"shellac" poems
:-)
***a smile upon
a practiced face
is no longer
a smile
doll heads
are just painted
they use
cunning, guile
but you can see
duplicity
through the
thick
shellac
ask for honor
real truth
and watch
the
varnish
crack
they'll find
another
hunting ground
but their eyes
will be
their
fall
the baby blues
that look at you
DO NOT
SMILE
AT
ALL!***
soulsurvivor
(c) 3-18-2015
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 7:27 PM UTC
EVERY LITTLE FISH CAN SWIM
1893
saw the beginning of me.
I was born
in a railway carriage
between somewhere
and somewhere else
in an Europe that
would change with the map
the lines redrawn
by War
some unpronouncable
European nowhere.
A barrel *****
was playing a tune that
would soon be forgotten
on the station platform
when Mamma and I
arrived
at our final destination
the train breathing like a dragon.
Its whistle
cutting through time.
Later I would remember
a little wooden acorn
at the end of a string on the blind
tapping against the window
as if it were admonishing
the dawn demanding
entrance to
the room when I was three and
pulling the blind up and then
pulling the blind down.
"Shadow people"
thrown against the wall
would not survive
a morning.
All night they chattered
amongst themselves
prowling the room
that was holding me.
Debating whether to
eat me now or later.
"Beings" merely made from
the edge of a wardrobe or
a chest of drawers
the brass **** at the end of
my bed where clothes
thrown over a chair
made them come alive
I believe
in them until
I was nearly seven.
Too scared to ***
in the porcelain ***
wetting the bed
to the anger of Mama.
And now 1963
will more than likely see
the end of me
as I am
and the mind
that created who I was
offers me these
fragments of insignificance
that amount
to being a life.
I laugh as Noël
Coward warbles
in his shellac'd world
forever singing
"But I can't do anything at all
but just love you!"
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 5:57 AM UTC
Out in the children’s playground
On the wasteland, near the flat,
There once was a shiny roundabout
They called ‘The Witches Hat’,
It hung from a greasy centre pole
And would spin, just like a top,
For once that we set it spinning
It would take an hour to stop.
They painted the Hat in black shellac
So it gleamed beneath the sun,
But stood like an evil entity, in the dark
When the day was done,
We never ventured abroad by night
For the land, we thought, was cursed,
With the Witches Hat a reminder of
Just what had stood there first.
Once it had been a Magic Wood
With Elves, and Grimms and Ghosts,
Witches covens and Goblins ovens
We heard about the most,
The land was cleared for a new estate
And they called the land a park,
But nights you heard the muffled shuffle
Of dancing, in the dark.
It was then that they set the Witches Hat
Up on a pole to spin,
One of us ran around with it
While others sat on the brim,
We always ran with it clockwise
Then stood back to count the spins,
For Mother Malloy had warned us
Never to turn it widdershins.
She said it would stop the earth, and that
The sun would go back down,
The Prince of Darkness lay in wait
For the Witches Hat, his crown,
We thought that she must be bonkers
And we laughed each time she frowned,
But never would spin the Witches Hat
Not once, the other way round.
But then on an Autumn afternoon
When the nights were coming in,
Mother said, ‘Take your brother out,
Go take him out for a spin.’
She wanted to clean the house, she said,
‘And you’re always in the way!’
So I took young Robin out with me,
He’d just turned four that day.
I put him up on the Witches Hat
And I spun, and spun him round,
But Robin was a querulous child
And he cried, to put him down.
So then in a bloody-minded mood
And after a dozen spins,
I stopped the Hat and I turned it round,
And ran with it, widdershins.
It must have been almost dusk by then
For the sun dropped into the ground,
The Moon came up with a silver beam
And it lit the whole surround,
I ran as fast as I’d ever run
And the Hat spun like a top,
Robin sat on the opposite side
So I’d see him, once I’d stop.
I ran until I was out of breath
Then I stopped to watch it spin,
But no-one was on the Witches Hat
And I felt the fear begin,
I searched and scoured the land around
And I crawled beneath the Hat,
The little fellow had disappeared
So I ran back home to the flat.
I’ll always remember that awful day,
The day when the fates were cast,
I’d spun him into the future, or
I’d left him there in the past,
I shouldn’t have turned it widdershins
But now can’t bring him back,
At night it gleams in a pale moonbeam
That terrible Witches Hat!
David Lewis Paget
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
Beauty is power
The words we teach our girls
whipped mousse over the freckles along your temples
will get you respect
the zit under your chin
will make you somebody to avoid for a month
The rouge on your cheeks
will make people think they've made you laugh each time you smile
Taken more seriously under anonymity on cyberspace
than to that same person talking to your face
As the standards grow higher
The modified faces and bodies of revlon and maybeline
become tall tales in every sense
The waistline is taken in to better display the shellac of that manicure
why of course!
as more and more voices go hoarse
from taking out meals before
in fear of a body to abhor
when beauty is power
and its concepts changing
is it only to keep us from misbehaving>
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 5:05 AM UTC
Grubby little hands
and sugar encrusted mouths
leaving chocolate hugs and kisses
on a white Hanes t-shirt
in a late summer sun
the man in the stained shirt laughs
telling stories until you laugh too, so hard
you roll in the grass with your brother
streaking your denim knees green
and you beg him to play with you
just one more game, please!
because he is the best at everything
as close as you can get to invincible
and when he picks you up at the end of the day
tickles you, herds you inside
you can smell the lawn mower grease
and the shellac from his shop
and the peppermint, always the peppermint,
from the gum that snaps! in his mouth
then before you know it
you’re sitting shotgun in his rusted pickup
the radio singing classic rock
like always
windows rolled down
hat perched back on his head
whistling through his teeth
like always
but you’re on a new road
and your boxes are packed in the back
and when he hugs you
you feel like the little girl
that you’re not anymore
and you’re not quite ready to say goodbye
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 12:36 AM UTC
Lipgloss dripping candy lacquer aquamarine
Wrought silk enfolding shadows of her shoulders obscene
Drugstore ribbon laced her feet just as in my dream
She reduces me to liquid in an urban machine
On the asphalt a virile shellac.
Power like a thousand ships of industry steel
Columns fall to soldiers at the clack of her heel
Sirens’ polished poisoned fruit that drives one to ****
A Dahlia's vitality shunted and left to congeal
In that pool, then a wave of relief.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 9:36 PM UTC
I see the recollection
of a thousand and one memories
in the faces of strangers.
It is written
in the burnt out shellac
that write's the gospel
called ideal.
Upon all the waifs
that wail
on wainscotted walls
is visible a weary shade -
A woe begotten word.
That same ink
that wrote the scar
on a thousand and one faces.
It shone to eyes
of the right size
calibrated to the light
by a snowflake.
And once seen
O misbegotten dream!
Hours of amphetamine rooftops
under golden stars.
Mornings alight
with the free realm of jazz
which floats on hazy gaze
that constitute fields
of a thousand and one degrees.
Now not seen.
And is it carved
in the sweaty freedom
of a drunk?
Constellating crystal beads
pour to eyes
gray and sunk
with the wisdom of a prince.
With the stench of a skunk.
Brace yourself
for the wind does come
that marries wind
of heart and mind.
And behind it all
you see it now;
in the thousand and one faces
of the free
the bold
the meek
the drunk
the lost.
The recollection
of a thousand and one memories.
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
surrounding us: a billion stars
in a time when a trip to mars is like walking around the block
and captain kirk and mister spock are arguing
about the prime directive.
we’re beaming to a planet’s surface. now listen:
i know about inverse tachyon beams
i know about coded klingon screams
i know about going to warp factor eight
i know about redshirts' survival rate.
(no. chance.)
i’m beaming down with the main crew
to the surface of minerva II
we've got a malfunctioning interstellar transceiver which is distressing-- dysgraphing? dismantling…
…i don't know.
scotty said it was defective.
so we’re on this planet,
standing on one side of a thick forest packed with monster janeks,
starfleet says we need to fix this thing yesterday, and we’re in a panic—
and **** it, mccoy is a doctor, not a lumberjack,
and kirk says we should just burn through the middle with phasers,
and spock says we must preserve respect for all life forms no matter the situation.
now please remember kirk’s the captain.
that means he runs this show
but kirk always listens to spock,
so
we spend two days walking through the forest.
surrounding us: a billion trees
in a place where a strange disease is rare as feathers in a flock
and captain kirk and mister spock are arguing
about the prime directive.
halfway through this dark-lit trip
things go wrong (obviously)
and an alien with shellac for skin captures the captain.
said alien grabs a vine, ascends into the canopy of the trees,
and for one glorious moment
i believe kirk’s the dead guy in this episode, not me!
but spock, in his calm and logical vulcan voice,
orders us to exercise any necessary force to recover the captain.
translation: **** EVERYTHING. JUST GET KIRK BACK.
we reach the janek village.
being a good redshirt, i rush in, phaser blasting, ready to complete the heroic rescue of our captain—
and get killed instantly.
as i was dying, i heard the sound of thousands of janeks dying beside me
saw spock help kirk off the ground
and the last words I heard were theirs:
“captain, are you in need of immediate medical attention?”
“nah, spock, i’m fine—”
“mr. scott. the captain is hurt. beam us aboard immediately.”
one’s arm over the other’s shoulders,
they vanished.
surrounding them: a billion stars
in a time when a trip to mars is like walking around the block
and captain kirk and mister spock are arguing
about the prime directive—
but the prime directive
was never the real objective.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
~~~
do not go
far
past pale
mountains
where
shadows lurk
for you
have further
to go
you have more
time
you have more
work
all
have bones
with
cracks and
poison
shards
dying is
easy
grief work
is
HARD
we
press
our faces
to the
rotting
glass
and
only hope
and
wonder if
this too
shall pass
is the
boulder's press
on the
shoulder blade
better
than clotted
earth
from
spades
~?~
but tho
the world
be a
gloss
and
painted black
the
*colors
still
GLOW*
benieth
shellac
take
the knife
you'd use
in vain
to
faint
scratch
the surface
PEEL
the
PAINT
there's
a
RAINBOW
beneath
dark rust
you can find it
in
lunar
dust
finally
through
all the
shifting sands
of years
you'll find
it was
reflecting
through
your
TEARS
soulsurvivor
~~~
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
Just mahogany and horsehide glue,
machine heads and a ***** or two.
Plywood top, solid sides and back,
bone and fake ivory, ebony, and shellac.
Steel and bronze wire, to make her ring.
A well placed sound hole to let her sing.
But for love or money I played here every week,
for 30 years she has earned my keep.
Four star restaurants, or beer soaked bars,
or serenading a lover under summer night stars.
A joyous birthday, sad funeral of a friend,
she's always been there, on one I can depend.
Drunken'- Dancin' New Years Eve bashes,
barbequed sun baked poolside splashes.
St. Valentine's Day love songs, wine and roses,
or a smoky old blues club that never closes.
A nursing home sing along on St. Patty's day,
a hurricane party till we all got blown away.
Christmas carols by soft candlelight,
I've played this guitar most every night.
From Florida to Canada, Vegas to NYC,
from Frank Sinatra, to Conway Twitty.
Zeppelin to Bach, JT to Pink Floyd,
anything to keep me from being employed.
One night in Nashville Greg Allman played on her,
And asked me to join him, oh what an honor.
We make people happy, we bring them together,
when I play on her I am as light as a feather.
Some fell in love, and got married from our tunes,
some nights we're alone on sugar beach dunes.
She's filled up my tip jar, and filled up my heart.
Because of this guitar my life got its start.
I've sat up with her all night, when she was sick,
changed strings a million times, broken many a pick.
Caressed her, strummed her, as she dashed my fears,
cussed her and ****** her, as she tasted my tears.
With her I wooed my lover, until she married me.
She has been my addiction, and she has set me free.
They applaud for me, but she's really the star.
I know it's just wood and wire, but she's my guitar.
###====(==O==== )###====(==O==== ) ###====(==O==== )
For my Takamine "Lawsuit" I bought in Nashville in 1982.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
the instrument that he plays
is a bass
and I got it all wrong
until tonight
then I realized
that it fits his personality perfectly
all smooth curves
emitting a deep thrum
brown shellac wood
large like he is and
why did I not actually picture it
correctly until just
a moment ago
not knowing quite
how to feel
and this is a strange
upheaval of the senses
and this is a strange
revelation
so obvious in its answer
yet changes everything
and I fight a growing urge
to be bound within
the tight confines of his brain
the strings of love pulled taught
unveiling the maroon curtain
pulling away the burgundy drape
finding words in which to contemplate
this obscene existence
showing nothing
yet revealing everything while
carefully shoving my memories
somewhere deep in the
rhythmic trenches
where his somber music plays.
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 2:13 AM UTC
cramped in the close quarters of my logic
there's a painting party going on.
but i've brought some shellac to seal
the tender places, the cut out picture postcards
of memories i saved, savor, slave over so carefully.
their disconnected connections splayed upon my walls.
i should paint over them, i know.
i should cover them over with a nice, bright white.
but the colors, the patterns, they
are a blueprint on the bones of my house.
they are my proof, my logical proof of illogical theories.
my picture postcards of impossible possibilities.
the decoupage of dreams' dalliance
dances upon these walls, definitively,
the cogent evidence of our coup de coeur.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 10:27 AM UTC
I. the breathing of human nature
her poetry weaves a chimera
through ontario maples,
ghostlike songs intoned in late november breath:
*i don't really want to be a pretty girl... *
whispers of woodsmoke fall from sky
(sky, pink as cochineal, pink as avarice
sky, blue as bruises, as jazz, as tropical waters)
she steps from the fog and ash into the beckoning trees,
seduced by leaves,
an autumn saturnalia of honey, flame, amber,
nectar, pistil, anther.
she is cupola and chalice,
budding fuchsia and iron cherry--
but she writes and breathes
as if something more than a woman
who knows all the names for the ocean
stirs and struts inside her.
II. the statue and sobriquet
piano wires melt into statues,
heat steals rusty bottle caps
and bends them eerily into muses.
butterflies perch astutely on their shoulders,
violet, violent, a mosaic of shredded lilies and shellac,
paris in flames, flowering tea-houses,
the mariana trench, a thicket of morning glory.
nature sculpted this metaphysical tribute to her
for all that she has done, for all that her bent fingernails
and snow-covered lips have given
to inspire solstice and equinox--
in the night-songs of the crickets,
crystal bells and rustic chirps,
she was lauded.
III. declaration
she feels the songs in her eyelashes
and writes of wine and palest bone,
fragments of bashful moon,
roots her fingernails into the tarnished canadian willows
and finds her way through magnolia clouds and sea-spray sky;
after all, she can soar.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
we used to gallivant around cities
with light feet and empty wallets
and you were infinitely cool
skipping from streetlight to streetlight
in colorful skirts and tank tops
and quoting Bob Marley lyrics
to tell me you love me.
these times were mindless
of all the tomorrows
that would eventually find us.
you would give me a certain look
with eyes colored a certain blue
and i was chivalrous
taking you by the hand
and scurrying through the crowd
our hands clenched with balmy anticipation
and we would find a restroom
or a rooftop or an alley
where I’d lift your skirt
scoot your ******* to the side
and howl at the moon.
we would return to the bar
just-sexed and wonderfully disheveled
with spirits galvanized
by the hubris of youth
and the shellac of *****
your blushed cheeks told the story
as friends pretended not to notice
and overworked squares
drowned their envy
with shots of cheap whiskey.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 2:50 AM UTC
Encounter shellac where the live oak could balk
in sways of stomata to spare shadow from earth
swaying like Eve in Persephone’s wake
should a frenzy of madrigals
cluster to feast
where her prodigal snake once faced sentience.
A tree grows in reaches long since she passed
fragrant lacking tulips within a thicket of moss.
Now my soul skirts the path of Icarus
to bathe in the cerulean beyond reflection
your eyes have consumed from the sky
like a beast coaxing the blessings of the wind.
I was placed here for you.
A voice lichened in cypress knees carries
with the caress of her woods
pressing me forward
into the dew and new ground
enriched with instinct into the roots of palmettos
shielding the glade of tomorrow
still ripe with blackberries
where she whispers with thistles.
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 2:26 AM UTC
hematopoietic.
seafoam shellac a [tap tap tap] metal
disk
radiating light from under front wheel
drive ing us
crazy. you gave
me keys
a kidney
tendonitis
vertigo
an intimate number
sequence
body glitter &
on sunday, a galaxy of capillaries.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 10:29 AM UTC
Lost games
Longer lost rules
Night-time crimes
Lungs full
Of pungent smoke
Bellies full of *****
And heads full of
Something
And nothing
A kind of homage
To a kind of music
Riding across vinyl
And even crackling shellac
And the dead man's foot
Still taps inside the coffin
Refusing to relinquish
The hard-wired hammer
The outlaw life
Is hard in the dying
By Phil Roberts
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 5:27 AM UTC
Hold tight to your half of the sky.
Wrap it in pretty charms if you like.
Give it lipstick and an 18’’ waist,
if you choose.
Leave hollows of neglect and pools of ancient shellac
in its heart.
It’s your half of the sky.
It probably deserves it.
Leave pearly clouds hanging
From its foggy lobes.
Fashion a lapis lazuli corset
And whisper sweet nothings.
Kiss her puddled neck.
Stepping out into the hot breath of night,
Is broiling clarity.
I’ll show you fear in a handful of dust,
terror in dusty eyes.
You call her the hyacinth girl,
But she’s the hanged man, sheltered in the shadows
Exchanging joy for a sip from the well of liquid eyeliner.
Half the sky
Is half too little.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
Lost games
Longer lost rules
Night-time crimes
Lungs full
Of pungent smoke
Bellies full of *****
And heads full of
Something
And nothing
A kind of homage
To a kind of music
Riding across vinyl
And even crackling shellac
And the dead man's foot
Still taps inside the coffin
Refusing to relinquish
The hard-wired hammer
The outlaw life
Is hard in the dying
By Phil Roberts
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 2:43 PM UTC
Lost games
Longer lost rules
Night-time crimes
Lungs full
Of pungent smoke
Bellies full of *****
And heads full of
Something
And nothing
A kind of homage
To a kind of music
Riding across vinyl
And even crackling shellac
And the dead man's foot
Still taps inside the coffin
Refusing to relinquish
The hard-wired hammer
The outlaw life
Is hard in the dying
By Phil Roberts
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 6:48 AM UTC
I came to,
Slowly and softly
To a world full of corduroy ferns,
Wet woodland floors,
Emanating the insects and must of
earthy cycling,
ground churning.
Dripping leaves of wax,
Glossy shellac of fruits and buds
The murmurs still me.
I find myself enshrined in the dessicated tree trunks,
The blankets of mosses spun like drapery
over the hollow dryness of changing seasons
Tufts of winged seeds break away
As browning stems slip back
into the soil.
But here,
I am ripe
And the forest
is fertile.
My skin is crawling
from my bones
to join the orchestral decaying
of the moist,
warm earth.
Jun 19, 2019
Jun 19, 2019 at 8:51 PM UTC
In the second hand soothing
of darkest address: frost crawls.
Having crept down the alleys
on serpentine silvers
to pilfer the vaults of an Indian Summer,
in crystalline raiment
the malachite pavements
succumb to its covering sprawl.
On shellac returns of lamp delta falls
minutiae maraud in bitter sweet symmetry
shattering petals, encasing in glass
the Stella shot run of the vine.
A glacier tourniquet scuppers the mold
an accomplished assassin of natural device,
with icy indifference it hushes the *****
The Moon, for the life in her eyes.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
I carved you out of plaster
I moulded you from clay
I put you on a pedestal
one fine summers day
But winter's wind came calling
eroding the shellac
In your side you could not hide
the evidence of cracks
An angel I had fashioned
a deity I'd made
but you were dust beneath the crust
you could not fly away
And so you came a'crashing
my beautiful amore'
Yes you fell on me as well
where I stood upon the floor
In pieces you lay the there
with our loving cup
though in one stroke
both hearts were broke
I began to pick you up
I noticed the wrinkles
on the flesh you wore
and I knew that it was true
humanity restored
Now we are together
as human beings abide
neither one against the sun
*we sit
side by side*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 1/15/2016
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 6:33 PM UTC
The sky was dark, it was overcast
When the hearse rolled into town,
The people stopped in its passing,
And stood, with their eyes cast down,
Four black, high stepping, friesian mares
Stepped proud, ahead of the hearse,
While a man was following close behind
But sat on his horse, reversed.
His wrists were bound with a length of twine
Were tethered behind his back,
His eyes were well blindfolded,
Under his black top hat,
His leather boots had glistened and shone
And they rode right up to the knee,
There was something about his stately mien
That said, ‘Aristocracy’.
The horses were decked with ostrich plumes
Fine harness and plaited tails,
The coach shellacked in a shiny black
And fitted with silver rails,
The coffin lay on a satin tray
In the hearse, was covered in lace,
Inscribed with scrolls from the honour rolls
Of a noble house, disgraced.
And far at the rear of the slow cortege
Was a line of women in black,
Carrying jewellery fashioned in jet
As black as the coach shellac.
There wasn’t a tear amongst them all
Nor a smile for the ruined man,
The blindfold merciful, like a pall
In front of his ruined clan.
The hearse rolled into the cemetery
And stopped by the gallows tree,
A footman took off his blindfold then,
‘I hope that’s not meant for me!’
They dragged the coffin out of the hearse
And the man looked once, then twice,
‘I’m not your common old peasant, sir,
I’m the Lord of Mecklen Weiss.’
They dragged him ****** off his horse
And lifted the coffin lid,
‘You’re the Lord of six square feet of earth,
And the Lord of all you did!’
They ****** him into the coffin then
Encased his struggling form,
‘He’ll have some time to consider now
It were best he’d never been born!’
They lowered the coffin into the ground
To the sound of shrieks and cries,
But not one woman who watched it fall
Had a need to dry her eyes.
They say that some heard muffled cries
At that grave for a week or more,
But then, the peasantry always lies
For they hold the Lords in awe.
David Lewis Paget
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 9:51 AM UTC