"prague" poems
I did not hesitate when I boarded the train,
caught between the salt and German time;
with fingernails yellowed with cigarette grime,
to come to Paris for it's tepid, sweet rain.
Nor I did tremble with with fear and strain,
flexing my pride in Prague with the prime
that only is granted to the young, at nighttime.
I left nothing back by or in home, but I feign--
for crookedly placed by the cold Danube,
I felt a finger of hurt despite my endeavors;
for as water pooled in those iron shoes,
I felt everything that I didn't wish to remember.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
It’s 2018 August 12th
Night is falling,
the photographs in my hands radiant with the light of the past
where hills touch the sky,
not my parents‘ earth, only the ground they built on.
Their voices tender with longing for the motherland,
while there is merely my own
heart I see in the vast desert,
homeless, homesick,
waiting for moss to grow over that earth too.
Finally silence
where once was the noise of the nation,
we are children again,
alone in the motion of the Prague-Berlin train.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
Maybe you're the colosseum. The code to get through the glass doors is actually just '1954'. You could put up the painting of me at auction, or I could take a cruise from London to the Islands North of Siberia, a stop in a department store in Northern Greece. I stop and take a ride in the middle front-third seat of a older friend's younger brother's car, and force all of them to come outside and see the spider's eggs at Bob-o-Link. Massive cornucopias of cotton walls entwined with silk.
In the department store I ask to be introduced to someone who can take me by the hand and recognize me by my number, show me everything I'll need to shoot a full-length feature, even how I can get to Prague so I can do a little shopping. But the horror of seeing is so frightening, and the girl that I came with wants to do nothing.
I find a little shop selling Czech candies, music, and newspapers, so I try to buy everything but the horror is getting closer. I'm in a lazy Susan, how often does that happen? One more turn and I'll lose my stomach contents and then I won't need anything.
I take a climb up a street that says "Smrzlinu Ahead," but the houses on the street are all either empty or boarded up. I drift in the soccer field, watching my legs, looking over my shoulder. I fall for a pile of clothes that can hide me but are also very soft to lay in.
Another cruise- tropical, perhaps? Somewhere for coy adults, who shed their skin in Winter when their eyes start molting off. Someday I will place both hands into the ocean, I'll dream huge, and go swimming until I start to laugh. One day I'll sink to the floor of the bourn, maybe the same day I wake up and I'm not swimming alone.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:28 AM UTC
The clock gets me.
It comes to me in the middle of the night
Pulls back the sheets and says, "Hey fucko."
Then it lifts open my sobby wet sand-encrusted lids,
It knows when I'm trying at sleep, pumping quarters
Like I was swallowing yawns, sometimes I try to squint
Harder and take a dream to the next level, whatever
The next level is. It's like Friday night when I wanted to go
Out to do something, whatever something is.
Because I know that if I don't I'll miss that thing that's so
Important that if I were to miss it the clock wouldn't come for me
Again.
And on Tuesday's when I'm knotting a dream around 2 o' clock
In the morning, my web-footed adventure, say, killing your
Boyfriend, say
Fighting the Nazis, say,
Rediscovering that you sent nudie pics to
That rando guy we met in that club that lives
in Prague-
I throw the clock at the ******* wall.
Because who knows, I make the bed wrong
Or maybe I don't cook right, or look right, or
Smile the right way at the right
Time. And you start thinking that I have to die.
The bane of my existence is an imagined feat in your
Walnut-sized brain, slowly numbing us while we're
Supposed to be, say
Listening to the rich, Oxford voice of
David Attenborough.
Instead you're thumbing through that index
of CVS cashiers, just trying to find a scruffy face
To flip your digits to, your homemade justification. It becomes
A feat, an unjust cause of mine to
Get it right, that imaginative and artificial bit you've
Been sewing up Monday twilight.
That's when I go out and jaw your sister, somewhere between
A smirk on your face and a bit of anger at the end of your sentences.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
So they hacked some computers.
"No big deal" you may say,
"Since their influence steered things
toward the right way"
"They just didn't respect us,
that's why the attack.
So I place all the blame
on the Dems and Barack"
"So we'll get nice and cozy,
Vladimir and me,
since there is just so much
upon which we agree"
"We want to be strongmen
who'll shape history
and we're both such examples
of virility"
"And we'll handle the media
through fear and attack
to ensure truth and balance
shall never come back"
"Admiration and power
is what we adore,
it's the one greatest cause
that we truly live for"
So, Mr. Trump...
When you're there in the Oval
and Europe's alarmed
'cause in Prague and in Warsaw.
the Russians, well armed,
have crossed o'er the borders
and come to reclaim
their former domininons,
then who will you blame?
So why this great bromance?
What's your motivation?
Why would you align
with Vlad and his nation?
Could it be business ties?
Or maybe high debt?
Or maybe dark secrets
you wish they'd forget?
I do not want to think
that it could be such things
but the Russians sure look
like they're pulling your strings.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 8:30 PM UTC
As in cargo ships.
Fear takes pictures below.
My heart inside stone ballasts.
Saving letters.
I burn it down.
I burn it down & walk away.
Correct.
Ate, now sick.
Years ago fruit grew.
My wound grows skin with wine.
& she burns.
Price payed for pale beauty.
Still alive.
My torch home.
I search for my children
Frozen in winter's grace.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
last night i almost
gave up thinking of bronzy brazilian girls
perspiring pure coconut oil, eau de margherita ;
supermodelas eating my dreams like concord grapes, lionesses
lounging on new york balconies, lithe, reading céline.
(esti ginzburg, on the phone, considers another pomeranian) .
almost stopped.
almost derailed strange vogue-like fantasme of irina shayk, standing legs planted
left knee out-thrust and foot
in ebony heel, cocked against the earth.
set being imitation of gloomy coal mine, east of prague. thin arms firmly controlling the
arc of her pickaxe, clothed in leather, high heels;
sheen of sweat holding her feline body in sweet embrace.
imagining that when shift's end buzzer echoes thru the tunnels she smokes a cigarette
on a bench in the women's locker, apple planted on old planking, elbows on her knees.
cover-alls peeled
down to her waist and her hair,
free at last.
(click)
on the tram back into the city all the smoked glass
cartier storefronts pass by like polaroids held in the hand. the same speed.
giggling, 'rina thinks of the six she could place
along her arm; gilt gold, brushed silver, diamant...
there are 11 smoked belmonts by the back steps; i did
little with the night. (tall shadow of a woman in a black dress and my mouth
a cotton ball)
that is to say:
i did almost give up thinking about bronzy braz ilia g rls ,
-
but i didn't/and so there's nothing else.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
to A.
Mythical creature
Feather on fire
Half-bird, half-women
Born is desire
Fireworks of feelings
Awe and thrill
Heartbeat stopping wonder
Love and fear
Watching from distance
you can admire
How it flies closer
And then again higher
Don't try to catch it
Lock it in a cage
It will break free
Or else it will rage
After the storm pass
She will just smolder
Suffer in silence
Tired and older
If her fire is what you want to keep
Show her your love
True and deep
Tell her she can always fly
Just on her own
In the sky
That you will wait for her
Guarding her nest
Being the earth for her
When she needs rest
7.7.2019 Prague
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 6:02 PM UTC
Sometimes I imagine sitting under our dining table wanting to chop my hair off, days and nights oppressed, yet not to run the rat race. Partly because I was too resistant to be happy, but with the first monsoon showers, I almost collapsed inside my oversized grey T-shirt that began to turn white, infinite gaps inside mind channels, I sat and watched strange men winning Wimbledon. I stopped writing one thousand words a day, themes and perspectives slipped into a closed brown diary, and I always worried what if someone finds it and reads it aloud in the public sphere in Prague, right in front of David Cherry’s rotating Kafka, how miserable he died thinking he was worthless, how miserable it would be to listen to voices that came beneath my dining table. I talk to a shy Kafka, every day, under our dining table, today he shaved my head.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 4:48 AM UTC
There was an Old Lady of Prague,
Whose language was horribly vague;
When they said, 'Are these caps?'
She answered, 'Perhaps!'
That oracular Lady of Prague.
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she wanted to find something that made her passion hang
like a human from a tree somewhere in the late thirties
a silent hand pressed against her sponge mind
making her leak her tongue all over the ill surface
years have passed like a seamless tomb
with eyes that scream please, hold me here for more than just two minutes
I am bored with the 1 hour love meetings and the detours
that lead me to the lions cage
the forbidden conversations and the numbed movements
stone tongues of gargoyles limping on the edge of
Gothic cathedrals in Prague
an animal somewhere in the wild dies slowly
a snake gives its venom to prey
and then you stood timid at the bottom of the mountain
as I struggled to make my way down
I thought of how my mother would be proud
to see me in a wedding dress, letting go of the only daughter she was able to drench out
of her body
surrender I thought never come in the form of bliss
till I realized I would hold out against all odds with no mercy
I'm not going anywhere
I stand right here in the corner
with my poetry spiraling down my thighs
in hopeless patterns
Feb 18, 2011
Feb 18, 2011 at 8:30 PM UTC
Take my hand - you've got to
feel fun time's heading
closer
Futuristic daydreams
are at hand -handy!
microchipped wild
boys and girls
on rent - hardly paid off -
dance! Roll the dice!
Flicker eyes!
Adrift on the dimlit
flourescent
effervescent
reflector rays°°°°you're
never lost or at loss;
Coloured circles glide
across the dancefloor______
bouncy boots swoon, high heels
crack, remastered barefoot Tribe~
Enjoys momentary revelations!
Latino lovers attracting
honey dew magnetic more-s
rain coats off - smiley coasts shine on~
those cunning shenanigan freckles
pressed redhair beauties against
needy torsos in ecco-leather jackets
electrified silhouettes stunning
like elves un-fading beauty
transforming tuxedos
of a tight
night; a jingle of
Prague crystals into
one dancing wave submerged
by the vicinity of hissing tongues
-been- beaten by fierce kissing
in a stronghold ballroom
frenzy - polarized
beatings - hi-s and bye-s ; a
stroboscopic syncopation
ecstatic hips,
space shuttle
trips
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
"There where that ray touches the plain
And the shadows escape as if they really ran,
Warsaw stands, open from all sides,
A city not very old but quite famous.
"Farther, where strings of rain hang from a little cloud,
Under the hills with an acacia grove
Is Prague. Above it, a marvelous castle
Shored against a slope in accordance with old rules.
"What divides this land with white foam
Is the Alps. The black means fir forests.
Beyond them, bathing in the yellow sun
Italy lies, like a deep-blue dish.
"Among the many fine cities that are there
You will recogni2e Rome, Christendom's capital,
By those round roofs on the church
Called the Basilica of Saint Peter.
"And there, to the north, beyond a bay,
Where a level bluish mist moves in waves,
Paris tries to keep pace with its tower
And reins in its herd of bridges.
"Also other cities accompany Paris,
They are adorned with glass, arrayed in iron,
But for today that would be too much,
I'll tell the rest another time
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Some people die in Texas.
Some people die in Spain.
Some people die in their sleep.
Some people die in pain.
We were all in love with trauma.
We were all in love with the same
ideas we projected onto people
and disguised with their name.
I don't live in nine-eleven-land
and neither do my peers.
I've been monitored by other people's Gods
for twenty-two ******* years.
Coffee pots and cigarettes
stimulate my day
and keep the thoughts streaming,
that eventually fade away.
Some people die in Utah.
Some people die in Prague.
Some people never get married
or have the family dog.
We were all in love with status.
We were all in love with goals
that would make life poignant
and make ourselves whole.
I don't subscribe to the thought
that my thoughts necessarily matter.
If life is a horror movie,
then I'm the fake blood splatter.
Bible thumps and dead eyes,
are all part of my design,
and how I live and where I die
means to separate my mind.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 6:46 PM UTC
It was in Rome
You guys got the table(cade,nevin)
So we stood there
Till you asked us if we'd like to join
Sure I said so
awkward first cause you somehow look like Ryan Gosling(no you look better, RG has never been my type)
Blue eyed boy from Iowa
Strangely enough, my bedtime T-shirt says Iowa hawkeyes
We talked bout beer ,Shandy, Greek islands ,Prague,Bristol and Iowa. Why should I know?
then you turned to me
Hey, fun fact, do you know the British first sounds like American?
Why should I know?Why did you say so?
But that was the most intimating thing on the table.
Strangely enough, you only asked my name when you left, and everything was left in Rome.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC
again void of sleep,
carried over parallel lines
by blues.
Our names are engraved in our
neighbor's guitar.
The Korean man likes ecstacy,
and we all love music
and food
and ***
Just like our parents.
We pass a thousand sunflowers at their day jobs.
These hills remind me of home
and food
and ***
Jul 18, 2011
Jul 18, 2011 at 10:44 PM UTC
It looks like the entire city is on fire.
Black statues on the Charles Bridge
like charred remains from the blaze coming off the shining roof of the National Theatre.
And you might be able to picture it
when I say gothic towers glow like points of flame,
But you really have to go yourself to see what I mean when I say
there's a wind tunnel running from the Florenc metro station to Naměstí Republiky
that catches in it a gust of a thousand people in shades of red and black and gold.
If you are in the right place at the right time,
you can see the moment the streets lamps all light up in unison
by some command of the darkening sky
And suddenly everything is picturesque, even if you don’t know what that means.
Your favorite park might be the popular place for adolescent delinquency
but that doesn’t change the way the light from the setting sun
turns the Vltava into melted gold.
David Černy’s fluorescent middle finger signals to the world
That here in Prague the world’s on fire.
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
Cihlové stínadlo, divan bez prachu
Výhybky prskavců chutnají zle
Hne sumcem, vylíže střídavě bráchu
Semena s holbou na výkladním skle
Páry a mrdiny končí pod voly
Nad hrstí úliteb vítězné gesto
Stříbrné příbory v podpraží hulí
Za bradou dřímá horoucí těsto
Proč běží sádla na získané body
Proč běží pro kádry, ze kterých jebe
Pásovec zas dal hlavičku do tmy
Pár krysek sladí sžíravě sebe
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 4:26 PM UTC
His throat opened under stale wind
and screamed sharp sounds like fish fin
pricked and cut soft hand tissue.
The bruise was a pinch because
the eye can only see what was
there before the attack surprise.
He performed dog magic in Prague
under willows but lacked
important mastery techniques.
Turned rock to frog but not back,
simply a half witted magi
ruined like slapped sewn hide leather.
Crisped under hot red sun he
shakes in his boat like maracas
he curves with blue currents to shore.
With a boat in the mud jammed rudder
he stares at clouds hugs himself
and sees a rock kiss a frogs belly.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:31 PM UTC
There's an alleyway in Prague,
hiding neath the nights fog,
where a girl stands on red light display.
And when cold rain starts to fall,
she still answers every call;
till the dawn hours that's where she will stay.
Her life is just that way.
She wakes up every day,
tries to scrub the pain away;
forget about the way last night went.
She'll paint some rogue on busted lips,
a short skirt on her starved hips;
with her son she wished her time was spent.
Just a couple more men to pay rent.
She's got a pickpocket friend
who work the Old Town, east end,
and likes to give her a slice of his steals.
The other girls, with whom she works,
defend her from the vicious jerks;
make sure her and her boy get hot meals.
They teach her how to heal.
Last week her **** gave her a knife
after a trick threatened her life
and said "Next time, say you cut off his *****
Then he laughed like it was funny
and told her to go make money,
leaning up against his car to look slick;
teasing his hair with a pick.
Tomorrow and tomorrow
she swears she'll end the sorrow,
but each night she's in that street corner cell.
She weeps "It's not the life I choose.",
while she looks at each new bruise
in the mirror, watching purple skin swell.
Her life surpasses hell.
The endless months and years pass
until she finally saves the cash
to run away with her pickpocket friend.
They grab her son and catch a bus,
leaving Wenceslas in the dust;
it doesn't matter where their road ends.
Her red light wounds can now mend.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 3:23 PM UTC
There was this guy Bart that I met in Prague,
Told me his girlfriend lived down in a bog.
“She’s big and she’s green, with long yellow fangs,
And seaweed hangs off of her head like green bangs.
The first time I met her she bit off my hand, and spit it out next to me into the sand.
The next time I met her, this guy Bart he said,
“If she bites you again, I’ll cut off her head.”
Well this time she bit off my leg, and she even ate Bart,
That’s when I decided that I had to start,
Thinking of ways to get rid of this creature,
So I hobbled to town to talk to the preacher.
“It’s love that it need!” he beamed at me,
“Just show it some love, and then you’ll see.”
So to the bog I went with love to share,
Bart’s girlfriend came out, and greeted me with a stare.
I shouted at her, “I came to share love!”
And offered her the preacher’s precious white dove.
Well she snatched up the dove, broke it in two,
Threw it aside and said “Now onto you!”
I turned to run as fast as I could,
But was bitten in half like an old piece of wood.
My final thought before I had died,
Was that love had solved nothing, the preacher had lied.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 6:13 PM UTC
Motorbiking in Paris through the small windy streets
Nearly getting hit with a bike near the prostitutes in Amsterdam
Getting ditched and running across Berlin at 6 AM
5 story club, all you can drink tour, and 80 cent beers in Prague
Surfing in a garden then drinking in the beer gardens in Munich
Ruin bars and getting ruined at them in Budapest
Walking hungover on the triple bridge in Ljubljana
Sipping a spritz on the canals in Venice
Throwing back mojitos with the locals in Florence
Roaming around the ancient ruins in Rome
Partying until the sun is up and more in Barcelona
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
To A&O / Danny Itkin
Saw two birds flying in Prague
Heralding warm summer's winds
Whoever sees them feels at home
You might even think that they're twins
Two birds enjoying cheese and strawberries
Slaloming clouds and city lights
Sharing experiences from overseas
Wondering what's next and what's right
If you meet them send my regards
Send my deepest love and sympathy
Tell them both that I'm right here
Curious about what will be
4.7.2019
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 6:08 PM UTC
There was an Old Person of Prague,
Who was suddenly seized with the Plague;
But they gave his some butter,
Which caused him to mutter,
And cured that Old Person of Prague.
1.8k
We were states of matter
until we had chemistry
a pure of mix elements causing eradication
and more like atomic radiation
we were powerful
an affective pair
then biology taught me
to value every heart beat of yours
every tissue to cells
every cytoplasm to mitochondria
and that Czechoslovakia
that you were from
had a capital named Prague
during world history
but nothing interesting than your story
during our midnight phone call
then mathematics taught me to calculate the distance between us
and physics showed me our chance of collision in every single velocity
I have used all kinds of formulas I learnt to solve our problem
but dear
I got the answer of
good bye
Good bye,
High School.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 7:32 AM UTC