"moto" poems
There's blood on the floor
And gristle on his cleaver
\
Masks in the box at the corner
of the small apartment flat
/
Hidden behind a moto-helm
Driving by fun, of the socio-style
\
Richard, Phil, Charlie, the gang
Over the head, face remains changed
/
Travel through the Phonehom
Slashing through the fleshy barriers
\
Coming on a grisly scene
Awaiting something new to see
/
Quick rap-tapping
Keyboard strokes
\
Pushing through the double doors
This is it folks
For the US, for the US!
The Ruski's will fall
But these two,
At the moment, don't know it
At all
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
Movement no.1
Andante con moto
Farewell.
I am leaving you
with the sweetness
and the sadness
of every creature on this earth
draped over my shoulders
as a shroud
We rest now
before the final struggle
looking down upon our lives
from a precipice
The wind calls up
a faint sound
a song
of healing
as resignation
So bring forth the dirge
let dogs and oboes
cue the horns
as we embark
upon a tender struggle
We are whipped back
and forth
between grief and glory
in this life
an indifferent life
lush with raw power
But thankfully
at the end of every day
there is sleep.
Movement no. 2
Im tempo eines gemächlichen Ländlers. Etwas täppisch und sehr derb.
Dance returns
and goes mad
Who could lift a leg
that high?
Not I.
The music careens
off the walls
in a dissonant minuet
of the hours
The clenched teeth
of each and every minute
grind here
as if time itself
took heel
and made a sparkling trace
across the pines
of this exalted floor of dance.
Movement no. 3
Rondo Burleske: allegro assai. Sehr trotzig.
A music major's delight.
Fugues against fugues.
Dense contrapuntal figures
and sarcastic counterpoint
shouting out
from the back of the class.
And then
just love
confused perhaps
but real love indeed.
Movement no. 4
Sehr langsam und noch zurüclhaltend
The violin
noblest of instruments
takes its place
In bitter sorrow
life soon lost
the fruit of the tree
is extinguished
the promise of green days
burned by drought
All is withheld.
There is peace at the end
but no joy
the abyss is only silence
and a taut string
connecting us
to eternity.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 10:47 PM UTC
The cello
mother of music
sings peacefully
from the eye of the storm
A peace purchased
at the price of certitude
Piano provides counterpoint
restrained
elegant
its curtains of sound
dream their own dreams
and a longing violin
makes love to
the air itself
We march deliberately
to this tempo
stepping in time
to the sweet
and terrifying strains
of our own mortality
The composer
died
at thirty one years.
Why - how
have I lived so long?
Perhaps
to hear this music as if for
the first time
and so share it
with the sky.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 8:34 PM UTC
Dicono che la mia
sia una poesia d'inappartenenza.
Ma s'era tua era di qualcuno:
di te che non sei più forma, ma essenza.
Dicono che la poesia al suo culmine
magnifica il Tutto in fuga,
negano che la testuggine
sia più veloce del fulmine.
Tu sola sapevi che il moto
non è diverso dalla stasi,
che il vuoto è il pieno e il sereno
è la più diffusa delle nubi.
Così meglio intendo il tuo lungo viaggio
imprigionata tra le bende e i gessi.
Eppure non mi dà riposo
sapere che in uno o in due noi siamo una sola cosa.
1.4k
Mtu mweusi mweusi, katika mwezi mkali wa moto,
ameketi katika kivuli cha mti wa Baobab.
Majani yaliyomo mara moja
walikuwa kavu na ukame,
waathirika wa upepo wa mabadiliko.
"Wazee, wananiita zamani." Alidhani,
"Majira ya joto ya sabini yanigeuka kijivu,
lakini mti huu wa Baobab ulikua mrefu na wenye nguvu
Wakati majeshi ya Kirumi yalipitia njia hii. "
Mzee huyo alitafuta matunda ya baobab
na akaingia kwenye hali kama hali.
Alikuwa katika hali ya akili;
Sio usingizi, sio macho kabisa.
Aliposikia sauti: "Nina kiu." Ilisema,
Ingawa alikuwa na uhakika alikuwa peke yake.
Ilionekana si sauti ya binadamu:
monotone kavu ya ubongo.
"Kwa vizazi, wanaume kama wewe
Walitaka makazi yangu kutoka kwenye jua,
Lakini sasa imekamilika; nchi imeharibika
Na mimi nina kufa, mdogo. "
Mtu mzee alilia kusikia maneno haya
Kwa maana miti hizi zinapokufa, kama lazima,
Wao huanguka juu ya ardhi yenye ubongo
Hivyo haraka kurudi kwenye Vumbi.
"Dunia imebadilika kwa wewe na mimi,
Upepo ni kavu chini ya jua.
Ninasamehe ulimwengu wa wanadamu
Kwa maana hawajui waliyofanya. "
Mtu mzee aliamka na mwanzo
na akainua na miwa yake.
Alilia kwa kufikiri mti huu utafa
lakini machozi hawezi kuchukua nafasi ya mvua.
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 7:50 AM UTC
Burn bright Braveheart
my spirit guides you.
Whispers
They warrant warning Signs
And guide my wayward path.
Tracking to find me
my Demons Die.
Rebirth rides strong in the wind beside me.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 2:23 AM UTC
My heart is a burning city
Held up by pillars of salt
No one's sure how it started
A cigarette astray?
Catherine O'Leary's heartbreak?
Job lives in a house on the hill
On the teetering outskirt of town
He visits twice a week
And carries a purple umbrella for the ashes
Can pity turn into love?
Can saying it make it real?
Are we doomed to dream of a lucid skyline stained orange?
Slaving over carting wheelbarrows full of gristle
Of the burning tower I used to be
My silhouette on the horizon
Is the hunchback of New England
Dec 10, 2011
Dec 10, 2011 at 1:30 AM UTC
Ci vediamo in proiezione, ed ecco
la città, in una sua povera ora nuda,
terrificante come ogni nudità.
Terra incendiata il cui incendio
spento stasera o da millenni,
è una cerchia infinita di ruderi rosa,
carboni e ossa biancheggianti, impalcature
dilavate dall'acqua e poi bruciate
da nuovo sole. La radiosa Appia
che formicola di migliaia di insetti
- gli uomini d'oggi - i neorealistici
ossessi delle Cronache in volgare.
Poi compare Testaccio, in quella luce
di miele proiettata sulla terra
dall'oltretomba. Forse è scoppiata,
la Bomba, fuori dalla mia coscienza.
Anzi, è così certamente. E la fine
del Mondo è già accaduta: una cosa
muta, calata nel controluce del crepuscolo.
Ombra, chi opera in questa èra.
Ah, sacro Novecento, regione dell'anima
in cui l'Apocalisse è un vecchio evento!
Il Pontormo con un operatore
meticoloso, ha disposto cantoni
di case giallastre, a tagliare
questa luce friabile e molle,
che dal cielo giallo si fa marrone
impolverato d'oro sul mondo cittadino...
e come piante senza radice, case e uomini,
creano solo muti monumenti di luce
e d'ombra, in movimento: perché
la loro morte è nel loro moto.
Vanno, come senza alcuna colonna sonora,
automobili e camion, sotto gli archi,
sull 'asfalto, contro il gasometro,
nell'ora, d'oro, di Hiroshima,
dopo vent'anni, sempre più dentro
in quella loro morte gesticolante: e io
ritardatario sulla morte, in anticipo
sulla vita vera, bevo l'incubo
della luce come un vino smagliante.
Nazione senza speranze! L'Apocalisse
esploso fuori dalle coscienze
nella malinconia dell'Italia dei Manieristi,
ha ucciso tutti: guardateli - ombre
grondanti d'oro nell'oro dell'agonia.
1.3k
Mais um dia cansativo
Com a tarde inteira para dormir
Um pouco de descanso seria o remédio
Numa fusão de tudo da-se o tédio
Daí algo fica estranho
Você sabe que não está normal
Uma movimentação, um chororô
Uma energia ruim cobre o meu ciclo
E então, alguns baques na minha janela
Algo de ruim teria acontecido
Não sabia que com ela
Então levanto de um cochilo pela tarde
E alguns amigos me avisam
Que a pessoa mais amada corria perigo
Numa aventura jovem
O perigo vem
Não olha para quem, mas bate com força
Numa aventura jovem
Um sonho se vai
E sem olhar para trás
Se transforma numa forca
Cada erro uma consequência
Mas a esperança não acaba
Positivo deve-se pensar
Com um acerto forma-se a palavra
Uma moto, uma estrada, um acidente
E tudo vira de ponta a cabeça
E agora? O que será?
Só o tempo pode nos responder
Se depender da minha torcida
Ela irá viver.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
Mia vita, a te non chiedo lineamenti
fissi, volti plausibili o possessi.
Nel tuo giro inquieto ormai lo stesso
sapore han miele e assenzio.
Il cuore che ogni moto tiene a vile
raro è squassato da trasalimenti.
Così suona talvolta nel silenzio
della campagna un colpo di fucile.
891
E nella notte nera come il nulla,
a un tratto, col fragor d'arduo dirupo
che frana, il tuono rimbombò di schianto:
rimbombò, rimbalzò, rotolò cupo,
e tacque, e poi rimareggiò rinfranto,
e poi vanì. Soave allora un anto
s'udì di madre, e il moto di una culla.
860
Jammin' in Jamaica
Driving my DeSoto
Being pursued by
My foe Quasimodo
Lying on the dash is
The missing person photo
When my phone rings
I hear "Hello Moto!"
(Chorus)
I don't have to work
When I'm in my pajamas
Acting like a ****
When I'm in the Bahamas
Really go berserk
When I'm feeding my llamas
We all go to pieces
When we’re talkin' to our mommas
Jammin' in Jamaicaaaa...
Jammin' in Jamaicaaaa...
Jammin' in Jamaicaaaa...
Jammin' in Jamaicaaaa...
Rush hour traffic
So I park my DeSoto
Nowhere in sight
Is my foe Quasimodo
See a man who looks like
The missing person photo
Then his phone rings
Shouting "Hello Moto!"
(Chorus)
I don't have to work
When I'm in my pajamas
Acting like a ****
When I'm in the Bahamas
Really go berserk
When I'm feeding my llamas
We all go to pieces
When we’re talkin' to our mommas
Jammin' in Jamaicaaa...
Jammin' in Jamaicaaa...
Jammin' in Jamaicaaa...
Jammin' in Jamaicaaa...
Jammin' in Jamaica
With the man in the photo
Who's not really missing
Just roving incognito
Suddenly appears
My foe Quasimodo
Truce as we pose
For a group selfie photo
(Chorus)
I don't have to work
When I'm in my pajamas
Acting like a ****
When I'm in the Bahamas
Really go berserk
When I'm feeding my llamas
We all go to pieces
When we’re talkin' to our mommas
(Repeat chorus and fade, with "Jammin' in Jamaicaaa" playing in the background with lines 1, 3, 5, and 7 of the chorus.)
© 2020 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
Mar 12, 2020
Mar 12, 2020 at 12:06 AM UTC
Il vento è un'aspra voce che ammonisce
per noi stuolo che a volte trova pace
e asilo sopra questi rami secchi.
E la schiera ripiglia il triste volo,
migra nel cuore dei monti, viola
scavato nel viola inesauribile,
miniera senza fondo dello spazio.
Il volo è lento, penetra a fatica
nell'azzurro che s'apre oltre l'azzurro,
nel tempo ch'è di là dal tempo; alcuni
mandano grida acute che precipitano
e nessuna parete ripercuote.
Che ci somiglia è il moto delle cime
nell'ora - quasi non si può pensare
né dire - quando su steli invisibili
tutt'intorno una primavera strana
fiorisce in nuvole rade che il vento
pasce in un cielo o umido o bruciato
e la sorte della giornata è varia,
la grandine, la pioggia, la schiarita.
813
Something was a bit different this time
We moved her out of a place she lost everything on
A place of disastrous memories, left cuddled in every corner
No "moto" to grow
Born autonomous and only to remain that way
Just living, breathing, nothing but courageous...Just...Just...
Now, I think of all she's lost. I stare at the floor, once cleaned of filth.
The walls hold the pale of pictures hung--Only yellow surrounds them, as
a respect of nicotine that scars the surface
Now, she exists where her predecessor once lived. Almost an exact replica! She withholding her pity and junk!
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 10:37 AM UTC
I am lost inside a small center
Exhaust fumes full off smoke
Sounds everywhere
Generators
Moto mobiles
Crying children
Talks and music
Fully confused...
I start counting...
One
Two
Three
Four...and so on
I tell you,less than four tycoons
Millionaires amidst hustlers
I know of them,
Humble backhrounds great achievement
Then how many are within here,
Thoughts alike?
Perhaps all of these people
Or alone I think of this !!!!
Society mixed up
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC
No matter how strong you are one cannot simply out-muscle or out-shine a mad man who has great taste in fashion.
A.M.G. Is the ultimate hooligan it doesn't have to take charge to prove it's tenacity because it's a presidential sedan that puts you in charge.
No need for a spooky entrance because sometimes demons want to dwell were there is brute force.
I miss the 6.2 litre engine, it is the intrinsic Moto of Mercedes," A big engine for the perfect gentlemen".
Cruising luxuriously has no peak when it comes to un-doubtable comfort and well established elegance. With a classic loud noise one can't but wonder if the barbarian needs marketing.
An angry gentlemen with a smile on his face that never lacks in pace doesn't need frenetic footwork, the gentlemen goes straight to the point and why wobble on about a winding route when Mercedes automatically includes you in elite circles. Quality that exceeds all levels of maturity, Mercedes keeps getting younger and wiser!
The phrase "numbers don't lie" insinuates that alphabets do lie. Really? How? When their associated with such class...A-class, B-class, C-class, E-class, G-class, S-class and so on. I think the numbers cliche is a turn-off.
Pleasure always mixes with business when it comes to a Benz.
Jul 2, 2019
Jul 2, 2019 at 8:47 AM UTC
give applause to the blind judge, hats off to the deaf law
nobody remembers right from wrong
oops brain glitch, not permanent
or is it
has it all become a conspiracy or should i go back and study psychology
i used respect as money, earned some bad habits and honey,
Got time and some std's
Dont forget it,yeah i dont regret it thats why i said it
lost control,sold my soul, for what ?
popularity, clarity,insanity? SO THEY SAY
I like to call it Love
Is this a spell or, is Love just a butterfly floating beautifully in hell
Brother and mother,wife and children, strenghts and weakness' we all fulfill them
Head up here's a moto
quitters never win and winners never quit
wait why am i sparying this nobody is listening lol
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
J'ai toujours sous la main
Une ou deux molécules de ma muse effervescente,
Sa poudrière et sa houppe pour le teint.
Et quand vient le boléro de la migraine
Et que l'hallali explose dans ma tête en pleine chasse à courre
Et que c'est la curée chaude
Je rappelle la meute des mots chiens et taureaux
Et je transforme en plein couvent les kilomètres de petit-lait entier en fa dièse mineur
De ma Decatur ecclésiastique
En AOP.
AOP,
C'est Aspirine et Antimoine,
Les deux vocalises de ma muse,
Deux sœurs siamoises,
Deux divas effervescentes de Cadix
Que nul bistouri ne peut disjoindre
Quand en duo, aveugles, elles dansent leur boléro dans un bain d'encre
Allegretto con moto
Au son des cors de chasse
Au lieu des castagnettes.
Ces deux divas sont une lettre d'indulgence,
Un passeport incunable pour le paradis,
Dont je suis l'enlumineur, le rubricateur, l'imprimeur, le relieur
Et l'auteur.
J'imprime à grand tirage leur psautier poisseux sur deux colonnes
Et quarante deux lignes
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 9:00 AM UTC
Lasciando adesso che le vene crescano
in intrichi di rami melodiosi
inneggianti al destino che trascelse
te fra gli eletti a cingermi di luce.
In libertà di spazio ogni volume
di tensione repressa si modella
nel fervore del moto e mi dissanguo
di canto "vero" adesso che trascino
la mia squallida spoglia dentro l'orgia
dell'abbandono. O, senza tregua più,
dannata d'universo, o la perfetta
nudità della vita,
o implacabili ardori riplasmanti
la già morta materia: in te mi accolgo
risospinta dagli echi all'infinito.
618
Would any person shed one tear
If my sad and breaking heart
Stopped from all of the beatings and silence..
Would you say a eulogy when I'm gone?
Sneer..Sneer..
I bleed red
Just as any one bleeds
An artistic soul discarded due to a mirror
and a shallow glance
Do you forsake the original and cherished writers
and artists?
They have no perfection to their works and appearance..
They were out casts just as I
When I try and Join a crowd...
Find my sweetheart..
Work my talents.
Alas I'm scorn and reminded of my dark imperfections
That only can be perfect as a shallow mind
places a celebrity as a mannequin sitting within a photo
of a fairytale story....
Living in a tabloid
A destructive "wishing star: "Fairy tale shoot"
I am the "Hunch Back Of Notre Dame."
Quizi Moto and his brilliant mind.
Hiding in his dark and lonely quarters
due to his "monster defined appearance"
Never wishing to be anything but a part of a
social gathering which cherished and needed his writings and paintings.
After the Hunchback failed to ding the time with the church bells..
He was found, motionless. Cold.
Neglected.
Tears shed of guilt.
By those who tortured his soul and had him cast
in hiding....
Due to nothing more than ugly chants and appearance comparisons
that should be cast in crumpled ***** down wishing wells.
May 17, 2021
May 17, 2021 at 9:03 PM UTC
Looking out into the night, I see nothing sitting here on the ledge of my studio window. Or rather I see what other's might over look and view as nothing- nothing speacial. A deck that seperates twin apartment buildings, an old tree, the street to my right and the remains of a broken building and weathered fence to my left.
This is the first place I have ever called my own- neighbor's that embrace with love and friendship become a second family in their simple way. I am sad to leave.
I have been alone so long that Im not sure how to be around people, let alone let someone stay a while.
I like my simple close friends- support its taken me what seems like a life time to earn and find. I like who I am and the woman I am becoming. Its uncomplicated, and yet still tangled in this flesh is every story- every person who has ever touched it. I hold their memories, trying to always learn from what each one left behind.
Laughter, love, a voice of my own, forgiveness, bridges burnt, bridges rebuilt- responsibility for my actions and the every day learning struggle of not letting people project their feelings on to me and trying my hardest to not project my own feelings on to them...
I guess, I just hope the people in my life that do stick around- the ones that took another look, the ones who truely cared to get to know me- know that even though I **** at showing them at times - that I simply love them, in the simplest way possible.
"love the ones that treat you right- and forget the ones that dont"
Thats kind of been my moto since my birthday this year. I am not one to judge- I know I have ****** up- we all do... and for me forgiveness is the one gift that can be recieved, or given- in a world where people seem to know only how to walk away- that makes all the difference. I thought thats how I wanted to be... the one that leaves first so they never feel the bite of sadness but thats not my way, it never has been.
So I say " first love yourself, staying true to your own heart, then love the ones that treat you right and the ones that treat you wrong- learn to forgive- learn to speak less and do more. Love is an action, we can say it all day... but if we do not learn to show each other, then it means little."-me
Aug 25, 2011
Aug 25, 2011 at 5:07 PM UTC
Epitaph i
He loved
He tried
He lived
He cried
He fought
His head
He rests
He's dead
Epitaph ii
Here lies Haschi-moto
His eyes are clouded over
His blood is thick as pudding
So let him feed the clover
Epitaph iii
When life is at its end
You'll end up here, my friend
Beneath the earthen quilt
A dearth of fear and guilt
Epitaph iv
Life was very hard
But now I have some rest
Asleep here in this lovely yard
With no drum beating in my chest
So peaceful is this time
In bed, beneath the ground
I'll rest-up with no cares
'Til Christ returns with trumpet sound
Epitaph v
Here lies the tired vessel
Drained entirely of its hustle
Here's hoping he won't wrestle
With fire, sulphur,
shredded muscle
He praised his silent God above
For all that He did give
For teaching him to cope and love
And the blessed life he got to live
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 7:04 PM UTC
I wish
life was like a book
full of
crazy adventures and
forever love.
I wish
life was like a book
action packed and
never boring.
Even at the sake of
great sacrifice.
I wish life was like a book.
I want to be a heroine
who saves the boy she loves
and the world
with my demon swords and cunning wit.
Never boring.
kids genetically engineered to have bird wings
teens thrown in an arena to entertain by fighting for their lives
a chosen one who learns magic and saves the world
delinquents breaking the dystopian government for individuality
children of a gods that must fight monsters to survive
supernaturals that use runes and weapons to take back everything
That could be me!
and what have I done?
Nothing
and what is my life?
Trite
I wish my life was like a book
because this mundane existence
is exhausting me.
Why am I even here?
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 3:09 PM UTC