"percussionists" poems
I think if I should be more aware
Of the peeling of a banana,
And all its slightly muffled, sticky sounds
I could call it music, and
Become, myself, a profound cataloger of all things noise.
For words are only structured noises,
We mold like clay. Well, why don’t we simply reign in
The noises that are already out there?
We’ll learn the nuances of a peeling banana,
Call them words: it is a banana saying, I’m peeling.
We’ll call them poems, call them song.
The sound of a cardboard coffee cup, for instance,
Gently returned to a desk after sipping
Multiplied by a classroom of
Caffeinated percussionists would be
Aptly called an avant-guard symphony! And I perhaps,
A modern-day maestro, conductor at the front of the room
Flapping my arms to the beat, up, down! Up-down! –Only pausing
To write down the tum-tum-tum, furiously capturing this rhythm
On paper for future readers to come.
But I fear, it is in this act of writing it down, that
The banana forgets how it sounds,
Or I forget to sound the banana, and
It all starts to become a sort of cacophonous din of
Slurping children, left by the wayside by the
Education system and adopted by Starbucks,
Who doesn’t serve this sort of poem.
So we must market this to the young folks;
It will be a movement of ultimate vintage-chic,
(Recalling the days of our wordless hairy brethren,
Who could only rely on grunts and noise)
To imagine Man without clothing is possible,
But Man without poetry is simply absurd.
Jun 30, 2010
Jun 30, 2010 at 4:59 AM UTC
you?
made of pixels?
hah, if i wanted pixels i would have played nintendo 64 with my neighbour down the street and angrily whispered "h-e-double hockey sticks" under my breath as one of my pixelated hearts faded away.
you are anything but intangible; i can feel your pulse across two countries.
our hearts are undeniably made of flesh.
i know that word grosses you out,
but the blood pumping, orifice-filled organs in our chests constantly beat with the ferocity of 109 percussionists drumming on the queen's birthday.
hearts are not meant for beautification; one cannot get a cosmetic surgery on their heart to impress the girl next door.
it's up to you to pair with your just-as-ugly brain to prove how beautiful love can be.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
The percussionists
are counting, they are alert --
to the right moment.
May 4, 2023
May 4, 2023 at 3:35 AM UTC
we're dancing in a bar
i'm wasted
you're pretending to be wasted
the band's alright
but let's be honest
i want the drummer
i always did have a thing for percussionists
i don't even know you
but you're acting like i do
i roll with it
hand on my back
i can roll with it
you're a good dancer
i'll give it to you
now things are going fast
i'm spinning round and round and round
you lean in and say
"you can't lead yourself"
god, if i could have stopped right there
and told the whole bar
what you said to me
who the **** are you?
you are no one
no one no one no one
clearly you have no idea
who i am
i lean back in and say
"i don't need anyone to lead me"
smile my prettiest smile
and spin away
spin away spin away spin away
i'm gonna spend the rest of my days
spinnin away
Feb 13, 2011
Feb 13, 2011 at 9:21 PM UTC