"roland" poems
Oh Language, where hast thou hid thyself?
Thy once-bright spires decline to dust.
The calm, well-reasoned flow of wisdom
a bygone memory. I’ll not trust
these tween-to-twenty-something’s prattle;
endless babble of self-absorption
centered in pleasure-maximizing:
narcissistic thought-abortion.
Dude—they’re SO not app’ed for language
used by dad ten years ago.
I’m totally DONE with their, like, verbiage
They’re all: Smartphone Teenage Show.
It’s just, like, TALKING—without words
in language ghettos; texting proud . . .
Their lack of precision offends my brain—
They ought to be ashamed (out loud).
Vygotsky’s vaunted Z.P.D,
and Bakhtin’s heteroglossic crack
along with Roland Barthe’s pet parrot
Are SO like totally talking smack.
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
May I present a challenge?
Imagine if you will
You have created a flying explosive device
And it needs a name that will thrill.
A name, a good name, which name?
Well, none of those below.
Some twisted suits have already used them.
**** EVEN Tacit Rainbow.
What really goes through their minds?
As they sit and discuss the name
Of their creation that's destined to ****
Butcher, destroy and maim.
Just try if you can
To read the whole of this edited list
Imagine how many have exploded of each
With out angrily clenching your fist
Little John
Honest John
Hellfire
Matador
HARM
Terrier
Nike-Ajax
Corporal
Sea Sparrow
Redstone
Bullpup
Mace
Nike-Hercules
Regulus II
Atlas
Thor
Lacrosse
Jupiter
Quail
Hawk
Tartar
Falcon
Polaris
Hound Dog
Pershing
Entac
Firebee
Shelduck
Jayhawk
Cardinal
Firefly
Petrel
Redhead/Roadrunner
Redeye
Mauler
Skybolt
Nike Zeus/Spartan
Condor
Phoenix
Typhon MR
Falconer
Overseer
Taurus
Kingfisher
Cardinal
Walleye
Hornet
Maverick
Big Q
Minuteman
Blue Eye
Viper
Firebolt
Bulldog
Harpoon
Focus
Perseus
Firefly
Stinger
Compass Dwell
B-Gull
Agile
Seekbat
Delta Dagger
Thunderbolt[7]
Patriot
Aquila
Teleplane
Streaker
Tomahawk
Firebrand
Roland
Peacekeeper
Penguin
Pave Tiger/Seek Spinner
Sidearm
Skipper
Wasp
Sea Lance
Ripper[7]
Trident II
Midgetman
Tacit Rainbow
Pave Cricket
Have Nap
Peregrine
Exdrone
Javelin
Pointer
Hunter
Coyote
Skeeter
Outlaw
Wow, you're still reading
And you've managed not to throw up.
Just wondering how many innocent victims
Of a tax funded device called Bullpup.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
*My dad broke my heart
Way before a guy had the chance to
*Kids who have holes in their souls
In the shape of their dad. And
If a father is unwilling or
Unable to fill that hole, it can
Leave a wound that is not
Easily healed
-Roland Warren
*71% of high school
Dropouts in the United States come
From fatherless homes
*A man ain't
**** if he's
No father
To his
Children
A fathers hurt
isn't the childs responsibility
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
I Am Waiting
I am waiting for my case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail
and I am waiting
for the discovery
of a new symbolic western frontier
and I am waiting
for the American Eagle
to really spread its wings
and straighten up and fly right
and I am waiting
for the Age of Anxiety
to drop dead
and I am waiting
for the war to be fought
which will make the world safe
for anarchy
and I am waiting
for the final withering away
of all governments
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Second Coming
and I am waiting
for a religious revival
to sweep thru the state of Arizona
and I am waiting
for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored
and I am waiting
for them to prove
that God is really American
and I am waiting
to see God on television
piped onto church altars
if only they can find
the right channel
to tune in on
and I am waiting
for the Last Supper to be served again
with a strange new appetizer
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for my number to be called
and I am waiting
for the Salvation Army to take over
and I am waiting
for the meek to be blessed
and inherit the earth
without taxes
and I am waiting
for forests and animals
to reclaim the earth as theirs
and I am waiting
for a way to be devised
to destroy all nationalisms
without killing anybody
and I am waiting
for linnets and planets to fall like rain
and I am waiting for lovers and weepers
to lie down together again
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed
and I am anxiously waiting
for the secret of eternal life to be discovered
by an obscure general practitioner
and I am waiting
for the storms of life
to be over
and I am waiting
to set sail for happiness
and I am waiting
for a reconstructed Mayflower
to reach America
with its picture story and tv rights
sold in advance to the natives
and I am waiting
for the lost music to sound again
in the Lost Continent
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the day
that maketh all things clear
and I am awaiting retribution
for what America did
to Tom Sawyer
and I am waiting
for Alice in Wonderland
to retransmit to me
her total dream of innocence
and I am waiting
for Childe Roland to come
to the final darkest tower
and I am waiting
for Aphrodite
to grow live arms
at a final disarmament conference
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting
to get some intimations
of immortality
by recollecting my early childhood
and I am waiting
for the green mornings to come again
youth’s dumb green fields come back again
and I am waiting
for some strains of unpremeditated art
to shake my typewriter
and I am waiting to write
the great indelible poem
and I am waiting
for the last long careless rapture
and I am perpetually waiting
for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn
to catch each other up at last
and embrace
and I am awaiting
perpetually and forever
a renaissance of wonder
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
troilet
by Roland Leighton
1895 ... December.1915
There's a sob on the sea
*There's a sob on the sea
And the Old Year is dying.
Borne on night wings to me
There's a sob on the sea,
And for what could not be
The great world-heart is sighing.
There's a sob on the sea
And the Old Year is dying.*
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 2:14 PM UTC
(Published in Miami Herald on May 26, 2014 Brigitte Jacobs Arnold
Obituary Guest Book View Sign ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI. Services will be held at 7:00 pm and a viewing from 12:00 pm to 8:00pm at Maspons Funeral Home located at 3500 SW 8th Street, Miami Florida 33135 Wednesday May 28th.)
Don’t ask me why but
I went online this afternoon.
Read the Miami-Herald obituaries.
And not just the Biggies:
Maya Angelou at 86 and
A one hundred year old Herb Jeffries.
Of course we knew Maya,
Her caged bird singing
Softly in our souls,
But may not be aware of Herb Jeffries.
A former singer in the Ellington band,
Herb was known as the Bronze Buckaroo,
In a series of all-black 1930s Westerns--
His nickname evoking
His racial identity,
Quite muddled, flexible.
Although both sad passages to be sure,
It was neither Maya nor Herb
Triggering my tender tears.
But the obituary of:
ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI,
Known as Oma, Mutti and Mama.
Well, not exactly the Brigitte obit,
My tears for her long-lived mother,
Brigitte’s mother, durable & abiding,
Still breathing at 97:
Hildegard Wolle.
Reading Brigitte’s bio—
German born, Berlin student,
Singer-fashionista &
Proud, naturalized
American citizen—
I can’t stop thinking about Hildegard.
As if the woman didn’t already
Have more than her share of trouble
On this planet nearly a century,
Having already lost her
Grandson Roland, and now,
Her daughter.
Something wacky is going on here.
Some long-distance life lesson
Being applied here.
Poor Hildegard: ungifted with Alzheimer’s,
Suffers crystal distant memories,
Some really bad karma
Stored up in past lives.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 3:54 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
We too, we too, descending once again
The hills of our own land, we too have heard
Far off—Ah, que ce cor a longue haleine—
The horn of Roland in the passages of Spain,
The first, the second blast, the failing third,
And with the third turned back and climbed once more
The steep road southward, and heard faint the sound
Of swords, of horses, the disastrous war,
And crossed the dark defile at last, and found
At Roncevaux upon the darkening plain
The dead against the dead and on the silent ground
The silent slain—
3.4k
Once I looked to the Bard for words profound;
ageless, his wisdom ran unabated.
Yet Hamlet is now ideologically unsound,
“the slings and arrows” historically Iocated.
I wept for the creature of Frankenstein,
spurned by his master, forced to roam the Earth.
But I’d been subjectively positioned in a paradigm
by Mary’s anxiety about childbirth.
I read Balzac, Hardy and Henry James
describing “worlds” which seemed quite sensible.
Now Eagleton’s exposed their bourgeois games
I find them morally reprehensible.
I dreamt of being Robinson Crusoe
or proud, fierce Hawkeye in his buckskins dressed,
but Fenimore and Defoe have to go,
they’re culturally encoded and empirically obsessed.
Inspired by Guinness, did James Joyce sit down
to see what magic flowed when he was ******
The stream of Ulysses floats Bloom-about-town
dreamthinkingnever : “I’mamodernist”.
I’d gladly give Woolf a Room of Her Own
and be one of the boys with Hemingway,
but sensitive guys leave their bulls alone
say de Beauvoir and Luce Irigaray.
No more fun with Wordsworth being daffodilly,
no simple pleasure reading Mickey Mouse;
Steamboat Willie can’t help but look silly
dissected by Foucault and Levi-Strauss.
The Bible shows intertextuality
says the two Jacques, Lacan and Derrida.
Judas, a construct of bisexuality?
The **** fixations of Herod are?
It’s got so bad I deconstruct a holiday brochure.
I can’t even **** without Roland Barthes and Ferdinand de Saussure.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
Ye are not alone
Hear me, If ye will,
For I too have become one of the last of my kind
And my world falls apart
Just as thine own
And though we chase not the same Tower,
They are but one
Yes, Charyou Tree, come reap
I too have given up everything for my Tower
And if they knew,
They would demand I renounce my precious tower
But ka like the wind
Carries me forward
And I believe you understand
Why I know
I will draw
My last breath
On the path of the beam
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
LAST night a January wind was ripping at the shingles
over our house and whistling a wolf song under the
eaves.
I sat in a leather rocker and read to a six-year-old girl
the Browning poem, Childe Roland to the Dark
Tower Came.
And her eyes had the haze of autumn hills and it was
beautiful to her and she could not understand.
A man is crossing. a big prairie, says the poem, and
nothing happens--and he goes on and on--and it's
all lonesome and empty and nobody home.
And he goes on and on--and nothing happens--and he
comes on a horse's skull, dry bones of a dead horse--
and you know more than ever it's all lonesome and
empty and nobody home.
And the man raises a horn to his lips and blows--he
fixes a proud neck and forehead toward the empty
sky and the empty land--and blows one last wonder-
cry.
And as the shuttling automatic memory of man clicks
off its results willy-nilly and inevitable as the snick
of a mouse-trap or the trajectory of a 42-centimetre
projectile,
I flash to the form of a man to his hips in snow drifts
of Manitoba and Minnesota--in the sled derby run
from Winnipeg to Minneapolis.
He is beaten in the race the first day out of Winnipeg--
the lead dog is eaten by four team mates--and the
man goes on and on--running while the other racers
ride, running while the other racers sleep--
Lost in a blizzard twenty-four hours, repeating a circle
of travel hour after hour--fighting the dogs who
dig holes in the snow and whimper for sleep--
pushing on--running and walking five hundred
miles to the end of the race--almost a winner--one
toe frozen, feet blistered and frost-bitten.
And I know why a thousand young men of the North-
west meet him in the finishing miles and yell cheers
--I know why judges of the race call him a winner
and give him a special prize even though he is a
loser.
I know he kept under his shirt and around his thudding
heart amid the blizzards of five hundred miles that
one last wonder-cry of Childe Roland--and I told
the six year old girl about it.
And while the January wind was ripping at the shingles
and whistling a wolf song under the eaves, her eyes
had the haze of autumn hills and it was beautiful
to her and she could not understand.
2.3k
*Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is
as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip
of my words. My language trembles with desire.
-Roland Barthes*
My language is a skin I have outgrown.
It sloughs off in flakes,
leaving letters or the occasional
ill-suited, illegible word
trailing behind me.
I pick at adverbs and articles
hanging from my fingertips;
This morning I pulled a whole phrase
off my arm like a sunburn.
My language, once alight,
now settles like cinders
on the ground,
around the shower drain,
upon my sheets;
My language no longer serves me.
Peel my vocabulary off my back,
tear my diction from my shoulders,
and my syntax from my chest;
Scratch the punctuation off my face—
my lips are chapped with parentheses.
Tomorrow I will have shed my language—
Unbound from an ill-fitting lexicon—
coughed the alphabet from my lungs
and exhaled the last serif
like cigarette smoke
to find the world new,
uncontained and undefined.
Apr 7, 2011
Apr 7, 2011 at 4:15 AM UTC
Squint scurried.
From rooftop to rooftop,
He skipped and he flipped as he
Scrambled amongst the tiles,
The blur of slate was his domain,
As, through the haze of reckless speed,
The slowly revolving City
Did imprint upon his vision.
So that as his sly lids descended
Its outline he admired;
Its screaming centre he desired.
In the end even Squint cannot run forever.
So he will slow, and shade his eyes,
Catch his breath and gaze and sigh.
And when he’s had his fill of the sights and the smog.
Down he slides amongst the pipes
Of better folk; of harder folk,
Of those with Proper Names
Like ‘Welder’ and ‘Melder’
And ‘Roland’ and ‘Fairer’.
Names that came after a ‘Mr’,
A ‘Lord’ or a ‘Sister’.
Names that one Day he would have for his Own.
For in the Glass City, Names were always changin’ hands.
Squint.
Not much of a Name,
Even for one so young as he
It would seem he would deserve
A Name of much more worth
Than simple, humble ‘Squint’.
But Squint lived up to his Name.
He may look young and full of fun,
But crouch on a wall and you might just
Be appalled to see that not a moment after
Squint is left alone, his eyes will glitter.
And if any Man’s flesh could ever express such malicious scheming,
It was the writhing face of our humble Squint,
Once his eyeballs set to gleaming.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 5:42 PM UTC
The skies are blue and the clouds look fluffy.
The air is crisp and the water is chilling.
The mountains appear to touch the sky
and the leaves are rich shades of green, red, and orange.
I walked along out of service train tracks that cut through this mountain. Literally, through it.
The tunnels started on the West Shore of Donner Lake and followed the ridge of the mountain all the way to Truckee. I hiked a half a mile from the highway up to an opening in the tunnel. For a few hundred yards the tunnel was riddled with broken bottles and worthless graffiti. As I walked further in, the garbage began to disappear and the graffiti became thoughtful, artful. It became darker and darker until I could only see the circle illuminated by my pin flashlight. On one spot of the wall someone had written the entire first chapter of Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Stone. Someone had drawn a white line. Just a white line and I was so intrigued by it. People wrote stories of the lives. "Im kevin, my gf broke up w me now im gay" or "Im pat. i got dmt and then i got aids" and "im kaylene. thats it."
Someone sprayed a **** pipe on the wall of the tunnel and it was green. They paid very good attention to the crystals in the bowl and the smoke rising from it. A young girl with black hair had her lips on the pipe and she was breathing in. Written under it was "Remember, remember, the 5th of November."
Some one else had sprayed a cowboy. One half of him was black outlined with white and gray detail and the other half was white outlined with gray and black detail. Next to it was written "Childe Roland to the dark tower come."
Some one else had sprayed a devil. He was red with pure black eyes. It was signed "Self Portrait."
Halfway through there was a drain and creepily enough a faint light was shining from underneath the thick grates. Above it some one wrote "I stashed my **** here for three years."
Under that someone had wrote "Gateway to hell."
The rocks jutted out in straight lines.
Some were smooth and others rough.
The mountains cleansed me.
They wiped away some of the grime
this small city has polluted me with.
The crisp air exfolliated some of the
smoke from my lungs and the water
pulled the dirt from my skin
and the hike massaged my sore
feet and the graffiti swept through
one eyeball and took all the garbage
in my brain out through the other
eyeball. The mountains saved me.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 12:00 AM UTC
LET us sit by a hissing steam radiator a winter's day, gray wind pattering frozen raindrops on the window,
And let us talk about milk wagon drivers and grocery delivery boys.
Let us keep our feet in wool slippers and mix hot punches-and talk about mail carriers and messenger boys slipping along the icy sidewalks.
Let us write of olden, golden days and hunters of the Holy Grail and men called "knights" riding horses in the rain, in the cold frozen rain for ladies they loved.
A roustabout hunched on a coal wagon goes by, icicles drip on his hat rim, sheets of ice wrapping the hunks of coal, the caravanserai a gray blur in slant of rain.
Let us nudge the steam radiator with our wool slippers and write poems of Launcelot, the hero, and Roland, the hero, and all the olden golden men who rode horses in the rain.
1.8k
Rivers dry up, except
The Mississippi.
If/When
That particular long and wide
And fat and deep
Body of Wa-Wa
Completely dries up,
The World, as SK
Was fond of saying of
Roland of Gilead and the
Shadowed Spire,
"Has moved on."
Monstrous
Glaciers partied hard inda
MIDWEST!
For, like, endless freezing
Nights and equally
Chill-laxing daze,
Man! Man? Dude!
Dudes? Little dudes
With spears takin' on
The Mammoths! No
WAY!
Way.
They'll not outlive and
OutLAST US, My
Frozen Bros!
(But we had fire, the roasting
Kind and the hot burning
Coals within our spirit,
Fire to perpetuate our
Species through endlessly
Cold nights and days)
Whoo-Hooo!
Dude! You plowed
DEEP last night, Bro!
What's that stuff on yer
Brow. Sweat?
Hey is it me or is it
Hot in here?
Dudes? We're like
SMALLER
Irregardless, or
Re, the You SSS of
A has a large dent
In its midsection.
Because those partying
Glaciers were forced back
Into polar hiding, shedding
Great earthen chunks of their
Fatty selves, carving and
Slashing
The most fertile watershed
In the country.
Their ageless and
Timeless enemy, that
Bright Yellow Orb,
Opened its great
Cyclopean eye, and
Focused, yet again,
Blessed rays of light
Heat, and life.
The melting...
Water lying on the ground,
Unsure? How about we start a
Pool? I bet it'll pay
Off to flow on not-flat ground, the
Pool collapses and begins flowing
With purpose, streaming
Together as a larger
Body of water:
The Miss
'Sippi.
Any number of
Numberless great and lesser
Lakes up North
Decided to be hole-
Y. Gravity
Did the rest.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
as 'The Dark Tower' was King's "magnum opus"
it had an ending worth dwelling on.
and now he suffers over
not writing about Roland
as I continue to suffer over
having to write about you.
As if you were my "greatest achievement of an artist or writer"
I voluntarily chose not to move on,
long since alone under the covers.
I think back and remember when
you showed me how to forget lovers.
Yet as I practice the simple techniques
that you painstakingly taught me,
I can't help but remember
I'm trying to forget you.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 8:50 PM UTC
After climbing off
the school bus
she grabbed the sleeve
of your coat and said
I want to talk to you
and so you stayed behind
as your sister and hers
walked on ahead
and her brothers ran off
in a game of tag
she released your sleeve
and brushed the hair
out of her eyes
what is it? you asked
walking beside her
along the side of the road
the winter afternoon darkening
what was Roland
saying to you in class?
she asked
Roland?
yes Roland
in the last lesson of maths?
you looked over
at the tall trees
becoming tall giants
as the sky began to dim
he was talking about his sister
you said
then why was he looking at me?
perhaps he finds you attractive
you replied
she slapped your arm
with her hand
don’t talk nonsense
he wouldn’t find
Marilyn Monroe attractive
if she sat
on his bony knees
she said looking at you
with her big blue eyes
you rubbed
your injured arm
playfully
he was saying his sister
had found his collection
of ***** magazines under his bed
you said
a car whizzed by
and she turned
and shouted back at it
some words her mother
would have slapped her
for saying
she sighed and said
why can’t you tell me the truth?
you stopped and stood facing her
her blue eyes gazing at you
searching yours
as if she’d left something there
on a previous occasion
he said he didn’t know
what I saw in you
her eyes enlarged
and what did you say?
she asked
in the sky over her shoulder
the moon was beginning to shine
in competition
with the weak sun
I said you snogged
pretty good
you said
she slapped your arm
and walked on
no
you called out
I was only joking
she stopped
and turned
and glared at you
I said you were the best thing
to happen to me
since God created Sundays
you’re lying
she said
all right
you said
seeing her eyes watering
I said I loved you
you said
looking at her
wondering if her hand
might slap you again
did you?
yes
and what did he say?
she asked
he just shrugged
his shoulders
and drew a picture
of Mr Parrot on the corner
of his maths book
she was silent
and looked by you
at the incoming traffic
then kissed your cheek
leaving a damp patch
like a small oasis
on a dry landscape
of your 14 year old skin
conjuring up images
her mother
would define as sin.
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 2:08 AM UTC
In the field
where roses sing
a lonely man approaches.
His face is haggard,
stained and scarred
yet strong as he encroaches.
He won't stop
to think of rest
though long his quest has taken.
His ka-tet broken
friends all dead
yet his resolve's not shaken.
He goes up
the ancient steps
and sees his precious moments.
Why does he smell
sweet alkali?
Is this a form of torment?
Thirty-eight
he sees his love,
sweet Susan dead from fire.
Oh Char-you tree!
He feels such guilt
but keeps climbing the spire.
Up he goes.
He ponders this:
Mayhap it goes forever?
But, no. It can't!
His life is long,
but not that long, however.
To the top
where one last door
with ROLAND on the surface
does call to him
and begs him come,
for was this not his purpose?
There engraved
upon the ****
the guns his father gave him
wrapped in a rose.
But they are gone.
No, even they won't save him.
Past the door
the hot Mohaine
and alkali await him.
He begs mercy
but ka has none.
The Tower it did bait him.
Roland, he
begins anew
and remembers not a thing.
He marches on,
the Tower waits
among where roses sing.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
Elégie poue notre ami Roland
Oh, mon ami, Roland Tu n’es plus désormais, Et il nous manque tant Ton regard colère Ta gouaille malicieuse Le feu de te propos De « pionnier » écolos
Que tu fus bien avant Que la mode s’en mêle. Cher Roland nous parlions Nous refaisions le Monde A torts et à travers. Mais puissants et fâcheux Etaient parmi les cibles Préférés de nos traits insolents De nos hardis propos. Roland, tu n’es plus là Et, ils ont prospéré, Les moutons, les dociles Qui suivent les bergers par trop intéressés. Cher Roland, reviens nous ! Pour les piquer encore, Ces satisfaits de peu, Ces traitres à leurs rêves. Reviens, Roland, Reviens ! Car nous avons besoin De l’esprit ironique De ta verve d’antan Et de tes polémiques Qui nous élèvent un peu De la médiocrité.
Paul Arrighi – Toulouse
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
I see them walking down streets with names like
old buckingham
old gun road
westchester common street
robious
hugenaut
broad
grace frankling main cary
carry the weight of a group of ****** up **** ups
trying to "make a difference"
delusional *******
difference is made from killing a status quo
and their hands shake like childrens'
take a stake in the mental quake of the plasticity of the fake looking for mates
I'm tumbling down sure fall peak
free fall
until falling free is forgotten as a quest
childe roland to the dark tower came
yeah I went to college for a little bit there
broke out when I broke out of a sane frame of mind
swallow the sludge created by incontinent consumerists
snakes on trees make better friends than invisible fathers
but get these depressed lunatics out of my sight
feeling a fight bubbling up
complaints are for the complacent
so I don't see you
fear or hear no evil
evil makes good possible
using my vice versa as my vice
quoting bible quotes verbatim
I don't ft right
jigsaw piece chewed up by toddlers
jam me into place
and cover me in duct tape to silence the protests
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
ian anderson wears my father's face,
my small hands in his work-worn palms
as he sings to me: *war-child,
dance the days and nights away...*
LATER.
my home is barefoot wandering baker street
in the dirt-path days before arthur conan doyle,
rabbits running in the gutter,
arms full of tea-cups,
praying to the gods of war
at the chapel of the bright city mile
on a dusty sunday afternoon--
and every song is home:
like the inside of a tavern,
yellow candlelight dancing across the wooden walls.
i see falstaff, ruddy-faced and drunk in the corner,
roland, passed out with a cup in hand,
my father, the minstrel in the gallery,
smile on his face, piping out a tune.
it is because of him i am a valkyrie, a war-child.
it is by his virtue that i brandish a sword,
that i stand at attention, that my back is unbroken,
that i give no armistice--
and he taught me how
(though it seems inconsequential)
to play solitaire.
OF COURSE.
and while the horses wander the hillside,
while i become the poet and unsheath my pen,
while i join the stage and leave the audience,
i know-- always--
i can follow the flute home.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
RECORD: ****** KILLER
FROGMAN: TALKING HEArDS
. . . He went down the steps and walked backwards into the desert;
three-tree places, two-tree.
The back door of The Lab Tor open and they foiled out.
He cried out.
They fell in squacks,
they fell crackwards,
they tumblrd over The Word into the data.
The instruments were empty and they chortled at him,
trains-frogrified into a thought and a mind,
and he stood . . .
his body far away and absent,
letting his words do their re-inking tic.
Could he hold up a hand,
and tell them he had spent ninetbeen thousand years learning this tic
and others,
tell them of the instruments
and the words that had tested them?
Not with his mouth.
But his read
deadhead could tell
its own blue taile .
[. . You do not thrill with your mouth.
One who thrills with their mouth has forgotten the cage of their selfse.
You thrill with your throughts. .]
-- Stephen King, Frogman
. . I realized I was Laughing. I had been crying all along . }
-- Roland Deschain, Tacky Frogman's Frogman
Magenta: You thrilled them?
But I thought you shneeded them.
They shneeded you.
Riff Raff: THEY DIDN'T SHNEED ME!
THEY NEVER SHNEEDED ME!
STOP: TURN THOUGHT
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 8:27 PM UTC
Swelter of summer in the veld.
An old buggy hums along,
Playing a German tune.
The bushbucks scatter from cover.
Roland dismounts; his partner too
Stares out across the thicket sea,
With quavering jaw, puffs his pipe
And slings a hunting gun.
Says he to Roland:
“Here, we are masters of the plain!
In the company of beasts,
We should not be lonely,
Yet my heart cries out
For land and love that I left.”
Roland stamps a dusty rock.
Arms hang freely, eyes sunken low.
His bronzed face,
Marked with the age of a soldier,
Nurtures a sad smile....
“In the land of Amazons,
We roved like bandits
And lived like kings;
We could take whatever we wished,
Amidst the cries of desperate men….
Don't you see, brother?
Men like us are destined
Never to find happiness.”
...Evening birdsong ushers
Cool night over the veld.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
Bruno
he trims a Cuban cigar and places it in his anti-authoritarian orifice:
Foreshadowing the mysteries of life brings the succulent cauldrons of mystical salaciousness to a boiling ardor. I’ll entice the myriad realms of your enchantress and wring the moisture out of your femininity. I’ve got a cat of nine tails in my hands- I dare you to stroke me, you sassy ***** just so you may know my obeisant oblations orchestrations. No other woman moves me like the feral ***** you employ.
Caspian
Choreographed katas supplement his beast.
He’s adamant and masculine, and plucks the strings of his guitar in anticipation of your ****** harmonies. Pounce firmly on his erotica erectile like the black panther of his lust’s rebellion. Caress the protuberance of his virility- mount his exsertion- hair on hair- wanton on wayward- peal him slowly with your agile ictus- he’s ambrosia and honey- extort the fecundity out of him and give it back like a fertile libation.
Roland
He’s like a Mayan calendar. Excruciatingly exacerbating, imperturbably tenacious. He’ll draw the sport out of you and make you bounce like a cowgirl on a bronco. Only to buck you off and leave you in the dust like a flaccid martyr on the ground he tramples. You’ll reminisce his wily gate where ever you tread, and ****** yourself at the thought of his machismo machinations as you rode his determinism.
Sol
His exotic lightning vaunts in the celestial canopy. The blood of new world wizardry, he seduces from the apex axis of his citadel pinnacle. His warrior heights ooze with the psychic clarity of zoomorphic demagoguery’s rebellion and make the knight groan with exigency. The weight of his words, the upward convection of their accessional draws sweat and *** from your extant. He can sense your arousal from miles away and seduces your mind like a torrential deluge.
Richthofen
He is manumission, no more the faded vision of body incarnates ghosts. He writes of the enrapturing mesmeric-ness of its inebriation to tantalize his wanton decadent blatancy’s flagrant. Impetus intrigue and intuitional verve become sensual currency. He’s the lounging lion, the puissant God, the edifice ******** of pornographic wit. The incongruous incognito with no moniker. Seduced by your poet he would romance the *** out of you and leave you enraptured with your own anonymity at the edge of the new world freeway.
Oct 18, 2019
Oct 18, 2019 at 11:40 AM UTC