"proust" poems
"Why one writes is a question I can never answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me – the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.
...
"We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely … When I don’t write, feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing."
('The New Woman', 1974)
22.6k
In the rain in the rain in the rain in the rain in Spain.
Does it rain in Spain?
Oh yes my dear on the contrary and there are no bull fights.
The dancers dance in long white pants
It isn't right to yence your aunts
Come Uncle, let's go home.
Home is where the heart is, home is where the **** is.
Come let us **** in the home.
There is no art in a ****
Still a **** may not be artless.
Let us **** an artless **** in the home.
Democracy.
Democracy.
Bill says democracy must go.
Go democracy.
Go
Go
Go
Bill's father would never knowingly sit down at table with a Democrat.
Now Bill says democracy must go.
Go on democracy.
Democracy is the ****
Relativity is the ****
Dictators are the ****
Menken is the ****
Waldo Frank is the ****
The Broom is the ****
Dada is the ****
Dempsey is the ****
This is not a complete list.
They say Ezra is the ****
But Ezra is nice.
Come let us build a monument to Ezra.
Good a very nice monument.
You did that nicely
Can you do another?
Let me try and do one.
Let us all try and do one.
Let the little girl over there on the corner try and do one.
Come on little girl.
Do one for Ezra.
Good.
You have all been successful children.
Now let us clean the mess up.
The Dial does a monument to Proust.
We have done a monument to Ezra.
A monument is a monument.
After all it is the spirit of the thing that counts.
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Each lover has some theory of his own
About the difference between the ache
Of being with his love, and being alone:
Why what, when dreaming, is dear flesh and bone
That really stirs the senses, when awake,
Appears a simulacrum of his own.
Narcissus disbelieves in the unknown;
He cannot join his image in the lake
So long as he assumes he is alone.
The child, the waterfall, the fire, the stone,
Are always up to mischief, though, and take
The universe for granted as their own.
The elderly, like Proust, are always prone
To think of love as a subjective fake;
The more they love, the more they feel alone.
Whatever view we hold, it must be shown
Why every lover has a wish to make
Some kind of otherness his own:
Perhaps, in fact, we never are alone.
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The Man of Yellow Teeth
Those yellow teeth have always been with you, he asked?
I tried to Blanch them, but nothing said.
Still and all his heart and his emotions were more.
And when they met, the earth also turned to find them.
Somewhere in his memory, that distant question:
What may I do with those dreams that you brought into my life?
Maybe continue with you, and maybe you should find your own answers, he said.
It is best to think, I come from the other side of your door, perhaps a new opportunity, to live your life from another evening and their stars.
Everything seems to indicate that he never caresses his hair.
Of course, he would like to keep that detail in his memory and evoke it.
Like Proust, when dipped in his cup of tea the cupcake, and the indelible memory emerged from him.
Yes, the hours of the winter were insufficient.
Texts traveled from side to side of the city, although it was snowing.
Any excuse was used to see each other. Every morning, afternoon or night, as a whole existed for them.
And at dawn, when nearly frozen returning home, his wife read those messages while he was sleeping, and thought it came from a girlfriend.
Everything seems to indicate that it was, what something else may think? Never in her mind the idea that his husband was loved by a man.
Every minute that passed, each one lived and dreamed, the planet inhabited by two.
But as the day passes, it also drains the time, and is incessant understanding that it was the man with yellow teeth, who gave him the courage to open the doors of his life to the unstoppable force of love.
His wife and himself never wanted that it had happened and the man of yellow teeth either.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 1:55 PM UTC
…These men are worth your tears:
You are not worth their merriment.
-Wilfred Owen, “Apologia Pro Poemate Meo”
When that loudmouth on the wireless machine
Alludes to Western Civilization
What does he mean? Paradise Lost? Probably not
Nor Saint Paul speaking on the Field of Mars
The Kalevala, Hagia Sophia
With its pendentives lifting up our prayers
Horatius fighting to defend his bridge
And Wilfred Owen dying bravely on his
Lord Tennyson and Idylls of the King
Chapultepec, Henry V, Becket
The paratroops at Arnhem, Saint Thomas More,
His King’s loyal servant, but God’s first
The Stray Dog poets of Saint Petersburg
The brave last stand of Roland at Roncesvalles
Lewis and Tolkien and glasses of beer
Montcalm and Wolfe on the Plains of Abraham
Hildegard von Bingen, Siegfried and the Rhine
Magna Carta, HMS Hood, the Thames
The Grove of Daphne, “The Old Rugged Cross”
Beatrix Potter and her little pet rabbit
El Cid, Anne Frank, John Keats, Saint Benedict
“I Have a Dream,” Dostoyevsky, and Greene
Viktor Frankl, Dag Hammarkskjold, and Proust
Good Chaucer’s naughty pilgrims telling tales
The Gettysburg Address, Willie and Joe
Stern Saint Augustine of North Africa
Wodehouse writing a jolly bit of fun
Saint Corbinian and Bavaria
The ancient glories of Byzantium
Pius XII contra the bombs and lies
The 602nd TD Battalion
Saint Joan, the Prado, and Robert Frost
And far, far more.
When that loudmouth on the wireless machine
Alludes to Western Civilization
What does he mean?
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 4:06 PM UTC
http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=Betterdays
**as is my wanton wont,
when stumbling
upon a new voice,
the passed baton
is herein handed off**
am old man.
my poetic voice is just
memories that are
repetitive lies and lines.
speak in simple sentences declarative.
this is nature's way.
darkness approaching is indeed my
au courant poem, mon actuellement.
I have seen better days.
I have read betterdays.
now I am upset, distraught.
here come another young
hot bright votive voice,
and I am being asked to believe that there are
still words that raise hopes of
betterdays.
her bed chip crumbs, delighting,
leave crumbs of pleasure in my soul.
l like her big word poems,
that leave me, fill me by:
*siphoning all in a parched gluttony
leaving behind a viscous residue
and few glassine portals
into a reflective world*
better yet I love her
mothering little god poems,
letting me remember little boys
who once loved a father
*little god love
radiant is thy smile,
smallboy love, exudes from you,
like a flower god's nectar,
bestowed, with negligent love,
upon a mother's world.
i will drink my fill,
everyday, whilst i can,
for far to soon will you
grow up.*
don't speak eastern Australian,
tackers and doona's, no clue,
blue cats are a foreign breed,
but the cat of this starfish mother,
shares my literary tastes:
*him, nestled,
on the second, to
uppermost stay,
of the third
bookshelf,
in the study.
he has filed
himself,
between,
ogden nash
and proust
and it is there,
he plans to stay.*
let me not go on and in deeper, lest
I delay you from her pleasuring
thy tasted untested senses.
so here I am all grumpified
(at my age, you can make up your own words)
unsure if un or satisfied,
knowing that a woman,
word whips me into a
soothing frenzy of creamy
morning coffee verbosity,
a captive taker of life's
ungrandest moments,
poems of them,
make to glory come.
somewhere in the world,
a woman writes of plain goodness
of simple strife and simple lives,
makes methinks that there could be
betterdays still ahead,
better poets surely, than me,
and the day starts well
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 8:50 AM UTC
I keep collecting books I know
I'll never, never read;
My wife and daughter tell me so,
And yet I never head.
"Please make me," says some wistful tome,
"A wee bit of yourself."
And so I take my treasure home,
And tuck it in a shelf.
And now my very shelves complain;
They jam and over-spill.
They say: "Why don't you ease our strain?"
"some day," I say, "I will."
So book by book they plead and sigh;
I pick and dip and scan;
Then put them back, distrest that I
Am such a busy man.
Now, there's my Boswell and my Sterne,
my Gibbon and Defoe;
To savour Swift I'll never learn,
Montaigne I may not know.
On Bacon I will never sup,
For Shakespeare I've no time;
Because I'm busy making up
These jingly bits of rhyme.
Chekov is caviare to me,
While Stendhal makes me snore;
Poor Proust is not my cup of tea,
And Balzac is a bore.
I have their books, I love their names,
And yet alas! they head,
With Lawrence, Joyce and Henry James,
My Roster of Unread.
I think it would be very well
If I commit a crime,
And get put in a prison cell
And not allowed to rhyme;
Yet given all these worthy books
According to my need,
I now caress with loving looks,
But never, never read.
3k
i've got me a ***** black cadillac,
stretched out—front windows rolled right down—on the curb.
with a French girl waiting inside, legs long as sin, sitting against the wide dark window
legs extended 'cross the backseat.
hiding her eyes behind big round sunglasses, smoking oily moroccan cigarettes
—writing about the way i talk.
there's a whole lotta crisp, cold money in the trunk,
waitin' to be spent on the furs she wants;
old books for me. and why not??
old books on art,
and i can't even paint!
just sit around not talking—read about Brughel or som'thin,
wishing my over-large, complacent hands knew to render the face
a fifth so well.
a fifth of whisky's 's close 's i get,
i get drunk and further away,
out now in that devil of a car, parked presently out
by the shed where i go most nights to sit in musty chairs 'n scratch ink lazily
on pages nobody ever reads..
—but it feels ******
g o o d .
my frenchwoman would like to know what i think of old Proust...
REPLY: he took too ****** long! // (a sigh can be a story)
—one could write a novel in the time it takes to
toss your load on a pair of trembling ******* held up in offering—oh i can't help but be uncouth!!
—i mean just the other day fr christ's sake i moved a friend in Waterloo
to her new apartment and when carrying up the stairs two bags of clothes and a toaster
saw wonderful little second year heading up as well so i
let her go first (at first glance you may think me chivalrous) and while climbing up behind her
composed in my head the following pome, which i dashed off later on a post-it
and dedicated to her exquisite ***
“all legs blonde climbin' the stairs, lamp in hand, yoga pants
hot & clinging like wee-ooo / hot enough in this cramped old stairwell as is,
carrying all these bags & boxes & couches up for a friend.
—hey when you're all moved in / you could come sit that thing on my lap.
share a cigarette while i carve slices of apple & offer them to you,
impaled on the end of the knife.”
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 6:38 PM UTC
Thanks thespis for another muse anew,
Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song,
To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters,
before my callous eyes on the skull of historical future
on my pykitonic torso of I another African pykin,
as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry
that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis,
neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time
giving classical balance for wondrous poetry.
Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed,
Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos
Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity,
Warped physique not short of history,
Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring
As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope
was not in any sense dwarfism of his poetry,
nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham
Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times,
That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic
And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest
Of man and woman to the cultural matrix
Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia,
From which was born Pushkin that took poetry
Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars,
And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted
Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear,
The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov,
Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik
In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky.
A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax,
Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art
wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp
propelled the souls of Coleridge and De Quincey
to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of *****
bordering on the teutonic greatness of ritualistic breed,
poetry that transcended from rotten apples in the writing desk
of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany,
writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus,
that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles
only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing,
but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal,
as Coleridge was in full recondite of marquetry,mosaic and miracles,
the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka,
that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy
that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe
down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry
as abnormal human neurosis an equation of perfect art.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
Once I sat,
unaware & unassuming,
on an unaware & unassuming Tuesday
in the far corner of a coffee shop
full of commotion.
I sleepily sauntered
behind the dusty public bookshelves
where if one were to peruse
they may find philosophical gems
- such as Proust or Voltaire.
I sat enveloped in the
warm vanilla air,
clutching at a cup of caffeine
& hoping to gain some
mild morning enlightenment
or gentle mental stimulation.
I tucked myself between
the covers of a bent & well-read book,
content to remain unaware & unassuming
& uninterrupted
as I wandered through its printed prose.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 1:33 AM UTC
In a crowd of familiars
I pass through
of proust effect lingers
and someone greets me.
I see you at the dead of night
You of I thought long gone.
It just gives back the stare.
As its right hand lifts
with auras cast in awe,
energy flows through my spine,
I helplessly mirror what it did -
It points itself,
Then at me.
Spirits spell a curse or divine,
You of I thought killed,
Vanished into lucid flow of energy.
Dust permeates
and whispers my ear,
I never leave.
Aug 4, 2022
Aug 4, 2022 at 9:09 AM UTC
How many is a few? According to an online forum, it means 2-3 .So here I go
Typhoon hits Taiwan today, so I can’t go anywhere but stay at home all day reading and watching movie (Wild Tales). I think should start reading Swann’s Way again. I was quite interested in Proust in my junior year, cause one time my ex said something I called ‘words of wisdom’ ,which echoed with Proust’s words about sleeping. Maybe they are completely unrelated, but while reading Proust I was unconsciously analyzing the reading in Proust’s way: comparing someone I know in real life with the characters in the book; or maybe I was just putting on airs by showing that I know the (far-fetched) relation between what ******** my ex said and Proust’s words… The wind is getting stronger and stronger now and I am wondering where you are. On this lame typhoon day I’m suffocated by the boredom and humidity. I call it poetic nothingness.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 8:35 AM UTC
In nature, as in civilised homes, there is evidence of conformity
That only significant study would make apparent,
but his studies were suspicious and neighbours would talk
The nose is bleeding and his pretty song is skipping
on the jukebox by the bathroom door
Anhedonia now is constant, the pathos inherent
As their mother went missing years ago
While they read Proust by the window,
and the day was drawing closed
Their father was sick with Absinthe shakes
whilst little duck starved in the pond behind the house
On disagreeable days,
profound introspection
becomes not more than
subversive psycho-babble
and the words he speaks
are dust on the tongue
a bother and little more
Purported to be perpetually depressed, his cool demeanor left an impression
on his sister, as she would gaze upwards at his face, displaying world-weariness
So Weltschmerz they called him and his cool was palpable
but only her smile could bring colour to his fa-*
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
Proust turned to Hemingway as her feet dangled off the ledge, playing hide and seek with the setting sun
What shall we do tonight?
Wander the streets as vagabonds,
Cursing the bottle as it makes love to the tongue?
Or shall we be a reckless symphony?
Truest tones found only in short breaths,
Tainted with sinless pleasure?
One in the same as smoke curls the lip.
Shall we always be friends as this?
While you smell of *** yes,
Or until I finish this paragraph.
Would you like me to read it to you?
Must you always speak in riddles?
If only to keep the thieves at bay,
For doctors know nothing of riddles.
You are no doctor, my friend,
For though I worship no idol,
Religion binds me to you.
As I am your god, you are my teacher,
For no one understands me quite like you.
Is that not what the alligator said to the turtle?
I think you’ve read the wrong version, my dear.
The alligator safely takes the turtle to shore,
And they grow old together in the humid afternoon sun.
Your mind is filled with the optimism your privileges have allowed;
Whereas the turtle never stood a chance.
Your doubt is lost on me,
But just as Proust has made me ironic,
Words will bring me back to you.
Shall I follow you, then, if you stray?
And ruin the cat’s game before its begun?
I heard the mouse goes blind in the end.
Then lets never find the hole in the decaying wall,
Until youth betrays our mind and perjury is revealed.
Is it truly perjury if we always knew it,
Both halves of the mind working tirelessly to keep it?
To reserve each word for tomorrow,
If only to keep eternity from death?
Must you always speak in riddles?
And he turned back to his book, as her thoughts lit the streetlights one by one.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 4:50 PM UTC
to kindness, to knowledge,
we make promises only; pain we obey.
Marcel Proust
I was born into this world
of people without
guardian angels but
loveless pockets
no body to see how
pain was incessantly
turned into tombstones
a carousel of masks and
defeated laughter
blinded by deceitful colours.
triumphant sidewalks not afraid
to be crushed by the weight of
humiliated bodies.
-he was secretly dreaming
how vanilla ice-cream would taste
on her lips-
people got used to bringing their thoughts
to the drug stores
as if walking their pets
weeping was incomprehensible
forbidden by law.
-she was secretly dreaming
of him smelling like tobacco,
white musk and cedarwood -
this world survived because of
all the hidden dimensions,
perhaps.
I was handed over a disembodied world
to dream of but
the metaphors were of
no use
to moonless people
their hands paralyzed.
oh, can anybody see?
the unspoken terror
that time stood still.
-I was secretly dreaming of destroying
this world with fresh words, with
the craziness of feeling alive-
I inherited the secret passion
of some unknown promises and
never-whispered desires
the only teacher I could find -
my manic heart
unbearable the pains of
growing a mind.
they wanted to keep it simple:
to cry, to speak, to fall in love.
muted seagulls
loveless alphabets
into this world
waiting for the sun to shed
its hidden self
of blindness
Jul 10, 2022
Jul 10, 2022 at 7:51 AM UTC
French vanilla Converse,
taupe-boxed flannel (too big),
and an American Spirit burning,
real, real slow. What a hipster ****
what a culture-eating parasite.
He says, 'Read Proust with me.'
He says something about how
his dad is dead but not in
a literal sense; metaphorically.
I was never interested in that part
in the avant-garde spoken poetry Friday nights.
I bust into the bathroom
and ***** grasping
Bed Bath and Beyond clearance items.
The walls are the same shade
of green as my skin.
A hand pets my thigh and I'm told
it'll all be okay.
How those knuckles knew,
I'll never know.
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 7:50 PM UTC
“I have loved you so much that I believe I understand you a little.”
Marcel Proust
we are wearing our glowing skins
full of unwoven whispers
or au contraire
we’ll have worn them
-who knows
in poetry, not in theory,
anything is possible-
one of us could say
“take this animal
out of my eyes, teeth, bones
for wild flowers
to grow in my sockets”
and I’ll say:
“for my eyelids to rest
in the shadow of your breath
and my vertigo, indigo
in the nest of your palm"
-words are just riverbeds-
see you - the sea in me
at the echo point
of blood
I’ll wear rivers
lipstick
bluebirds
in this poem of touching
every cell is spinning
its nucleus of numinosum
while the day breaks open
into the heart of trees
-words are stones of silence,
unintelligible altars-
I was in love
with a vertigo man
last time I checked
blood has its madness
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 2:43 PM UTC
Les nèfles de Kabylie
Il est des souvenirs d’enfance qui dominent longtemps l’esprit et ont des goûts de saveurs douces telles les madeleines de Proust.
Pour moi qui suis né à Bougie Ce sont les nèfles de Kabylie.
C’était en mai soit en juin que ces fruits blonds arrivaient sur la table de formica dans des couffins tressés de paille,
comme le signe d’un printemps qui bientôt deviendrait fournaise mais vibrionnant de Soleil.
Il fallait enlever la peau et en séparer les noyaux qui me faisaient penser à des billes Mais leur chair était succulente avec des zestes de vanille. et de bonbons acidulés.
J’avais huit ans, c’était la guerre !
Mais quand les nèfles arrivaient, j’oubliais les soucis des «grands» pour goûter à la chair des nèfles, jouer aux billes avec leurs noyaux.
C’est ainsi que parmi les drames, le regard de l’enfance est lointain.
Car la mort leur reste chimère. bien moins réelle que les jeux et les fruits dorés, bref privilège de l’enfance.
Paul d’Aubin (Paul Arrighi)
Toulouse- février 2014.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
Con ciudades y autores frecuentadosVenecia / Guanajuato / Maupassant /
Leningrado / Sousándrade / Berlín /
Cortázar / Bioy Casares / Medellín /
Lisboa / Sartre / Oslo / Valle Inclán /
Kafka / Managua / Faulkner / Paul Celan /
Ítalo Svevo / Quito / Bergamín /
Buenos Aires / La Habana / Graham Greene /
Copenhague / Quiroga / Thomas Mann /
Onetti / Siena / Shakespeare / Anatole
France / Saramago / Atenas / Heinrich Böll /
Cádiz / Martí / Gonzalo de Berceo /
París / Vallejo / Alberti / Santa Cruz
de Tenerife / Roma / Marcel Proust /
Pessoa / Baudelaire / Montevideo
1.3k
How many heroes have chosen this path,
Of least or no resistance?
In the face of overwhelming odds,
Or staring at cubicular, corporate submission;
Elect instead the stance
Of simply
Doing
Nothing?
Victorian ladies thought it amusing;
20th Century Centurions and Puritans condemned it.
The spoon-fed rich live it and lose nothing.
Russian aristocrats sometimes recommend it…
When spurned in love & up against it.
Oblomov, for instance, whiled his time away,
In bed, or staring out at the wood,
Writing meaningless letters and ignoring the day,
Yet it still did him some good.
Marat in his bathtub, Proust in his bed,
Still accomplished SOMETHING
Or we’d have forgotten them instead.
Is there still no virtue in doing nothing?
Against the tide of corporate work,
Aquarians rebelled with dance.
Later on, Generation X
Came to work in a greedy trance.
Peter Gibbons was hypnotized,
To escape his lifeless job,
Destroyed the office as it was downsized,
But was promoted by “the Bobs”.
Some lesson there, for those who strive,
That work alone is not enough.
Attitude is more important to our lives,
That revolt by nothingness is not that tough.
Abbie Hoffman was thrown through windows,
While preaching peace instead of wrath.
Despite nobility of cause, does humanity still go,
The inexorable way of sloth?
Sharon Talbot
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 8:43 AM UTC
I don't want to get started; I don't know if I have what it takes to stop it, once life is static no longer
Transient winds dislodge cobwebs from closets--
Silk mist that drifts
(Like half-daydreamed doves from our
Starlight and eyelash ark
Half-reclaimed by the sea)
Across our
New car smell, white-wash wall
Stumble before the fall,
Pick each other up and kiss the gravel off,
Apartment.
I scream "apartment",
To the concrete and steel
Of her skin, a bridge that's
Closed as tightly as her
Proust pressed flower lips.
My faults are
Tattooed across my skin
In full color comic strips.
I tongue the interior dents
Birthed when
She taught me
What apart meant.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 1:59 AM UTC
*pyramid, is that short of pencil-sharpener, an unmovable object, a Nevada experiment... (prolonged pause, also intended for a humidity of the questioning affect). quiet frankly you're making us look quiet silly give the mammalian status of sapiens; fuck's sake, Pythagoras spent a whole eternity contemplating a hypotenuse looking at the chiselled mountains of Giza - reputation wise you give monkeys a bad slogan - i.e. we evolved, evolved to build a temple of perpetual death: each slab housed the body of a labourer, and inside we just found a lot of poisonous powder ruminating to find the only basis for encrypting the whole affair, metaphysical borders, metaphysical by which i mean, due to Egyptology we have the museum-state that's Egypt, and the real life assertions without mint-condition comic book cults of mausoleum-states, known as Libya, Sudan and Israel; on that basis, a chicken and egg question, within etymological parameters, what came first, museum or mausoleum? see, history can be a Tchaikovsky affair, given etymology a dense shortening - a solid, rather than a **** when it comes to nationhood and patriotism and adherence to.*
a U.F.O. could have landed and we'd still
be printing dollars bills and admiring
that **** montem*, seriously, bring out
a pencil sharpener, we need to revise Mont Blanc,
more like Mont Bonkers - a white kite hey hey **
**** retardo* and a *** and
a singalong that Napoleon never spotted:
the Ramones with pet cemetary - that's how it's
in Englanf (no speel or spelling mistake,
impromptu arcadia, banishing the surds stemming
from Hay, or a needle in the stack),
a tombstone for each house what would have been,
the riddle of life with the priority of death
having seconds - the nørden of Newcastle will know,
that the soofern fairies are all Arab or Tsar pawnbrokers
or transvestites (as they respected Kenneth Rexroth,
but Proust incubated in only two volumes
just ain't for me).
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
never wanted to feel a thing
blunt my skin on the door frame
sink through my sheets
an open mouth for candescence
friends you lose touch with
acid and lost time
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 7:18 PM UTC
inside weather and 8/10
of the air is held between
the bodies of migrating birds.
I can’t predict where
the storms are headed,
perhaps you can help me.
The summer we read Proust
you sent a postcard of him.
Out of respect I placed it on the fridge.
Weeks later, we noticed he had died,
and took it down so as not to
overwhelm the produce.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 10:19 PM UTC
two hearts
stampede through a china shoppe
like huge
huge like
looking up at the hoover dam
saying ****
****
is something that leaves my lips
when i can’t wrap my heart around
something impossible for my head
pronounced
probable
proust would say
“let us be grateful to people who make us happy
they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom. “
pruned
blooming
watered and spoken to
fed from the pail from the leak in the roof
to marcel, warmth
the proof
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 8:43 PM UTC