"pointillism" poems
I.
I'm a growing polliwog,
not a butterfly--
pickled legs hang off of my fish body
and gills close off so rapidly.
A minute ago I could caress the water
and make oxygen bubble in my throat. Now
beating,
pulsing
lungs intrude
like pink bubble gum ready to pop.
What a sadistic word,
oxygen.
II.
After a little nap in a sleeping bag
butterflies are monarchs,
stained glass fluttering perfection,
symbols of luck,
symbols of
beauty,
Their wired bodies are scribbled together
like starving supermodels.
III.
And my seams are
!slowly!
pinching themselves open,
a la Frankenstein.
I want to think these body parts are mine:
A tentative nose,
very green pointillism eyes
with lashes like brittle grass or bent nails,
These white playdough thighs,
and stretchmarks like remnants of lace
chewed up by my insane canine.
Pink.
Dainty and tangled on my legs,
I think they look like jet-streams lit by sunset.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 9:39 PM UTC
The river drank gallons of ripened water-the color of aging bananas
mouth gaping wider, fishing for more of a glass half full
tired of the filthy laundry piling beneath the surface
waiting to sketch deeper into the canyon and discover
a cure for boredom
sunset: gazing at the back of the horizon
easy to notice the tiny spit of pointillism
which gave focus to the clouds
maybe there are more finer details
than a ragged pair of sneakers and
eye lashes that tickle ears
hoping that the crisp iced air would help
remind tall lagging legs that the unexpected action
would be to keep 3 extra soft layers waiting for
the dirt encrusted pink toe nails to feel the promise of
making a right choice
thinking perhaps that writing down little
snip-its of the way curls only twist closer to
each other in heat will keep the electricity in busy brains
buzzing just long enough to avoid the bills
but only if someone describes touching lace
thinking even more that there
are better ways for you and I to figure out the word
we
if by midnight strawberry swirls don't melt down my arm
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 12:38 AM UTC
Speckled polka
pointillism in the sky,
in lime and apple green,
caress the jagged, jaded
jade summer oak.
And smiles down
like the angel
rays, which
cast my soul to heaven.
And insignificance.
As I steal through
my sunshine archways.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 3:32 PM UTC
I always hated art.
as a kid, the forty-five minutes
every ******* Friday and Wednesday was
excoriating. even though
the other kids adored
fondling their fingers through paint
swatches, it just wasn't for me.
until I met you, my muse and my
canvas, your shuddering skin a
cream tableaux for my
lust to reimagine
pointillism cubism impressionism
le renaissance haut
in scratches and bites and
streaks of saliva criss-crossing
goosebumped skin.
I always hated art.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
among the lean and
narrow hours
when the brutal minutes
aggrieve
like the protruding ribs
of an emaciated animal
abandoned things shuffle
into dark unkempt little rooms
littered
with the manifested debris
of a life
unspoken thoughts
in rusted cans
stacked heedlessly
on overused shelving
bowing perilously under the weight
mangled hopes
kicked into the corners
stuck to the floor
foul and fetid
vitiated with wasted time
black mold
leaking from dilapidated hearts
creating pointillism art
across the sagging plaster
overhead
consuming an ersatz
Sistine Chapel ceiling
saints and angels
prophets and devils
sepia toned
in their water stain media
disappearing
into corruptions artistic virtuosity
only God remains visible
reaching out
to give life
if any are left
to receive it
Nov 28, 2023
Nov 28, 2023 at 10:23 PM UTC
There's a blank sheet of paper I hung on the wall
My mother suggested to after a fall
A fall of inspiration,
Dead of true life,
Hope prancing, leaping, dashing,
In the light of unconventional thought beyond all comprehension,
Of dancing on cloud floors, declining haze of the forests,
While insouciant specks of light, similar to glowing pointillism
Can sharply puncture one's un-anticipating boredom
And infect with a communicable virus of
Celestial inspiration.
I always look back on that paper and perceive,
Beyond my tantalized body and anguishing mind
Through it's blankness, it's empty slate,
It's disgusting plainness, piercing my hope,
It's beauty in its... Lack of anything, null, nought, nothingness--
An array, plethora, profusion, superfluity
Of inconceivable courses of actions
Breathtaking inspiration.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
i sometimes watch a cooking show and feed myself, finding old italians very funny with everything simple being a milanese delicacy, ambrosia of a doubly baked bread, sprinkled with water, a juicy tomato and some olive oil... mmm, yeah, am bro sia... where’s the salt? if this is ambrosia please give me a haggis in a bagpipe. by the way... the best sarcasm is found in a hangover.
i still don’t know how a cat managed
to knock on my bedroom door
while slayer’s seasons in the abyss
stopped me munching on violins and cellos:
i got paranoid being the only person in the house
with that eerie sound of knock knock...
but i guess greeting him in the morning
with a head-butt utilised his head for the ‘being human’
initiation... only yesterday he managed to open
the door to the kitchen using the handle -
and like any man with his middle finger outstretched
in defiance... he did the same, but with a thumb.
p.s. poetry and collage have a lot in common,
as does poetry and music, i still don't know
why philosophy started the fight, poetry has
nothing in common with philosophy to be
even remotely related for a boxing match,
it's poetry as music and collage, the classical stances
of philosophy are becoming more and more obsolete;
i guess someone had to point that out and side
with plato rather than socrates, but i have to add
one blatant innovation i'm working on,
no not the plagiarism of tristan tzara by william burroughs
of the famed 'cut up' method of writing poetry,
i'm talking Bach, yes, BACH, polyphony, multilayering,
spontaneity, and everything that tzara attempted
picking out bingo ball snippets of newspaper
articles from a bag like some ****** doing the same,
writing a abduction-ransom letter to a rich girl's family
enigmatically... also enclosing a portrait of the girl
done with crude pointillism in cartoon shock colours
with a signature that ræd: antoinette warhol -
yep, and some people will be famous for 15minutes in
a repetitive loop.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 7:06 AM UTC
Supposedly beauty is in the eye of the beholder
Which is super gay
So when I say you are beautiful
This is what I mean
You are beautiful in the same way
That the word, “believe” in sign language
Can translate to being married to your own thoughts
When a person sees something beautiful
Their pupils can increase up to 45 percent in size
I’m not high today I swear
Just that
You surprise me every time
Your left lung is smaller than your right
So it can make room for your heart
That’s just biology
And when they say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach
When people blush
Their stomach lining turns red too
Laughing lowers stress
A 7 year old can laugh almost six hundred times in one day
An adult
13 to 100
I want to make you laugh like we are 7 again
I was 7 once
I’ve had seventeen years practice since then
When you put a shell to your ear
What you are really hearing is the sound of your own blood
Rushing through your ears
There is a ******* ocean inside of you
That swells like lungs
And rushes a steady current of mostly
Unattractive creatures
You are like the bottom of the sea
All single celled and fight for life
In darkness
And maybe that doesn’t seem too beautiful
But you don’t really know what’s down there
Do you?
You are beautiful like old people
Who think you are sweet
Because you’ve had enough patience
To match their pace
“I don’t know when I got old” she said
“But I wasn’t ready. It took me ten years to figure this place out.
“I’m 94. I don’t have another ten.”
And she kissed me
Beautiful like poetry
When poetry hurts the most
When it gives you goose-bumps
And I bet if I stuck my arm inside a music box
To let my chilled skin pluck the metal keys inside
There wouldn’t be music
I am too soft
And it would hurt
But it looks like if I were hard enough
There might be
It would sound like chaos
The keys are beautiful
But the sound inconsistent
Beautiful
Like the collaboration of molecules
That understood pointillism enough to make me
But still experimental
So they gave me cancer
And I’m shorter than I want to be
And I am pretty sure they are laughing
About what they did to my brain
But my lungs are perfectly uneven
So my heart can pump oceans
So I can move and be stupid
And do things like tell you
You are ******* beautiful
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 4:58 PM UTC
Never was a Walt sorta Kat, Though I do understand his works and his um desire which has a , distinct overlay into and onto my life, that **** But Ezra, oh Ezra Pound, See I never even read a lick of his words, but a Picture a dear and well, um, interesting situation friend possibly, we will get to that latter, but A friend Justin Williams did a picture in Art class of Ezra, a pointillism portrait. don't have the picture on this drive but here is the original picture he was copying and it is found here: titled "73: RICHARD AVEDON 1923-2004 Ezra Pound at the Home "
https://www.liveauctioneers.com/item/1901663_richard-avedon-1923-2004-ezra-pound-at-the-home
Now ever since I saw this photo of Ezra pound Ihaving a migraine, which we have in common , I just related, to what I saw, and it was far more than a black and white picture, I saw the hues and colors of a man who was truly troubled by a knowledge, and as "Jesus" Yeshua Immanuel said in the The Nag Hammadi
Jesus said, "Let him who seeks continue seeking until he finds. When he finds, he will become troubled. When he becomes troubled, he will be astonished, and he will rule over the All."
and this I understood in the anguish in the picture and a moment one is hard pressed to hide ones true pains.
so a taste of his work, for today was the first time I have ever read it by choice of actually seeking it out. though this picture is my avatar on my OS system. funny how things are. ehh?
A Girl - Poem by Ezra Pound
The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast -
Downward,
The branches grow out of me, like arms.
Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child - so high - you are,
And all this is folly to the world.
Ezra Pound
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
I’m sitting on a fume couch with ashtray
legs, counting the khaki strands
in the beaded curtain that dices
the hallway up into barcodes. The table
by the fridge is a cable spool lead-
painted to match the molding. Around
it is a mesh-back lawn chair, a SoCal
fold-out from a SoHo dumpster,
a spill-trayless booster seat,
and a bottle cap barstool. Everyone’s
wearing second-hand sport coats
with seam stitches as loose as telephone
wires tacked up with undersized lapel
pins.
**** Capitalism. **** Disco.
Bathe Avant-Garde. Eat Paint.
Bleed ******* Smoke Local.
Espresso, Or Genocide.
Dresden Was A Lie.
Shrink-Wrap It All.
Everyone is clustered around the cinder-
block stand record player, grooving
to the pops, looking like a rag-tag tide
change beneath the broken-oar ceiling
fan. Everyone’s wearing ironic scarves
tight like corporate ties to keep their throats
from popping ten-cent parasols, loose tobacco,
and ******** Amid their rubber flower talk,
I can pick out San Pelicano, someone critiquing
Keats’ “Politics,” and a rant regarding some
guy downtown’s stab at post-contemporary
Pointillism in some gallery I’ve never heard of.
They’re flipping between topics like a Moleskine notebook
while I skim through a copy of the Onion,
teasing the edges with a lighter I found on the floor.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC
*One day
I will wake up in the early morning
My fingernails aglow with sun
And I will not want to scratch the pain out of my skin.
One day
I will not be subject to
Pleasantries and masquerades,
Hellos and goodbyes and see-you-agains,
But be greeted with a small smile
And a nod of understanding.
One day
Someone will say they will stay by my side
Even when the sea inside me
Overflows, and drowns him too;
He says the tide will bring us back ashore.
One day
My fingers will not shiver
In summer, because the cold is never gone.
The blood in my veins will not carry the echo
Of hate and self deprecation.
One day
I will wake up without internally screaming,
And hey, who knows, maybe I’ll smile.
I will put on my yellow boots
Not as a reminder of the sadness I hide,
But a proportionate guarantee of the happiness I feel.
But today, you see,
Today I cannot find the strength to leave my bed;
The blinds will be closed the whole day and
The postman will know not to knock on my door.
Today
The sea inside me rages
And ****** the backside of my eyes,
Drenching my pillow with saltwater.
And in a blurry pointillism of blues
I will drown
Before I reach ashore.*
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
They said that she had fairy skin
And cinnamon dusted hair,
A sleepy countenance, a ragged demeanour;
They said “she’s never quite..there."
Her fingers, when I saw her
Were tangled into a wreath.
Their fragile veins seemed about to snap
But she sat so calmly in her seat.
What a waste of a fine young lady, I say,
As she muses at the sky;
An excess of poetic form
Has made her mad and shy.
And yet I harbour a fascination
For one so truly lost,
Who cannot tell real from dreams,
Who nightmares do accost.
And oh, what a beautiful sight
To see one stay so naive.
At least, I say, I’m not the kind
To pin my heart up on my sleeve.
And once again the monotony
Of another day rushes past,
And the sea inside ****** the back of my eyes, I see
An exquisite pointillism of stars.
Maybe she’s the one with the luck of the Irish,
And I’m just a manifestation of routine.
She’s awake and full of fireworks,
And I’m just half asleep.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 4:43 AM UTC
In this restless desert
things are not as
dry as they seem
for after the plentiful rains
the temporal grass has spread
as quick and alive as wildfire
Looking velvety to the touch,
it waves in synchronicity
as the wind sweeps through
its sharp blades
like a tender stroke of hair
from a lover
wildflowers peep
their heads of color
over the shoots
in vibrant frequencies:
crimson, yellow, purple
I want to run through them
festoon them upon
my queenly being
not actually touching them
just reveling
in their existence
I want to become vested
in the accoutrements
of simplicity
wear them upon
my essence
in tiny points
of effervescent love
particles of colored joy
that mark me with pointillism
so that when I am sitting
in the cold lonely of the night
I can embrace them
in their royal glory
and be caressed by
the loyalty
of their
spark
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 5:29 PM UTC
She does not ask for much;
a piece of paper,
a few markers,
time, and a mind at peace.
Her patience is maddening.
Dot by dot,
fantasies form,
sprung from her forehead
fully grown and armed
with the colors she imagines.
Her gray eyes clouded
with concentration,
for every jab of her hand
must strike true,
a felt-tip Seurat.
Her life a study in pointillism, too;
each day filling in
an outline, dark and light
commingled, colored by
those who come and go,
the users and losers,
the bruisers and the healers.
Self-portraits abound;
the smiling face and glowing eyes
she will show the world
painted over the pain
she has known
from loss of blood
and faithless friends.
A word to the wise:
Though her unicorns and pegasi
are strikingly beautiful,
her demons can be quite real.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 5:08 PM UTC
her spirituality
possesses the most
pregnant point of
cosmic faculties...
i've ever encountered.
my third eye's
pointillism.
the highest possible
definition...
gentle kisses within
the forehead.
feel them dear~
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 1:21 PM UTC
another diurnal marker attained,
but no one will be issued a
Boy or Girl Scout badge,
an unverified few will remark,
"this is a day that counts
my halftime voyage
circulating the sun,"
but detect no
other difference tween
day prior, day after,
and will let the passing thought, pass into the fibers of their
existence, aling with the millions of others that humans create,
then let lay,
absorbed into their uncountable,
uncollected collective
but it is the divisor!
the median mark
of a year,
and the world Earth
will be however old it be,
plus a half, like some of its
inhabitants
to be X plus a half,
is not an indifference,
a halved year is
better than no more years,
a solitary tear
still marks the moment
of a moment,
a refraction pointillism,
to reflect a passage
so treat it
not!
with
cavalier,
but go off and pause,
in a quieting places within,
and think,
I am more,
greater than before,
and with grace elevated
will complete my space
occupied on this rotund,
robust earth,
and
be thankful for the embers of
oxygen in and ex
ha(i)led,
greeted,
stating
this breath next
is an opportunity,
and will spent it
usefully
Jun 29, 2025
Jun 29, 2025 at 8:48 AM UTC
it’s easy to miss the juncos’ slow, sudden departure in spring;
messengers from colder warming worlds
they arrive a dulling autumn:
peppering notations of life in a landscape encased,
each deep dark demitasse
brewed on increasingly tardy dawns
painting a night sky inverted
standing ankle deep in first snows
searching for leftover springs beneath the detritus
but then they finally emerge with the warblers,
orioles, robins, and buntings
and pointillism fades beneath impressionist palettes
that flash over treetops and underbrush
but the last juncos linger:
quiet familiar trills outside my window each morning
disrupting stillness till it disappears
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 6:53 PM UTC
Infinite raindrops
Infinite dusty windshields
Will this ever produce
A forged Seurat?
No one asks
Just monkeys
Typewriters
Shakespeare
Rain not in dust
But pollen from this months trees
Can’t see through it
Can’t see under it
Dotted with rain
Borrowed from an oasis
Now the wind can’t blow it free
I have a button
And the pointless pointillism
Vanished, unrecorded, unlamented
Modernism removes the annoyances
But leaves remnants
Where I can notice, but
Not where I can see
What does it matter?
I admit, I’m uncertain
But I noticed
I recorded
And maybe now, you
Will think of dust, rain
And Shakespeare
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 12:48 PM UTC
Have you mastered the art of war?
You, artist of destruction,
poet of pain and devastation,
do you see these bodies
pierced by our technological evolution?
Skin polluted by metal
stretched, torn, and eviscerated.
Mass graves of stillness;
Parents who hope this
is just some nightmare.
Life relegated to rigormortis.
Bone thin, friendly corpses
that touch such fierce coldness.
Photos that beg in black and white
for the shutters to stop.
Instead, we shudder and start
to forget all those body parts.
No ticking clock, just silent hearts;
While you acquiesce
I sit in shadowy corners and obsess
over our well-equipped darkness
as each victim becomes a painting.
Some splatter art spreading
all the shades of red
that they know,
while others are punctured pointillism.
But each body was once someone.
Now they become a hollow chamber
in a soldier’s gun
as a wounded warrior scratches another notch
in their already razor scarred
memory.
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 7:51 PM UTC