"pratfalls" poems
I want nothing and all
I want throatchase and falls.
I want spiteful endears,
And ricochet tears.
I want colliders with nothing to lose.
I want crashes indebts,
And bombadier pets.
I want cleft incoherence,
And bookies for parents.
I want you to know how to choose.
I want pratfalls regarded,
And paradigms parted.
I want sickly verbatim,
And writings circadian.
I want you,
I want you,
I want you.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 11:04 PM UTC
bright ....butterfly.......talent.....
flicking tongues of
allitrative illustratation unsure
of present
improv packaging
puckers lips
to pout
and preen
..
grunge moth
in hoodie comes
to sauce the play
tounge twister fandango
...
paperlace lizards ...dreaming...
days streamin by
.
all the mouths
of ritual making
fourth wall breaking
....
accummulate the method
scribe to the write
formulate the figure
linguate the lyrical
....left.....
to the pintered flighted .....sighs.....
shake the speare
this night
.
with finger drumming colour rhythms
reveal the reasoned might
of the fledgling dramaturg
......
foot stomping
posse blighted brainstorms
...
burn limelight
burn, bright, burn
..
...throw your fleeting... searing glow
on these little
dramatic vacations
from life's realities
freeze frame moments
of luducrosity
and
humming,
allocentricity
.
egos pay homage
to floor door
and wall
drink
the life
the love
the moments glorious
of it
all.
........
the fear
pin *****
and bucket dance it
......come one......
come all.
learn the art of
the comic pratfall
here at the home
of drama 171 improv. .
by
the pants
of
your seat
and other
mellowed
dramatic
complexities and pratfalls
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
A passel of rascals;
The cause of the hassle,
Guilty of the catcalls,
Would normally have pratfalls.
Never suffer from blackballing;
Their ethics are appalling
But greed is calling the shots.
In the end what have we got?
We have a den of thieves
Rolling up their sleeves
To count the loot they stole
Fulfilling their roles of criminals;
Not the least subliminal,
But right out front to be seen
And pictured on magazine covers
With their blow-dried lovers.
Hair and ******* by Mattel
They perpetrate their hell
On all but their rich buddies
And fool the fuddy-duddies
With their rancid ballyhoo.
Yes, they rob some rich too,
But some never knew it;
Rich, not smart, they blew it.
Every generation, this nation
Sires a new batch of vermin
And we have to determine
If this is the new litter or a loner
But instead the fools get a *****
Over some new crook or other
That can afford jet planes to fly
But claims he is a regular guy.
Once the country is a toilet
They’ll keep trying to spoil it
By boiling the bones of the dead
And murdering us in our beds
Because they don’t need us
Except when they want to beat us.
They can just pay each other.
But the country won’t recover.
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 1:21 PM UTC
A reckoning, was the waste of loving you;
Whose heart was otherwhere, who's eyes
Could never resist a new, stunning view.
My solitary hovering as innocuous as a bee,
Stalking the mortal garden, come sun or shower;
As predictable as rain, as forgettable as a flower-
My comedic pratfalls less memorable,
Than her cries of elation:
Her eggs more precious than mine.
May 9, 2010
May 9, 2010 at 2:45 PM UTC
HWilliams
Foot to sidewalk, cement to shoe
step to song beats or give beats to silence.
Step with feet tired from too much tread,
guess I'll walk on hands instead.
beat to song, gust to mast
sound of travel, its own song.
Foot to sidestep pitfalls or potholes,
skip steps get applause for pratfalls.
Step to pulse and make hearts skip beats.
Take bow, step outside, sidewalk to feet.
Door to frame
button to lock
ignition to key
motor noise, engine block.
Radio, radiator, radius, ulna
cylinders under hood
cylinders filled with soda
serpentine belt squeaks, fix it you should.
The car is no Chevelle,
but Chevelle's in my speakers
keep pace with traffic well
"learn to choose to breathe."
Stuck behind brake lights
as soon as headway is made.
Sigh as loud as music plays
click volume arrow upright.
Anger builds when traffic fills.
Stomp throttle or else you'll throttle someone.
Throw insults like a mime in summer,
lip service they might see in mirrors.
Can't point at points A or B
trace stress to line that traces in between
Between the 2 spaces where my car parks
mile markers, tail-gaiters, nail biters.
Foot to sidewalk, cement to shoe
step to song beats or give beats to silence.
Step with feet tired from too much tread,
guess I'll walk on hands instead.
Foot to sidestep pitfalls or potholes,
skip steps get applause for pratfalls.
Step to pulse and make hearts skip beats.
Take bow, step outside, sidewalk to feet.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 4:29 AM UTC
So many poems birthed at dawn
or just before
when the trickster gods
are passed out and cannot
plot pratfalls for mere mortals.
Turmoil eases up a bit,
but anything can come next.
You might lose the courage
to eat breakfast or find yourself
trying to type on liquid paper.
You could be struck by
nostalgia for hula hoops or
begin to feel your teeth dissolve.
You want to make a poem that
coils, rises up and strikes
the heart like an angry snake,
but it is easy to get sidetracked.
After all, you are only bones
in a sack spitting out words
that vainly seek forever and
the present so successfully
hides the future. But it's early,
go down into the quantum
quarry of language,
pick up a few likely chunks,
haul them back and let the world
select the words. Be patient as
a telephone waiting to ring.
Dare to shit a peach. Let the
words gather unto themselves
like clouds until each new page,
scarred by those glyphs,
becomes the living promise
of the day just begun, like
a butterfly gliding over clover.
No task. Only the being of.
~mce
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
Failure
In the
9th degree
You peddle me
Everything
Lo' you tell me
That what you wanted
Was a love that you said
You would give me
For free
Then the toad
Clad in His
Heroine glands
Requested you send Him His
Absinthe neck tied and
Bland
You said
Rimbaud
And I laughed
At your Punk
Pratfalls
What an absolute
Way to tell that you've
Nothing to say and
The only way to say it
Is through what you've
Only got to say that you've
Seen
Seen
Oh' experience
What a crocodile of
Old ways
The Franzen door model through the
Way to the Chicago postal service &
Pushing through the seeds of
Terrorism Dramatics
The death through
The lost letters of
No one
Because money
PUSHES PUSHES PUSHES
THROUGH THE SOULS OF MAN
and no one
seems
to
give
a god heaping
****
yet the
prizes
are given out
and the bodies
continue
to
rot
so hip hay
hooray
to the one
with the
animal
socks
So say you
Are the one
They were
Talking about
The one
They were all
Hearing about
The most
Entertaining of
The bunch of the
Crunch
Well when
The crutch that
Is your purpose
Their reason
For their
Purses
Runs dry and
Then their
Eyes become
Dull and weary
Looking for
Another place
To place
Their curses
They will
Toss you aside
With no
Bitterness
Or
Nastiness
With only
A smile and
A sad thanks
That your time
With them was
Short lived and
"Maybe again!"
Perhaps
Again
Till the
Next
Season
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 7:36 PM UTC
When you’re not newly or madly in love
When no new thrill has come your way
When the sunset is hidden by the smog
And the draught has killed all the flowers
What do you write about
When you’ve suffered no great disappointment
When you’ve won no award or any prize
When you haven’t gambled on love and lost
And the mountains you’ve climbed are just hills
What do you write about
When inspecting your navel is boring
When you can’t really tell how you feel
When you can’t see the humor in pratfalls
And nothing exciting has happened
What do you write about
When everyone you know remains healthy
When the trees in the woods are just trees
When the butterflies don’t visit your garden
And the hummingbird feeder’s abandoned
What do you write about
When you reach for the stars but can’t touch them
When you hear the song but can’t sing it
When you stare at your blackboard and it’s empty
And you’ve run out of ink for your pen
What on Earth do you write about.
ljm
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 11:24 AM UTC
All of my formal training, all of the years
Of study and sacrifice to hone my craft,
Failures and frustrations that brought me to tears…
I think of how I scoffed at sell-outs, and laughed
At the mere suggestion that I too would chase
The almighty dollar and forsake my art.
Ah, but now…it is painful to view my face
In the mirror, seeing one who plays the part
Of the simple buffoon, the mere one-note clown
Sent to warm up the rubes for the main event,
Performing rude pratfalls to bring the house down,
Animated reminders of my descent.
And now, my vocation a mere joke, bereft
Of merit or value, I exit, stage left
Oct 29, 2021
Oct 29, 2021 at 2:45 PM UTC