"raskolnikov" poems - Hello Poetry

Ma Jalouse, Mon Unique, Mon Ultime Sais-tu ce que Lord Invader, Sam Manning Cyril Monrose, Charlie Parker, Louis Armstrong Jack Sneed et Ernest Rangling Sans oublier Blue Glaze Mento Band et Phil Madison ? Et je m'arrête là pour l'instant, Sais-tu ce qu'ils ont en commun ? Eh bien vois-tu, ce sont tous mes ombres. Tu ne pourras jamais me comprendre Si tu ne les comprends pas Et si tu ne sais pas ce que représentent pour moi La mangouste et le raccoon. De même que pour te comprendre il faut avoir lu tout Dostoievski Pour me comprendre il faut avoir écouté tout Sly Mongoose Car peut être n'as-tu vu en moi qu'aria et boléro, symphonie et concerto Alors je t'explique : pour comprendre, n'essaie pas de philosopher Lève-toi et bouge tout simplement et tu toucheras l 'essence C'est du folklore, c'est du reggae, c 'est du mento, c'est du calypso, c'est du jazz, C'est instrumental ou c'est vocal C'est moi, mes ascendances et descendances. Sly Mongoose c'est mes Frères Karamasov Smerdiakov, Aliocha, Ivan et Dmitri C'est mon Idiot, mon prince Lev Mychkine C'est mon Joueur, mon Alexei Ivanovitch Mon Rêve d'un Homme Ridicule Et Raskolnikov errant dans la nuit dans Crime et Châtiment. Sly Mongoose c'est l'histoire d'une mangouste maline Qui a baptisé la fille du pasteur De son eau sainte Et qui fuit la Jamaïque Et part à l'étranger Après son forfait. C'est l'histoire d'une mangouste qui vole les poules les plus grasses de la cuisine Et qui les met dans la poche de son veston C'est l'histoire d'une mangouste qui entre dans la cuisine d'un prédicateur Et qui repart avec une des poules les plus grasses Et tous les chiens savent son nom. il s'appelle Sly Mangoose Il est malin, il est vicieux, le compère C'est mon ombre, que veux-tu Et parfois pour échapper aux prédateurs Il prend l'apparence de l'ombre d'un raccoon.

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Aug 21, 2019

Aug 21, 2019 at 6:05 AM UTC

cyclone-wolfok-baltimore

Mangouste et raccoon

Ma Jalouse, Mon Unique, Mon Ultime Sais-tu ce que Lord Invader, Sam Manning Cyril Monrose, Charlie Parker, Louis Armstrong Jack Sneed et Ernest Rangling Sans oublier Blue Glaze Mento Band et Phil Madison ? Et je m'arrête là pour l'instant, Sais-tu ce qu'ils ont en commun ? Eh bien vois-tu, ce sont tous mes ombres. Tu ne pourras jamais me comprendre Si tu ne les comprends pas Et si tu ne sais pas ce que représentent pour moi La mangouste et le raccoon. De même que pour te comprendre il faut avoir lu tout Dostoievski Pour me comprendre il faut avoir écouté tout Sly Mongoose Car peut être n'as-tu vu en moi qu'aria et boléro, symphonie et concerto Alors je t'explique : pour comprendre, n'essaie pas de philosopher Lève-toi et bouge tout simplement et tu toucheras l 'essence C'est du folklore, c'est du reggae, c 'est du mento, c'est du calypso, c'est du jazz, C'est instrumental ou c'est vocal C'est moi, mes ascendances et descendances. Sly Mongoose c'est mes Frères Karamasov Smerdiakov, Aliocha, Ivan et Dmitri C'est mon Idiot, mon prince Lev Mychkine C'est mon Joueur, mon Alexei Ivanovitch Mon Rêve d'un Homme Ridicule Et Raskolnikov errant dans la nuit dans Crime et Châtiment. Sly Mongoose c'est l'histoire d'une mangouste maline Qui a baptisé la fille du pasteur De son eau sainte Et qui fuit la Jamaïque Et part à l'étranger Après son forfait. C'est l'histoire d'une mangouste qui vole les poules les plus grasses de la cuisine Et qui les met dans la poche de son veston C'est l'histoire d'une mangouste qui entre dans la cuisine d'un prédicateur Et qui repart avec une des poules les plus grasses Et tous les chiens savent son nom. il s'appelle Sly Mangoose Il est malin, il est vicieux, le compère C'est mon ombre, que veux-tu Et parfois pour échapper aux prédateurs Il prend l'apparence de l'ombre d'un raccoon.

42

That year in Paris you took Dostoyevsky’s novel Crime and Punishment to read when you weren’t touring the sites and you became so immersed in the book that you became Raskolnikov and killed the old woman and her half sister and looked about the streets you looked for the detective Porfiry whom you suspected was following you about and as you sat in the Champs-Elysées or stood by the Arc de Triomphe you thought of all the famous who had stayed here in this fine city Henry Miller Ezra Pound Hemmingway Debussy Van Gogh and that fanatical conqueror ****** with his sick smile under that silly moustache and that evening your brother in the hotel room puked in the bidet after sour wine or too rich food as you looked out the window on the Parisian street to see if Porfiry was out there waiting for you to charge you with the murderous crime you didn’t do.

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Jun 6, 2012

Jun 6, 2012 at 3:12 PM UTC

terry-collett

PARIS 1973. (POEM)

That year in Paris you took Dostoyevsky’s novel Crime and Punishment to read when you weren’t touring the sites and you became so immersed in the book that you became Raskolnikov and killed the old woman and her half sister and looked about the streets you looked for the detective Porfiry whom you suspected was following you about and as you sat in the Champs-Elysées or stood by the Arc de Triomphe you thought of all the famous who had stayed here in this fine city Henry Miller Ezra Pound Hemmingway Debussy Van Gogh and that fanatical conqueror ****** with his sick smile under that silly moustache and that evening your brother in the hotel room puked in the bidet after sour wine or too rich food as you looked out the window on the Parisian street to see if Porfiry was out there waiting for you to charge you with the murderous crime you didn’t do.

52

sometimes i find myself confused knowing that however much we speak (however much i say i love you) i will never know you as well as i do raskolnikov, darl, hamlet, thoreau. because i cannot read your thoughts but i can read theirs. oh, i can read theirs.

0

Jan 23, 2016

Jan 23, 2016 at 6:35 PM UTC

glassea

books

sometimes i find myself confused knowing that however much we speak (however much i say i love you) i will never know you as well as i do raskolnikov, darl, hamlet, thoreau. because i cannot read your thoughts but i can read theirs. oh, i can read theirs.

8

Windows glassy before me, As the beat behind them slowly comes to a resolve, This shell before me shall dissolve. Go onward to place I shall not reach, Not now at least The darkness flees the flashing badges, Something I will not be granted You are in a better place, or so I assume By my own hand, I am doomed These hands I know so well, That is yours Mine, Wrenched behind me as you are stared at in terror They think my work is over But I have just began, I really am new to this I don’t mean to offend but you were simply practice

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Mar 9, 2016

Mar 9, 2016 at 8:31 PM UTC

john-paul-richard

Raskolnikov

Windows glassy before me, As the beat behind them slowly comes to a resolve, This shell before me shall dissolve. Go onward to place I shall not reach, Not now at least The darkness flees the flashing badges, Something I will not be granted You are in a better place, or so I assume By my own hand, I am doomed These hands I know so well, That is yours Mine, Wrenched behind me as you are stared at in terror They think my work is over But I have just began, I really am new to this I don’t mean to offend but you were simply practice

16

The sprawling corporate tool, the false pretense destroys the inner sanctity. In his own personal palace crumbling with the rest of it. Not good enough. Slicked back afraid no one can comprehend the magnitude and pure scale of ból. Incessant staring, incessant staring, incessant staring. In the name of god, gravity over death, nothing is sacred, everything is broken. I am broken, for he is broken. Torn apart. Almost dead. Worth is less. No one can comprehend the magnitude and pure scale of verletzt. Stranded by the wrists, hanging. Dwindling. Imagine a man with his wrists attached to a ceiling fan, with cement shoes. Activating the ceiling fan is despicable and abhorrent, but the beauty shines through. Beauty knows no pain. Beauty covers the pain of the moment. Encompass Dancing Shiva through and through, Dancing Shiva is guidance. Encephalic dissociation at the route. What the hell is wrong. Omit me. Chasing the glorification, what he wants is not healthy he knows. Self gratification taking a non existent approach. Back seat. Take the back ******* seat. It’s for others. Its all for ******* others. He is broken where it is impossible to fix. Supplement a camera, feed the anxiety and take away the comfort. Supplement the ******* camera, take away the innocence. ADD THE INNOCENCE. Where is this where am I. What am I. How am I. Incoherent rambling to focus on a main theme. Incoherent rambling to focus on a main theme? Provide reason for disinterest; the enormous mouth roaring into his ear, roaring, flaring, decomposing any sense of worth. It’s alright. Raskolnikov would be jealous of his malcontentedness.

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Feb 11, 2018

Feb 11, 2018 at 2:29 PM UTC

ianh

Ceiling Fan, Cement Shoes.

The sprawling corporate tool, the false pretense destroys the inner sanctity. In his own personal palace crumbling with the rest of it. Not good enough. Slicked back afraid no one can comprehend the magnitude and pure scale of ból. Incessant staring, incessant staring, incessant staring. In the name of god, gravity over death, nothing is sacred, everything is broken. I am broken, for he is broken. Torn apart. Almost dead. Worth is less. No one can comprehend the magnitude and pure scale of verletzt. Stranded by the wrists, hanging. Dwindling. Imagine a man with his wrists attached to a ceiling fan, with cement shoes. Activating the ceiling fan is despicable and abhorrent, but the beauty shines through. Beauty knows no pain. Beauty covers the pain of the moment. Encompass Dancing Shiva through and through, Dancing Shiva is guidance. Encephalic dissociation at the route. What the hell is wrong. Omit me. Chasing the glorification, what he wants is not healthy he knows. Self gratification taking a non existent approach. Back seat. Take the back ******* seat. It’s for others. Its all for ******* others. He is broken where it is impossible to fix. Supplement a camera, feed the anxiety and take away the comfort. Supplement the ******* camera, take away the innocence. ADD THE INNOCENCE. Where is this where am I. What am I. How am I. Incoherent rambling to focus on a main theme. Incoherent rambling to focus on a main theme? Provide reason for disinterest; the enormous mouth roaring into his ear, roaring, flaring, decomposing any sense of worth. It’s alright. Raskolnikov would be jealous of his malcontentedness.

1

I read lots of Russian lit (in translation, of course) while in Viet-Nam I understood poor, young Raskolnikov And read all I found by Anton Chekhov Remembered nothing about Bulgakhov Heard naughty whispers about Nabokov Thrilled to the Cossacks in old Sholokov And then I learned about Kalashnikov – This, I decided, is where I get off! Moc Hoa (pronounced something like “mock wah”) is a now-prosperous town on the Song Vam Co Tay near the border with Cambodia. In 1970 it was rather down at the heels and was a center of military activity, including mercenaries presumably controlled by the C.I.A.

0

Mar 24, 2018

Mar 24, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC

lawrence-hall

Russians in Moc Hoa (a Russia series, 61)

I read lots of Russian lit (in translation, of course) while in Viet-Nam I understood poor, young Raskolnikov And read all I found by Anton Chekhov Remembered nothing about Bulgakhov Heard naughty whispers about Nabokov Thrilled to the Cossacks in old Sholokov And then I learned about Kalashnikov – This, I decided, is where I get off! Moc Hoa (pronounced something like “mock wah”) is a now-prosperous town on the Song Vam Co Tay near the border with Cambodia. In 1970 it was rather down at the heels and was a center of military activity, including mercenaries presumably controlled by the C.I.A.

9