Permanent publicized
conversation starters
attract clueless puzzle boxes
and old timey trouts
that burden and scold you
with guilt trips and pestering inquiries.
Infuriating terminology
and slang words to describe
such masterpieces.
They leech on to you
at random moments
in random places
with every stupid question
they divulge at you
but you're instantly equipped
with locked and loaded snappy answers
to provoke the easily offended.
Destroying something beautiful
like putting a pile of veggies
on a meat lovers pizza,
is like the gratification
you seek and desire
when watching their perplexed faces
from such brash responses.
Needle under the skin
is more tolerable than
these under the skin
comments and remarks.
Good advice from ultra maroon
simpletons is the Jurassic Park
of depression.
Nobody wants to be told
who to be,
where to go
and how to live.
Pending disbursement,
talent and greatest length of thought
to the quickest impromptu impulse,
from the bottom of the barrel,
jailhouse kitchen magicians
to the top notch Picassos,
you get what you pay for
with your everlasting
ink splatter decisions.
Branded Artists catch a bad reputation
of arrogance and incompetence
from snot nosed prima donnas
if every demand of precision
isn't met to their
thoroughgoing adequacies,
like a humble peasant
who hasn't transformed
into a human footstool
for peevish princesses.
Manifestations constitute
preservations of tattoos
as art through the
eye of the beholder, like
a painting on a canvas.
Judgmental eyes and
inexperienced blank pages
will come and go
but your happiness
and symbolic reminders
of a certain time in your life
are what counts.
No matter the colour,
perspective,
proportion,
slightest imperfection,
how controversial or ridiculous,
significant or futile,
you've made your lifelong commitment
without shame, regret or remorse.
In the end, we are all the same
decaying organics as everything else.

each stroke of greased fingers on the mohawk
was a result of a genius work of art
an outlet where my soul barely peeks
yet you cut with your hypocritical shears and your rusty hand
and you call it discipline
and you call it concern
I call it *******

the shadows on my
eyelids were davincis and picassos
sketched in a magnificent representation
of inner self which you all want to see
yet suffocate by your rotten curricula
and you call it quality
and you call it excellence
I call it *******

the silver that glitters in these ears
conceals the tortures of my youth
the horrors that dwell in my every sleep
yet you rip from my skin you are unworthy of touch
and you call it decency
and you call it suitability
I call it *******

© Glenn L. Sentes

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Whatever you thought
of the modern art
you never said
you were impassive

your eyes or features
betraying nothing
you studied the art work
in your usual calmness

no ****** expression
no raised eyebrows
no tut-tutting
even the dead sheep

in the glass case
didn't put you off
or raise
emotive response

you eyed everything
walking slow
holding the programme
bought at the door

looking at each
as you went by
after a while
we moved along

to the small café
in the gallery
and had drinks
and sandwiches

and you talked
in your soft
open manner
not of art

or what we'd seen
but of work
and what you did
and unfolded things

like a magician
without revealing
secrets of it all
then we moved on

and you
were silent again
into the other rooms
of modern art

the Picassos
and Mondrians
and others
you taking photo shots

with your mobile phone
eyeing all the art
showing no emotion
no tilt of head

or wide-eyed
revelation
of surprise
just your own way

of appreciation son
your own
gentle way
of moving between

what is good or great
or seemingly crap
with the calmness
of a swan

through water
your depth
drinking it all in
with no pretence

or show
just that inner knowing
what you liked
and didn't

I am glad
you came with me
that day
the Tate Modern

wouldn't have been
the same somehow
your silence
your calm taking in

of art
your secret
appreciation
made it all

worth while
some way
but now
your untimely death

my son
makes it seem all
the more worth while
that day

that art
the shared time together
but I'd give
any Mondrian

or Picasso art away
just to be with you again
if only
for one more day.

Sonya likes
Paris streets
dark cafés

black coffees
cigarettes
those French ones

she likes nights
with wet streets
like oil slicks

those artists
selling cheap
second hand

Picassos
or such like
but mostly

she likes ***
between sheets
in back street

hotel rooms
with windows
with shutters

listening
to a cheap
transistor

radio
some French dame
singing of

a lost love
as she feels
Benedict

kiss each inch
of her flesh
his warm lips

and wet tongue
slide along
her soft groove

the outline
shadowy
of his ****

rise and fall
as they ride
the wild waves

of hot ***
between sheets
Sonya loves

Paris streets.

Do you see me,
right here in front of you?

I'm the girl who's not even 115 pounds
but wants to lose twenty.
I'm the girl wearing pale-pink lipstick Monday
and black by Saturday.
I'm the girl who hates how I look in my glasses
but hides behind the glass and frames.
I'm the girl constantly creating picassos on my arms
and books in my mind.
I'm the girl who is constantly daydreaming
because she never sleeps.

I'm waiting on you
Do you see me?

i just want to stay up to midnight and watch the footie...
see, already, it's there, he wannabe blind man
turning phonetics upside down
using optical symbols to sing with his eyes closed
and acting out a sloth piece of a stage's curtain call for encore,
footie can be american slang  for football: or ensure a bag of
flour explodes while i get scalped;
otherwise footie means football:
you know it's round enough to be kicked
rather than thrown for a touchdown...
never got the hang of it... n.f.l. means
as much to me as does excess of hair
on a cranium crop of expected hair with no beard,
and vice versa, loss of hair and a donned
beard for the plucked sucker of the 2nd ball drop...
baldy over here met elvis and in levis took
to a cattle stampede with aria: la la la lee lo lo he he
(mike jackson slam dunks a quack for the moon pond,
like it was n.b.a. anyway: walking on ice
the musical... now the encore... signature the
sound of applause);
so this married man is rebelling...watches football
till midnight, rebel...
watches the footie...
a. foot, i.e.
b. foot, e
c. foot eeh
d. footy
e. foo' tea
f. foo' tee
                                 now you guess the accent...
cumbrian? glaswegian?
north london or brick lane?                  which?
a, b, c d or e or f?^
           see what happens being judgemental and sober?
you get drunks doing picassos! and that's not good
not good one bit for the worth of investment in plagiarisms.
the stressor marks / diacritical marks missing in english
obviously gave us scot spelling and a welsh 1 + 1 of
a ******* longbow stylistic for the v long
before churchill... i wanted gaelic i got trainspotting spelling...
about as relevant as catcher in the rye relevant by now...
so... don't teach accent rubrics... and you'll get a heartfelt
superiority in the former colonies, while the pigeons coo:
or simply curl the famished tongues
that were silenced for man to speak in spasms
of an electrician checking the sockets for an electric depth
of the pigeons' coo into an aqualine echo of a sneeze,
if not snorkel or a gesundheit.
^*i hate how syllable splitting into compounds
show diacritical marks all too relevant, missing.

Our cycle of grit and grind
The brutal societal kind
Left the warm insides dry
To want ***** on the fly

Stretch the muscles sore
Yet he runs back for more
Forget the need to vent
Boy, you need to pay rent

Those arms toned healthy
By street dancing and Tai Chi
Are used as gears of machines
Or to wipe **** ***** clean

Those great young Picassos
Or those potential Platos
Have their way to top so steep
Since ideas and art are cheap

Those beautiful people
Paid to lend their *******
To wolves of superior collar
Proudly sorted by the color

The herd united in this song
La la la, there's nothing wrong
We are all numb as hookers
The system—the avid customer

~

I drove the spike that bent the spine,
the screaming left me at the turnstile
without exact change and late for the sunset

Slippery tracks added to the conceit
where beggars paint sidewalks
in day-glo Picassos leaking onto the curb

Cardboard memories create warmth
in perforated dreams,
paying cost for something broken

and the conductor signals
a left turn on a straight run
creasing the permanent press avenue

Billboards say “god is not dead”
until their contract runs out
and the labels are peeled for good

Still I stand here holding the hammer
swinging between the rafters
in this life after death revelry

on any night of the week
that brings each moment
to a complete standstill

yes, i understand the politics, or so i thought,
that biology will never spawn a humanism,
that darwinism will only spawn generic attempts
via disregarding existentialism sweats.*

when was the thought ever conceived,
that dialectics needed a mediator?
why would a mediator be needed
when the only mediator
is a park bench in athens, and two people
speaking?

i get the foul animals' existence, i get the whole
wild heart, and shrinking eyesight,
i get that animals are given pristine materialism,
being incubated by overt-sensual impregnation,
i get that they're impregnated by pure sensuality
(over-use of adjectives is like quantifying things,
as many qualities to the legions of ants
as attributes of the sun, ending with deity
and beginning with geometry),
animals are plagued by sensuality,
they are overly given the pentagon,
while man is given the hexagon / star of david,
animals are overly sensing, man is overly thinking,
when the only phobia of wilderness animal
is huger... man's is spider, enclosure, open-spaces...
animal is pulverised by the senses and things
it roams among... man is pulverised by thought
and nothing, roaming ingenuity by the Libra
dimming sight with hearing for classical composition,
dimming hearing with sight for pablo picassos..
the wild animal in fright of hunger...
and man abounding in it to reflect clocked
chicken press of the laid eggs clucks a sudden diversion
rather than adding to a diversity...
change the poetic gimmick of rhyme...
don't end with synonymous spelling,
intertwine rhyming elsewhere, lie:
'a sudden diversion' and 'adding to diversity'
as engaging to lines without an a# a# end of both
to reveal a missing echo, after all echoing is like rhyming,
but pitiful rhyming, because it's written down
and never plotted to decipher plato's shadows
and candle in the cave entered...  defeated first-step
defeated to claim the colour of defeat, the page
that dangled in the odds of waving like a signature
digitalised... all in all... animals are overly sensual,
and man is overly abstract... hence man
mediates symbols and thinking... while
animals mediate onomatopoeias sounding a bit
like touch on wood, and the parameters of allowed
petting:
             we blink thrice and think we spotted
             a thing only once, when in fact thrice.

They sit in the humblest of frames,
Faux wood-grained plastic grotesqueries
Purchased long ago from some doomed Grants or Bradlees,
Though one or two enjoy something nicer,
Left behind by some long-timer taking a buyout
Or a sympathetic youngster denied tenure
(She has, for the better part of three decades,
Cleaned up the detritus of middle-school children,
A bit stooped from the work,
Not to mention the burden
Of any number of she’s just  or she’s only
Tossed like so much bric-a-brac in her direction.)
The approximations of old masters equally eclectic in origin:
One or two gallery-quality reproductions
Blithely abandoned by some haughty faculty matron
Mentoring children through noblesse oblige,
The odd promotional piece from a scholastic publisher,
Mostly things she has cut from magazines or discarded texts.
She studiously avoids pieces tending to the dark or muted,
No Stuart portraiture or pensive Vermeers;
She has a strong predilection for bold, boisterous Gaugins,
Mad cubist Picassos, lush Cezanne still-lifes,
Even the odd blocky *******.
If you pressed her to explain her fetish
For the brightest of the great masters,
She would likely be at a loss to explain,
Having no academic bent for such things
(Though she has been known to curse the shortcomings
Of lithographers and pressmen under her breath)
And, as she freely admits, I’m not much good with words.
There would be the uncharitable suggestion
That their purpose is to mask cracks and pockmarks in her walls
(She has, to be sure, lived in a long series of such places)
But she has never, consciously or otherwise,
Used them for such pedestrian and utilitarian purposes;
They are, to her anyway, beautiful, and that is all they need be.

more to me than:
all the picassos at the Met
all the dictionaries in the library
all the concertos playing
all the ads posted
all the beauty the world offers.

For we,
               are beyond this life,
                                                     M my love.

When I was eight,
I would press myself  
against the creaky floorboards
of my home  
and listen  
to their tired groans  
of protest from my weight  
atop them,  
as I ripped the caps
off Sharpies,
and let the ink  
spread across the plastic wrap
like a flare.  
I’d stick my confused
colorful Picassos
into an oven
and watch in awe
as the wrap  
would shrink  
and fold in on itself  
appearing smaller  
to the world.  
Now,
at twenty  
I no longer listen  
to the groans  
from my creaky  
childhood home,  
I listen–  
to the murmurs  
from the black  
cellophane wrapped  
shop windows and signs
of tired buildings  
tired of wearing  
faces, to great  
the masses  
of the world  
that don’t show.

This is the 2nd poem I’ve come upon written in 1999, so woefully up to date I feel I must send it out.  Called Gone In A Minute.

                    Gone In A Minute

An avalanche, a mud slide ,
Every meter drenched and plastered,
Gliding and colliding, guided
By terrain alone,
And crash, boom, clang,
The whole shebang is gone.

People!  Yes, of course!
Their words and art;
The future’s start.
Centuries of minds,
Mines of thinking gone:  
In a non-thinking wink.

How long then, family name?
The worked for fame?
Volcanic ash, a lava stream,
Centuries of verse, and worse,
Memory all creamed away.

Fire, flood, the drowned, the charred:
Things no longer anything;
The best and worst on equal footing.

Wars: the scarred, disfigured, marred
And all the future Bachs, Picassos,
Jenny Linds, Carusos,
Shakespeares, Einsteins,
(not to mention Arlene Corwins)
Never to expand a wing,
Create a thing,

The crux is, what we bring to mind
How easy and complete,
How fast defeat
Comes to a globe
Once calamity’s in orbit.
And we wonder what is worth it, what is not,
Ask what lasts when pasts wiped out
Leave nothing.

Gone In A Minute 8 22.2020/improved from1.2.1999 Our Times, Our Culture II; Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin

Traveling on the train
Window seat the only aim
The sound of the wheels on the tracks
Interrupted by the melody of the Horn fading in and out
Non existent echo echoing for a few seconds more
Concentration back to the background score
Of the wheels on the rails
Stations and buildings
Mountains and nothingness
Passing them just observing
Screeching halt or another train on par
Different notes in sink with the existing tune
Trip taken between troubles
One left at home
Another waiting alone
Interlude offering multitude
Solutions to problems unfold
Chimes of the station clock
Blaring of the buzzer
Whistle from the guard
Train begins its gallop
Wobbly in its travel
Meditative as it unravels
Untying the brains shackles
Fragile before travel
Now back on the saddle
Nothing has changed
Mystery don't bother to unravel
Deep turns as the tracks curve
Head stuck out to see the engine swerves
Quick count of the carriages follows
Images painted forever our minds become Picassos
Rails build ties
Every wanderer on his way
To its tune his body sways
The lullaby closing the eyes
Dreams ready to begin its play

Allow me to implicate myself
by way of introduction

Or perhaps offer this effigy
en route to getting warmed up

This is no scraping of a violin bow,
nor some preemptive plea bargain

This is the executive summary
of a report from the front

An expert guided tour
of the way we live now

Wherein “we” is limited to “he”
and in which:

The editing of innuendo feels endless,
and it’s not just a matter of “delete”

It’s rubbing the word “***” off a blackboard,
over and over again

Auto-correcting with the accuracy
a computer could never achieve

To walk in a way that suggests
you’ve got deflector shields engaged

Cultivating the cordiality of a handshake
without the slightest sign of a squeeze

Protecting yourself from listening,
much less laughing, at jokes

Maneuvering to obscure the entitlement
that underarm-stains your image

Averting your eyes from necklines and hemlines,
no matter how deep or short

So role-play all the new rules,
rather than resembling a mere exception;

Preemptively (but sincerely!) apologize
(while acknowledging your privilege)

Evolve into an astronomer of bias,
mapping despicable constellations

Be the first to storm out of panels
without any women on the stage

Paint over those posters of Picassos;
erase all those Woody Allen movies

Ponder your great power,
your even greater responsibilities

With the fearlessness of Spider-Man
dangling head-first, prepared to fall

Stay poised within the centre
on a teeter-totter of ugly extremes

Accept like a kid after Christmas
you want for nothing, having gotten it all

**** it up (rather than “man up”) --
or just “be a man,” whatever that means