voudrais pas.
Mon papa, je veux que celui la.
Mon papa il est pas toujours là, mais c'est pas grave, parce qu'il est jamais ****
Mon papa, il traverse le monde mais après il nous raconte, alors c'est cool.
Mon papa, il fait une super vinaigrette. Dommage que j'aime pas la vinaigrette.
Mon papa, quand il fait un barbeque, ca fait beaucoup de fumée et pas beaucoup de feu, mais c'est pour mieux nous impressioner quand il fait rôtir la viande.
Mon papa, il parle Anglais.
Mon papa, c'est le meilleur papa du monde.
Mon papa, je l'aime, même si maintenant, il a presque un demi siècle.
Mon papa, c'est comme un druide.
Ca meurt jamais.
C'est trop cool.
Mon papa, c'est comme une mode indémodable, tu veux jamais le remplacer, il est toujours tendance.
Mon papa, on peut pas le comparer a une mode fashion, parce que c'est un humain.
Mon papa, c'est le meilleur humain que je connaisse.
Avec ma maman et ma soeur et mon chat, mais chuuuuut.
C'est un secret.
Mais ce que je préfère à propos de mon papa, c'est que dès que je le vois, je peux lui dire:
"mon papa, je l'aime."
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 12:08 PM UTC
i'm walking down the street
bare feet, without a care
**** uber, metro, I hate public transportation,
i'm dirtying up this sidewalk, for a few years already
i'm writing down a will, in my mind, close to my eyelids,
because i'm on the wrong side of my mind
i feel sick, tasting the bitterness of humanity
when I wipe mankind on the side of the pavement,
at the very deep, there's masculinity mixed with *****
i'm walking down a bridge full of empty shells
i pass hordes of girls who are smiling insincerely
and again, i feel a boost in my veins
and again, i'm louder than mirrors
and as in the mirrors, voidness space,
and it is me, who takes the best from it
i absorb this poisoned air.
In the ears of mine, i can hear electro heat,
i feel like one man one Jean-Michel Jarre,
rain is pouring through me, sticks to me like fog,
i wrap myself in the warmth of two MDMA's,
someone glances surreptitiously and steals my soul,
you have a backpack full of cash, i have a suitcase full of emotions,
i'm going on a journey through the cursed city
like a hermaphrodite with a broken rod,
streets, like stigmas, cry with hollow screams,
in front of clubs content abortions on the sidewalk,
let's leave this lie, like the walking dead
assertiveness and pride to the gutter washed away.
And again, this booster is kindling my veins
i'm dirtier than a new jerusalem
and similar to it, i'm sticking to everything
and so I'm taking the most out of my heart
and I absorb this poisoned air once again.
and so the booster flows through the aorta
it is flooding my tarred heart,
destination reached.
and my wallet is shimmering with bitter crystal
nothing will change the course of this chemistry,
betrayed. betrayed by their own bodies
vidi, no vici, veni on its own,
and i'm catching a laugh, standing still in the subway
i am still absorbing poisoned air.
hatred.
jealousy.
i've seen enough.
today, in my city, sun rises in the morning.
you will remember this day forever or forget it for eternity.
Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 4:43 PM UTC
Jonathan Anderson's collections walk a confounding tightrope between naïveté and decadence. Much of his new menswear looked like clothes for a futuristic, spiritual retreat (Anderson himself said he wanted something "laid-back, Zen-like"), but the buckled patent shoes were purest dancehall honky-tonk. The fitted leather jackets were pretty flashy, too, especially when contrasted with multi-pleated pants in plainest calico or denim.
"He took himself seriously," said the voice-over that launched Michel Gaubert's stirring soundtrack (a journey all in itself), but that felt like Anderson poking a little fun at his own expense—or at least anticipating reactions to his quirky rationale. He insisted his collection was actually like an imaginary world that a child might create for himself, akin to the tree houses he and his brother used to build. The preciousness that such a boy would bestow on things that are essentially valueless was reflected in the ordinary objects—keys, tools—that were transmuted into jewelry, the board game that mutated into a constructivist jacquard, and the calico or denim artfully constructed into the pants that made up the foundation of the collection. Some of the models were carrying a small metal frame on which curious little things were suspended, almost like charms to ward off who knows what.
That subtly occult tinge has become something of an Anderson signature, the way he disturbs the refined with the raw, for instance—a thin strand of bamboo or a bandage of calico nipping the waist, or a crude smear of paint across a tulle top so fine it is barely there, or even a white feather stuck to a shoulder. Such touches feel last-minute spontaneous, but also off-kilter, which is exactly where Anderson wants to keep us. But his work is now so consistent that off-kilter is proving a rather pleasant place to be.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 2:01 AM UTC
1.
I heard the sound of your crying
from a bird.
Animals have souls, too.
Like the moat round Mont St. Michel
The size of the soul
Shrouded by
Accidents of life.
2.
Cobwebs and wax round the candles.
The woods are alive
Pariahs have eyes thrown at them.
Why **** the floor so?
Don't sit with your back to the doorway
Monkey's monocled eyes stare back,
glass orbs, while
Empty chair a-rockin' - a-rockin' - a-rockin' - a
Puppets dance
No solace in the shades
Don't follow the shadows
Which lurk and lead...
Marionettes and tin soldiers
On pedestals long forgot
A dead child's toy chest
A lion in a tallish glass cage.
Little drummer boy, rusted
Plays agitated drum
To match heart beat of......fear
Of drying sweat ....on upper lip.
Dusty frames on the wall
Interfere with flow
Handprint on window frame
Dog barks warning.
Spectre's trudge in mud
Closer...closer...from grave waters
Scream in windowpane: a figure holds
A face of anguish, trapped eternal.
Letters on the wall
Writ in heavy blood
Silhouette of an axe
Windy.....Branch tap on window frame.
Brass door handle turning
Staircase winding up to forever
Gargoyles leer
Leaves on the dry floor....wet footsteps.....
3.
Who knows who dwelt in this place?
Who's hanging from the ceiling?
Whose body....felt that pain?
4.
Then, into head flits one 'I love you'
Of gentle memory
On the lap of the mind
Of a lover
Of a friend.
Grey skies, musky odour.
5.
Then...
Wielding weapon to defend
Against....
The....
Self.
6.
Stop SCREAMINGGGGGGGG!
Star Toucher, 28 March 2013
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
Éloge de Monsieur de Montaigne
(Dédié à Jean-Pierre)
Toi seigneur de Montaigne, au si beau nom d'Eyquem
que nul amateur de Bordeaux ne saurait négliger.
Tu fus l'ami de La Boétie et un sage joyeux,
Tu vécus en ton château, dont l'une des tours rondes,
contenait une bibliothèque fournie.
Toi, qui faisait cultiver ce vin de Bordeaux,
qui sied au palais et plait tant aux anglais.
Cher Montaigne ayant étudié à Bordeaux,
au collège de Guyenne,
Tu vécus en un temps empoisonné
par les guerres de religion et ses sombres fureurs.
Temps affreux ou l'homme égorgeait l'homme,
qui ne partageait pas sa même lecture de la Bible.
Et dire que nous avions cru, ces temps-là, révolus !
C'est peut-être ce qui te poussa à choisir l'école stoïcienne,
Bien que par ton tempérament et ta vie.
Tu fus beaucoup plus proche des bonheurs de Lucrèce.
Tu fus, un long temps, magistrat au Parlement de Bordeaux,
bien que les chicaneries du Droit t'eussent vite lassées,
et plus encore, la cruauté de ses modes de preuve.
et cet acharnement infini des plaideurs,
à n'en jamais finir, à faire rebondir les procès
que tant d’énergie vaine te semblait pure perte.
Mais tu voulais être utile et l'égoïsme étroit de l' «otium»,
choquait ta conscience.
Tu eus un ami cher, Prince de Liberté et de distinction,
Etienne de la Boétie, qui réfléchit avec profondeur,
sur les racines de la tyrannie en nos propres faiblesses.
Et de cette amitié, en recherchant les causes,
Tu conclus et répondit ainsi :
«Parce que c’était lui, parce que c’était moi»
Révélant ainsi que la quintessence du bonheur de vivre
luit au cœur de cette amitié dont nous sommes,
à la fois, le réceptacle et l’offrande.
Cher Michel de Montaigne, je voulais,
te saluer ici et te faire savoir en quelle estime
Je te tiens avec tes «Essais» d’une bienveillante sagesse
Qui font songer aux meilleurs vins mûris en barriques de chêne
Et à ces cognacs qui éveillent l’Esprit et les sens,
Même lorsque l’hiver nous pèse et nous engourdit
Je voulais aussi te dire que de ton surnom
J’ai nommé Jean-Pierre qui te ressemble si fort
Et apporte une douce ironie à mes passions tumultueuses.
Paul Arrighi
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 6:16 AM UTC
by Jesse Osborne
To feel something into entirety
is to die 1000 continuous deaths
and hope one of them
is a birth.
You’re a reincarnation of time
and rugged lip.
I’m a sphinx,
or a gladiator.
Whichever came first.
******* is not your answer.
Nor did you discover it.
Don’t **** him for the fun of it.
Appreciate the way water runs
down your bare skin in the early morning hours
when only the street vendors
are awake.
Breathe their souls as your own.
Choose touch
before word.
Use flesh as a surrogate.
Climb up into your heart
and experience what it means to
be inside your body again.
To come down
simply means
to awaken.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 6:59 PM UTC
what can tortured lonely creator do to break free?
To get rid of all his oppressors and get into equanimity
the answer is single: to write, sculpt or paint!
but what is when he is droven mad?
Michel Foucault said that nobody yet have created something
by staying in madness..
what else?
Write letters,letters, letters, untill you see how superficial or ****** up are your addressees?
It will end in loony bin
where psychiatric terror make from him a aboulic lamb
he remain being broken forever untill this magic moment
if he will be so lucky to meet a friend
such real friend who gift him understanding
understanding is only salvation
understanding is only solution
understanding is only freedom
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
Here we are born:
The ill-prepared,
The underwhelmed,
A baby,
Stillborn,
Wondering after its feet,
Watching moths commit suicide in their mission for a light.
Given no ladder, given no rope,
We pull ourselves up on rungs risking papercuts.
Slick, sick, sliding,
The war-torn machine of humanity seeks the sweet oil can only
Consciousness can deliver.
"Here lies the illustrious Michel Nostradamus,"
Asleep in a deep sepulcher not unknown to us all.
"Awake and beat I am!"
Only some fish make it upstream.
I?
I have finally found comfort,
Dear ones.
Words have no meaning
(tub erutaretil seod).
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
I saw the germ seed of civilisation
In the metro today
Between Châtelet and St. Michel
It was stuffy
And the ones already in
Made it hard for others to get in
We formed a barricade
Made it look more stuffy
Than it was
Then tutted
Or rolled eyes when others tried to get in
There was a brotherhood
Even though all we had shared
Was the journey
Between Châtelet and St. Michel
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
Do you wanna catch a macro?
Then observe them after that?
But no one does…
And make them all just go extinct…
They used to be just buggies…
But now they’re not…
They are a bigger deal!
Do you wanna catch a macro?
And make a google sheets?
It’ll become a viral tweet,
And end up dying by a week!!!
Then somebody named Michel Clapp liked it all…
He used them to torcher us all!
Now we’re watching the weeks go by,
Really Really Slowly…
“GO AWAY MACROS!!!”
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 4:54 PM UTC
Zut alors, si le soleil quitte ces bords !
Fuis, clair déluge ! Voici l'ombre des routes.
Dans les saules, dans la vieille cour d'honneur,
L'orage d'abord jette ses larges gouttes.
Ô cent agneaux, de l'idylle soldats blonds,
Des aqueducs, des bruyères amaigries,
Fuyez ! plaine, déserts, prairie, horizons
Sont à la toilette rouge de l'orage !
Chien noir, brun pasteur dont le manteau s'engouffre,
Fuyez l'heure des éclairs supérieurs ;
Blond troupeau, quand voici nager ombre et soufre,
Tâchez de descendre à des retraits meilleurs.
Mais moi, Seigneur ! voici que mon esprit vole,
Après les cieux glacés de rouge, sous les
Nuages célestes qui courent et volent
Sur cent Solognes longues comme un railway.
Voilà mille loups, mille graines sauvages
Qu'emporte, non sans aimer les liserons,
Cette religieuse après-midi d'orage
Sur l'Europe ancienne où cent hordes iront !
Après, le clair de lune ! partout la lande,
Rougis et leurs fronts aux cieux noirs, les guerriers
Chevauchent lentement leurs pâles coursiers !
Les cailloux sonnent sous cette fière bande !
- Et verrai-je le bois jaune et le val clair,
L'Epouse aux yeux bleus, l'homme au front rouge, ô Gaule,
Et le blanc Agneau Pascal, à leurs pieds chers,
- Michel et Christine, - et Christ ! - fin de l'Idylle.
1k
If you deduce he's nonregular-hot french guy,
Strike One!
If you're in crave to bliss,and he promised.
And you mistrust?
Strike Two!!
If you have reservations that he's modest- brainyass
and suspects that
he only knew making "longest Ohhh" to women,
You're definitely OUT!!!!!!!!
He's a host.
A divine and responsible one,
He worship womankind.
May I rant an Irish gal,
with strange bed trip?
Anyway,
He's John Michel.
If I'm his girl,
I'd love to call him JM.
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 2:29 AM UTC
When we got down, you were there.
Smiles faded, laughter dropped
As you sang by the edge
I've never felt so powerless.
I was disgusted by myself, I couldn't look at you.
You were ready to die.
And so I thought of her. Of your common experience.
This twisted drive within you.
How didn't I see hers?
Play acting is uncomfortable,
But you left without.
"That day was yours already"
That's all I could think,
twisting parts of memory
and conversations I didn't link.
At the start you had resource
and the lightest days were electric.
Complete faith in your smiling course
Proud of the path you picked.
You had the devotion of one,
But the cell of a darker God,
and when he came to block out the sun,
Your dizzy mind forgot.
Mental shadow,
Eternal, lifeless doubt.
How could you.
How could you.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 10:14 PM UTC
Eli tended toward mothering his louche
friends, not that he was any better. He
had a bank account that never tapped out
& his pals were so low rent no one ever
saw any money; worthless rubles & rupees
or priceless dollars & Euros. He had a
name that was as good as a meme. Eli
Simple. The leading blue-chip painter of
his 'generation', a somewhat elastic
designation.
Eli had no 'generation'. Ivan & Igor
had busted out of the confines of mere
State censorship by publishing nothing
or producing the cheapest squalor. They'd
made a fortune. [ZOZO] One way or
another either Ivan or Igor are related
to Eli, whose fortune was made on the
auction house circuit; priced as invaluable,
Eli Simple's work stood beside such esoteric
notaries as David Hockney, Francis Bacon,
& Jean Michel Basquiet; He could get any
price he asked for anything whatsoever, his
imprimatur guaranteeing a fortune. Gold-
diggers were not Eli's type. He liked women
who had nothing & could care less. That was
their charm. A female body was enough
of a chore. He'd been raised Mennonite &
always hungered for more. He'd made it to
the top on Wall Street, Fifth Avenue & Holly
wood
w/out breaking stride & w/ only minor setbacks
that seemed enormous at the time. Accused of
murdering an A-lister's father dampened his
popularity but not his budget. He was huge in
Europe & Asia; a bankable Blockbuster. In
America no one cared about Art w/ the Royal
Capital 'A'. He had never had an American
retrospective, never even been offered one.
That got Eli's goat just than & furious, he
attacked the girl. Then he called his dealer.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 6:29 PM UTC
Here by the Beat Hotel near
the St Michel in a cafe with wine
I feel the hum turn to sizzle and
sparkle and overfill into my eyes
too much till they are brimming with
hope that could spill onto the table
and my heart is swelling with a
optimism and I feel it spilling
over I worry I will laugh crazy
for no reason but to release
all the glowing light inside which
is feeling far too obvious for everyone
they will think I am drunk but I have only had a sip but this
conversation is several glasses of something of energy of
fermented anger and worries
and anxieties about the world
turned into wine and we
sip the sentences we sip the
sentences and eyes clink glances
in holistic belief and hope it
is so much but you
say we are free we
are freer than this ramekin
which once held peanuts which
we nibbled between drink
and thought and you say you
can’t believe you are talking of
Sartre here and it is cliché
but the words
ripple like a song we know we
forget but when it plays
we forget we forgot and always
know we need to hear it again
we wish we could record the
feeling the sights the words the
way you say the words so
that we are filled with childlike
possibility when life weighs us
to stare at our feet.
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 6:09 PM UTC
The man in the Moon said,
"Will you be my friend?"
And I said, "Why not?"
That time, I didn't give it much thought.
Since I only had a peso in my pocket
I hitch-hiked a ride on Tycho's rocket.
Tycho happened to be an old playmate
We talked and talked, but it didn't seem like Fate
"Where have you been all my life?"
he asked, face filled with strife
"I don't know," I laughed.
He chuffed me, "You've always been so daft."
I slipped inside the module
And we landed on the Moon, every molecule
Tycho slipped me his calling card
As we cleared my passport with the watch guard.
The guard looked highly philosophical.
She asked, "What are you looking for, pal?"
I smiled, replied, "The man in the Moon."
She pondered, "Being a watch guard can be a boon."
"There are only five men in the Sea of Tranquility.
Damian helps in the recreational facility;
Sam is a family man, with his wife and three kids;
Tamjid herds sheep; Michel hunting for quids.
"Quintin is someone who lives far, far away
He weeps every hour, easily swayed.
But he sits on top of his car,
Singing to himself, counting stars."
"Quintin might be the man!" I say with much clamour.
The watch guard cheers my endeavour,
Giving me a hug and a packet of chips.
I look back to her and the Earth is in eclipse.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
I patiently wait
Beneath the Hospital cot
Holding onto Maitreya Buddha for
Release from death's
Hypnotic kaleidoscope
Eyetwitchings.
Afternoon light flows thru
The ivory curtain and
Winter's soft dress
Appears in lacklove phantoms,
Gayatri Mantra clanging like distant bells of Mont Saint Michel Pilgrimage
Toward Roseflower India!
Bringing me back to memories I never
First experienced.
This mind waltz calligraphy of
FLASHTHOUGHT
Scripture for dawn insanity!
Day opening her mouth and breathing
Cold vacuums of the universe,
Groggy dew of frontlawn grass in
November.
"Om bhur bhuvah svah
Tat savitur varenyam
Bhargo devasya dhimahi
Dhiyo yo nah pracodayat"
Samsara: the non-reality hornets nest,
DISTRACTING those in the garden!
Wirey battery powered
mammals,
Spring loaded elephant's
Cacophony weepings
That existence has become so
Ordinarily material and
!LackSpectacular!
Even the zoo animals realize this!
Butterflies lacking mental stimulation
Hovering Vancouver unknown to their own emptiness.
institutionalized populace (continental)
Voluntarily part of mass electroshock execution.
Soldierly blood is ink for the warpoets
Who will fight back with automatic language fired at the man behind the mask!
Till the last mad writer types
Their last mad verse.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 6:04 AM UTC
In memory of Michel Legrand
Young lovers have from time to time made promises
On midnight docks before the troopships sailed
On dripping railway platforms censed in steam
At bus stops and on glassed-in airport ramps
Young lovers have from time to time made promises
And pledged them in their letters with kisses sealed
And cancelled politicians upside down
Then posted to a world that is not yet
Young lovers have from time to time made promises -
If it takes forever, we will wait for them
Jan 27, 2019
Jan 27, 2019 at 9:22 AM UTC
The Magical Moments
Happens when you least expect it
The universe gives it to us as a gift
Some may say it's a God moment
That's its a miracle from up above
The instant miracle's touch our lives
We have a wakening, God moment.
It's given us some impossible dreams,
something magical as it seems,
But The Lord is with us at all times,
He has touched us with Mesmerizing kinds
Faith and trust is needed so much
A lot of people don't believe in such
They cannot even comprehend,
There's others who believe's to the end.
Mystical moments and angle wings,
Miracle's and moments they will bring,
Michel the Arch angel has brushed his wings
When Satin attacks he breaks his sting.
Miracles happen when you have faith,
Angles are here to keep us safe.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 9:30 PM UTC
Static crackling ecstatically; manic pop
Transistor hissing and spitting; sideboard atop
First when there’s nothing…
But a slow glowing dream…
Pirouette such as whirling dervish makes
Adolescent prancer twirls; leg warmer fakes
All alone I have cried…
Silent tears full of pride…
Breathless incantation; future forged in dance
Performance fascination; leap upon the chance
What a feeling...
Bein’s believing…
Neon flashes bedeck wrists and bonce
Peers laughter flash like fire; a ponce
Take your passion…
And make it happen…
The music shields, deflects. Antacid; taunts abate
Rhyhmic dreamer energized; blind to all the hate
Pictures come alive…
You can dance right through your life…
As Bergen-Belsen ghost yet still aware
Lost dreamer segues silently on fetid air
Bruised and battered, I couldn’t tell what I felt…
I am unrecognizable to myself…
Shuffling as garish Geisha; white but not with paint
Breathless as fifties bombshell; heaving sick and feint
At night I could hear the blood in my veins…
It was black and whispering as the rain…
With steel partner; straight firm and slim of hip
Rigid in rigor’d waltz; moving labouredly with drip
I walked the avenue, ‘til my legs felt like stone…
I heard the voices of friends, vanished and gone…
Faithless rusting engine combusts toxic blood
Failing sack of sinew lies where dancer stood
Night has fallen, I’m lyin’ awake…
I can feel myself fading away…
Monotone white noise; assuring beep
Dancer dreams in endless sleep
There was a time when men were kind…
There was a time when love was blind…
©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness – 2018 – All rights reserved)
Acknowledgements:
1. Flashdance… what a Feeling (1983 – Giorgio Moroder, Keith Forsey & Irene Cara)
2. The Streets of Philadelphia (1993 – Bruce Springsteen)
3. I Dreamed a Dream (Les Miserables – Claude Michel Schonberg, Herbert Kretzmer & Alain Boubil)
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 8:28 AM UTC
I’ll Never Be A Virtuoso
(Notes from a Piano Playing/Singer/Poet)
I’ll never be a virtuoso.
Sure as I’m an expert on
My name, my palm – I know it.
So I ponder as I listen to
Michel Petrucciani on piano,
Joe Pass on guitar,
Wayne Shorter on the tenor -
Am I any less an artist sans finesse
If runs, uneven, coarse run out into the sand?
Of course not.
Never to become a virtuoso is my lot.
But I’ve a lot that’s going for me:
Tempos, energy,
Out-coming spontaneity,
Ongoing creativity, ingoing spirit,
And an awfully cheerful personality;
Gifts and graces I don’t even know about,
Waiting to come out – or out.
Noel Coward wrote: ‘the talent to amuse’....
Perhaps I use that talent,
And there’s nothing wrong with that.
My notes are high while not the highest,
Vocabulary not extensive,
Not the most imaginative;
IQ slightly more superior than Pooh’s:
Who cares?
(That’s not a question but an exclamation).
Never virtuoso, I shall be the one
Who wears her brain upon her sleeve,
Her heart her slave.
Somewhat below, above so-so,
I know I’ll never be a virtuoso.
I can live with that.
I’ll Never Be A Virtuoso 5.21.2014 Vaguely About Music II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Pure Nakedness; Arlene Corwin
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 5:02 AM UTC