"soho" poems
/*h'americans can call it a striptease, but in amsterdam, with legal self-employed prostitutes? we call it a cocktease: because you'd really visit amsterdam for the **** these days?*
isabella: the french psychology
exchange student -
hung up on her ex-boyfriend -
really in anime movies -
and that american i competed
with on an edinburgh pub-crawl
for freshers -
and lost my virginity to -
probably the only time
i had the ontological parameters
of your atypical man -
"hunting", competing -
oh so, so, enthralling....
(spot the irony mingling with
ridicule, when people "know"
how the modern man behaves,
with his caveman predecessors:
dragging a woman
by the hair type of cartoonish
depiction) -
the other fun time i've had
encounters with h'americans
was in Soho -
two colts, texan tourists asking
for directions,
or where this or that place was...
it almost warmed my heart
hearing that twang
of the tongue...
perhaps someone from arizona?
that has that - "mid" western
twang of the tongue
added to the bite...
snub the Boston high-mind
eloquence, like:
you really really want
to sound european...
never mind...
people say that water is tasteless...
hmm...
so last night i was heating
up one arm of scissors...
and sniffing it...
then licked the other arm of the scissor...
what's in water again?
minerals... a subtle presence...
magnesium, potassium, iron...
you name it...
so yeah... water is... "tasteless"...
eisenzahn that i am.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 12:04 PM UTC
I come face-to-face with my Shadow
hungry
devouring
depraved.
The lupine
before a full hunter moon
bristles.
Hot saliva
falls
from hurtful pointed rows
in pearls.
This
in Goodge Street Station's
Underground
where a poster
promotes
The Hunger
a page-turner
The Clown in Soho:
3 Chocolate Martinis
4 lagers
1 gram of *******
300 press-ups
7 mile run and
1 sachet of Kamagra
… the night begins …
I howl with delight
- that’s me -
cracks open
a smile
yellow eddies swirl
in thrawl
to that shadow beast o’ mine.
This monstrous
I
can never satiated be --
a beast to straight jacket under the influence of the waning and waxing moon
and on the night of the carmine moon
release
My phone rings
(Excuse me, while I take this).
‘Hello, am I speaking to Ashley?’
‘Depends on who’s asking,’
I respond
licking my lips.
‘You Ashley Chapman?’
I like this kind o’ game.
‘Like I said,
who’s asking?’
Frustrated he repeats, ‘Confirm your name.’
I yawn and tell him as savagely as I can:
'No!'
Wolves
know 'no'
to the pack.
But as in Beauty and the Beast
(the Cocteau 1946 version, of course)
beneath that thick molting hair pelt
beasts have culture
and feelings, too
(a lion's heart?)
and mostly
(occasionally not)
given
space
food
The Den
a willing mate (or two)
we’re okay
affectionate dogs.
For when all is well with my shadow
-- no problem
in peace
in chains
'til the looped moon!
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 1:38 PM UTC
She wore bright glossy
Humbug tights.
Aw ****
the way she smoked
her Marlboro Lights
was pornographic.
She flicked her smoke rings
at the traffic
and was blown to bits by
cheap hairspray.
(Considering my love of Jean Genet,
I told her ‘you make sense this way.’
She smiled and clicked
a ****** heel.
‘Holy **** How real you feel!’
Not that I have points of reference.)
Stop confusing my ******* preference
with La-La-Lola Soho Kink.
Your lips are painted ***** pink
and you wrap them round
your glass and down
your Lambrini-Girls Pre-Party
drink.
(I want you against my kitchen sink!)
And naked -
How you overplayed it!
I think you were a bit
afraid
of both your halves,
your masquerade,
your matching scars.
(What did mermaids do to
all their sailors
struck by stars?)
You’re a crazy fusion,
Top-heavy wonder.
You’re a woman, my dear -
and you pulled me under.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 9:32 AM UTC
Night falls over Soho and, gazing into some cheap tart's eyes
Over a candelit-chequered-food-stained tablecloth,
Beneath my belt an immense ******** lurks leakily,
The seams of my ****** soaked with bursting lust,
My groin twitching in desire for her wanton arse-flesh.
Streetlight shining through threadbare curtains
Glinting sexily over my hairy pounding buttocks;
My screamed roars of pleasure echoing
In the deepest depths of her tenth-rate mind;
Her poor brain collapsing in mighty mid-climax.
Morning reveals a classy scene to chambermaid's gawp:
Spread-legged cold-as-chilled-salami ****
Puny brainbox imploded like mashed bananas
By staggering rivulets of overpowering *******
Like a duck's entrails in an unwashed sink.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 1:29 PM UTC
Captive of the city.
A walk between the drawing and the camera, a drawing and a camera.
Blindness is about understanding gesture.
Stereoscope Sound Scenes Systems
Blue lines form the links between
the black cats suggesting, what we know is that we do not.
Forget me the sweet song
rising from her ashtray
be gone hearts frayed afraid.
Coma Cluster
Coma Cluster
Coma CLUSTER
COMO cluster
CLuster cOma ClUsTeR CoMa
Soma simply trying to muster
Domino Christos no longer allow my suffer
ECCE ****
IN The GARDEN of ever EARTHLY delights
Strings
Filaments
Voids
Soap
bubbles filling a sink
slide through
Pop. Pop.
I float above stronger than a rock
my blue black burning body
love
emirates
emanating
Red-Shifted
For You
though dust clouds interfere
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 3:11 PM UTC
The Empire State Building is a giant middle finger
Concrete is broken, NYPD, taxis racing, red light green light
I enter the hand of the city through it's capillaries breaking mad concrete
Warm gusts of **** grime, and transportation swallow me
The city feeds off dreams and hope which we personally, willingly give up
We all somehow learn to accept this fate
The passerby no longer human but broken mirror
The hand inundates my eyes from breezes of tomorrow
The spacy apartment, and the affluent career and the acquantanceship
Of the handful of New Yorkers that run the hand: all questionable plans today
It's as if the hand's grasp, although sharp and brick, would venerate your intellect, guaranteed
If that's the case, I see wizards of wisdom everyday snoozing on concrete and cardboard and plastic
Bearded, black with dirt and skin, threads ripped by a world inferrior than the one in thier minds
Empire "Middle Finger" State of intellect, scrapping billion dollar clouds
Sardine can subways, escalators, elevators, high on crack **** speed of sound
The cash nerve system meltsdown into golden chips to feed the pigeons
Glass and steel craft spaces for modernity to be sold like a Washington Heights *****
You can feel the growth of the hand at the end of your intestines
It's a warm, uncomfortable vibration revealed in your ********
Foreign tongues buzz through the air, through your hair for 19.95
New York needs a haircut, some profound discipline so we wake up from this bizzare life of welcomed pain
You once charmed me with hopes of culture, open minds, connections, real connections, love and laughter
Yet, Today I am hungry in Murray hill
I am cold in Chelsea
I am broken in Union Square
I ***** in SoHo
I have fallen in the East River
And I bleed on financial monoliths
Someone have mercy on my wills
It is an intention trying to be fulfilled
But failed when it became self-aware
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 11:44 PM UTC
"Werewolves Of London"
I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand
Walking through the streets of Soho in the rain
He was looking for the place called Lee ** Fook's
Going to get a big dish of beef chow mein
Werewolves of London
If you hear him howling around your kitchen door
Better not let him in
Little old lady got mutilated late last night
Werewolves of London again
Werewolves of London
He's the hairy handed gent who ran amuck in Kent
Lately he's been overheard in Mayfair
Better stay away from him
He'll rip your lungs out, Jim
I'd like to meet his tailor
Werewolves of London
Well, I saw Lon Chaney walking with the Queen
Doing the werewolves of London
I saw Lon Chaney, Jr. walking with the Queen
Doing the werewolves of London
I saw a werewolf drinking a pina colada at Trader Vic's
His hair was perfect
Werewolves of London again
Draw blood
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
My friend who isn’t one
Said being a starving artist is a new aesthetic
Like brunching at farmer’s markets
Paint drips, dropped on, white shirts
No shows, at art shows, in SoHo
Exotic meds, white dreads, still fed
Living in your bed head
My cat, she knows the truth
Napping on a pile of wet cat food
Actually, it’s
Calling your chef friend Michael again
And asking him if he knows a different way
To make ramen taste better
Because last time it still tasted
Like you forgot to pay your light bill
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 12:53 PM UTC
She
so___- she
And__ He__ so
Never ending
She Comma
Do-So
Shop to Soho
Electronics
Like a Saint
Satanic's
His or hers
Nic's and Pix
Never the end
If so_______
Yes Sir
The math flame
Password
To end the
dating game
Hot green
tip
pistachios
Like the long sentence_____,
Your
Nephews
He was
Huh? ,
So compelled
to be sentenced
The time
treacherous
Was so long
At that end is
where
you
belong
Column
his
comma
She comma
Prima Donna
Oh! Donna
A love
should
be in
the
moment
Too
many
Dots?plots/whatnots
You forgot
semicolumn
The head page
Semi-sweet
column
End chair
Kingdom
Knock on wood
Getting
splinters
He used
Plastic
condoms
Braveheart Lion
Twisted sisters
I was
at the
very end
Wella
She -Comma____
The money
Higher up
Society Brianna
Barcelona Cafes
Giraffe ladies
boisterous
drama
Begin now
The beginning
Never met her
middle-section
Which breed?
She-comma
She could
make
Anyone's
bad heart
Drug fix well
The good
heart
Should be ended
Dead end____&
the
morgue
Her long tongue
All She__ Rouge
The question mark
All parts dots here and?
What is
next!!!
You hear
the ring you jump
Off the cliff
the text
Meet me
greet him
Chances
are
never
The front
It was
a front
Fine print
you
could
see
Smitten
written deed
And
left her
money
Heavenly
bliss
This
paper
kiss
Did you
miss
Her
signature,
Never a
good gesture
She-devil
Comma,
Never good
ending
movie
Feature
Never ending
Please visit
and come back
Do I need your opinion?
.,, ... ??
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 9:22 AM UTC
I.
my sleeping is condensed this spring
such that two or three hours
at most will suffice for one evening.
my body is awake,
yet the wandering back alleys
behind my irises are weary,
and on the cusp of gentrification.
I see faces where there should be none
II.
and I’ve seen the lines again,
though they come far less frequently
than when I had to reach up
to grasp the doorknob.
yet they are as vivid
and bursting with clarity
as the first summer I witnessed them.
they arrive unannounced
single-hair-thick,
rotating on invisible axes,
changing color and length
within equally slim fragments of time
too small to measure in our dimension.
one summer, i recorded how often they visited
but could find no logical frequency to their appearances.
no one has ever known of them but me,
and that woman just picked up a cigarette **** to light her own.
III.
they came again yesterday,
as always, in midafternoon
at 3 o’clock, when christ died.
and i thought, not of him,
but of the time, and how
twelve hours earlier is apparently the devil’s time
a time-piece-turned inverted cross.
IV.
so, I remembered,
how at devils’ time last night,
i was adrift,
sans-sails down brick alleys
thinking not of lines,
of gods or devils and their time,
but of those pan flute notes
and how i can’t wait to hear them again.
May 17, 2011
May 17, 2011 at 7:59 AM UTC
London is an onion.
Not one of those big, brown juicy globes
you can buy in packs of three, from Tesco,
No, an earthy, shrivelled relic from an old geezer's allotment,
With trailing fronds and a few infestations.
If you were to take a bite, your eyes would smart and your body rebel with a cough, a shudder and a wheeze,
But moments later, a smile would be playing round your lips,
Such a sensory adventure, though not exactly pleasant, can still be savoured,
And you'll remember the taste forever.
Londoners are weevils, hiding in the layers.
Outer, inner, some of us worm our way between them all.
Me, I tend to head for the heart of the thing,
Soho, Southwark, the inner sanctums.
I sometimes venture nearer the surface, the outer edges,
But too close to the unknown, and unfamiliar air,
And I start to pine for the centre.
You can work between the layers,
But the many skins are tougher than you'd think,
Better to burrow down, find a place to sustain
The appetite of a hungry little grub.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
i'm bored of love, and bored of loving you, equating it all with cats and Carthage... whatever... something meowed something stressed a sound requiring a human artefact; yawn.
a six pack never made a difference
anyway, tiresome Ibiza
either; so fatty ooh ooh
and the required hash tag
worth of Soho,
so the **** fits a king-sized bed
puff-up of cushions.
well, let's face it, a completely detached,
Sri Lanka
Orff Corfu, twang twang Haiti!
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 11:01 PM UTC
Snags in her tights,
Chipped black on her claws,
She stands against walls,
Vulnerable to the brawls.
A skirt grazing her thighs,
Too small for her liking,
She pulls at the seems,
And feeds the old men lies.
Lips that bleed,
Mascara stained cheek,
Frame too slim,
She's in the gutter, sensual and meek.
Lady of the night,
Rolls to your car,
beckons you with her finger,
hopes you won't linger.
A ten note slips,
Into her grip.
She squeezes.
It will feed her addiction.
She has money to pay,
Children to feed,
She digs her knuckles so much they bleed.
Life carries by,
As she tries to get high,
On the fumes of other men.
But the red light comes on,
Her skirt hitches up,
She cries as he whispers
good girl.
As he kisses her neck,
She thinks what the heck
Am I doing with my **** awful life,
Selling cheap love,
To father above,
In hope she gets a better price
than the tiny sum
From every business bloke that comes, beckons her into his arms.
She pulls at her pleather,
At her last tether,
Why am I in this life?
Soho's her home,
But it leaves her numb to the bone.
She has more than budget passion,
She craves style,
She fashion.
But instead the needle pierces,
And she sinks down,
Hating the body she's in,
Women walk and they frown,
But they don't understand how the girl feels deep down,
She just wants true love.
Oh heaven above?
If there is a Holy Spirit,
Let me be it,
For this withered young **********
Belongs in your constitute,
Please, she begs, save me from the charity brutes.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
I¹m not sure how I came to be obsessed with Dorothy L. Sayers and her
beloved Peter Wimsey. At any rate, I was determined to go on a pilgrimage
to England and walk in the places where she walked and to see the place
where her ashes lay. And to ostensibly find a signed copy of one of her
books every copy of which was beyond my economic horizons on my internet
searching. So I went to London I saw her heroine, Harriet Vane¹s
Bloomsbury. I went to Russell Square and stepped back into a time when
hotels smelled of potted meat and wet wool and it was always raining. I
saw where Harriet and Peter set up housekeeping after their marriage.
Finally, I wnet to St. Anne¹s Church in Soho DLS¹s final resting place
where she was warden for some 12 years before her deaeth in 1957. It took
three trips to the small tower where her ashes lay under the concrete before
I could get inside and stand in that place, but I finally got there What
is it that makes us feel connected when we stand where someone else is
buried?
And wandering around London on our second day there I stumbled into a
small book shop and, wonder of wonders, I asked if they had any Dorothy L.
Sayers¹ books and they said ³Are you her to look at her private library that
they had recently purchased at auction?¹ So I now have three of DLS¹s own
books and I have one signed and annotated in ink by her from her private
library. I have the books sitting in my living room in a small house, in a
small town in Indiana. But I have a part of something in my bookshelf I
take it out periodically and ****** it and feel like I can reawaken some
lost show in some other place and time.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 5:50 PM UTC
About Soho we went before the light;
We went, unresting six, craving new fun,
New scenes, new raptures, for the fevered night
Of rollicking laughter, drink and song, was done.
The vault was void, but for the dawn's great star
That shed upon our path its silver flame,
When La Paloma on a low guitar
Abruptly from a darkened casement came--
Harlem! All else shut out, I saw the hall,
And you in your red shoulder sash come dancing
With Val against me languid by the wall,
Your burning coffee-colored eyes keen glancing
Aslant at mine, proud in your golden glory!
I loved you, Cuban girl, fond sweet Diory.
1.5k
Yes! It's another Barry Hodges "Memories" poem!"
I shall never forget our first date together,
How we wandered through the streets of Soho,
Gazing into the **** shop windows,
Laughing at the giant vibrators on display...
And later, a romantic meal in a French bistro,
Where the rules of hygiene were not
As strictly observed as might have been hoped for,
Promising a regurgitatory treat in store...
You ignored the startled eyes of our fellow diners
And brutally shoved your tongue in my mouth;
O how fiercely I slurped on it enthusiastically
Caressing it with my own mouth sausage...
I ****** and ****** and ****** and ******
And (oh joy!) I could taste the garlicky bits
'Twixt your gorgeous unwashed choppers;
How my underwear damply stretched out of shape...
I withdrew my probing tongue and kissed your cheek
Affectionately, yet trembling with rampant desire;
And I boldly licked a firm yellow-topped spot
With its previously observed black centre...
My huge uncontrollable lust conquered
The demands of demodé bourgeois good manners
And I sunk my incisors into that zitty beauty
Relishing the hard core waiting just for me therein...
The waiting staff were deeply impressed as I chewed
In rapturous sensual joyous contemplation
And you spluttered bloodily in loving agony
Your own mighty ****** fast approaching...
Oh what a foretaste of what was to come
When we repaired to my convenient bedsit
For an immensely gratifying triple bonk
Prior to a staggering mutual diarrhoea session...
And now I lie back in sweet recollection
Of the many nights we spent in copulation
But how sad I am as, looking at the deserted bed,
I can still make out the stains of your dying turds.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
Four frantic fingers flicker
Over parallel strings
And a classical lullaby
Thrills the ears of passersby;
Chopin du jour
For the masses
Served gratis by a diminutive maestro;
A fleeting fixture for traveling eyes....
And the random audience of curious strangers
Heaves a collective sigh,
Touched by the uncommon brush of a diminutive maestro...
Plucking parallel strings
From a busy sidewalk in Soho....
~ Pablo (#ABSIS)
1/15/14
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC
In a fleeting panic
my body aching
my head in manic
I was fitted for depression
by my fashion shrink
cosmic blue straightjacket
boots of shocking pink
Day-Glo eyelashes
and a faux stole of mink
I walked the streets of Soho
and climbed the Factory walls
a girl betwixt
a boy between
everybody’s darling
till morning came to town
in my corset of denial
I took cover in the rain
and sang naughty little ditties
seeping from the recesses of my brain
I tripped my way to Bellevue
where a thousand plastic junkies
awaited my return
I fell into their fancy
and we frolicked amidst our lies
and hopped aboard an east bound train
to a velvet paradise
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 12:49 PM UTC
I left with very little, expecting a week or perhaps two in the city, quick cash and then home to the sand of my beaches and the touch of my bed. It has been exactly two weeks and I am starting to say that I live here. There's an exhilaration attached to the detachment of a one-way ticket, I am a thousand people a day while being none, I can walk away from conversations without feeling guilty, there is not one person who cares enough about me to bother with my affairs-it is absolute freedom. Yet there is a loneliness that hangs on the hinge of liberation...a traveler has the world in their heart. We cannot stop ourselves from stuffing our experiences inside, gluttons of the road with the horizon in our eyes. Sometimes, though, we lose sight of what we wanted all along and then begin to search for what we desire, which becomes blurred and tangled by time zones and climates and languages...our stomachs are always empty and our chests are always aching for the unknown. It can break a person. I was on the bus back from East Hampton when an older man asked me why I was crying:
"I don't know", I said, "I suppose I just realized that this city takes everything from you, and you must prove yourself to earn it back".
He told me what they all do:if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere
I turned back towards the window before asking, "when you came here, did you have nothing, too?"
The man nodded and smiled. Maybe he was lying, but he gave me 50 dollars and paid my cab fare. I hugged him goodbye and he wished me luck. I don't know how he knew I was completely broke with no way to get back to my apartment, but I cannot imagine the forty-block walk with three bags. There is a kindness in a fellow traveler, one more seasoned than we are, who will always understand what it is to be poor and hungry and tired. But we chose this life, I chose this life, when I stepped on the plane with no way back. I realized this as I was locked atop a rooftop in SoHo, watching the pink and blue of sunrise with champagne on my lips. It is okay to admit your inadequacies, to ask for help, as long as you appreciate the sheer genius of the universe. That, after all, is why this life calls to us.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
Secretly?Tall=Tower-fee lucky
777 "I'm Free"-Flowery + $$$
Being Oz-wizardly
Toto lucky bite red slipper
((Cowardly)) Lionly
-Whoa__ She got that Geisha Irony
This is Tokyo
Not the flower shop of Soho
(( Japan Chefs Black Panthers))
Shout box____
Unique flowers of
faces-gather
Too outfox____
One Geisha Flowery room
Twilight-places lightly bloom
Overpowering
Sunflower showering
Going nowhere
Her body heat
Is always
somewhere
Over flowered the rainbow
magic women
romantically spritz and spray
Love me love me not
I am waiting today
Flowered over one
Man?
Her Fortune-beds
The Geishas fine ink
Never pink
The best time to arrive
See her lucky red
((Geisha Flowery))
* * * *
Happy go lucky
Not the back rub
The gift of gab
Time feast Rolex
her index finger
Webs of flower cut
Debs
Was the cover-up
The best of the last
defeat of her
She Petals faster
The zipper-movie cut
Go zip
Irish spring shower
Boysenberry, Cherry, Power
Geisha dance flowery-trick
The vanilla-bean sky quick
The yogurt Greece fly
Her tablecloths
He finger
points cactus sharp points
The climate tells the
clues can you handle tricks
Crazzzzy____
glue
Softly silk skirt steak
Missed a few buds
((Geisha Flowery funds))
Tantalizing tiara pull
Off gave it to the
flower girl china doll
The music
Black Magic
women
Her sheer blouse
loosely fit his fancy
Playing Santana
Sitting with her
tea tiger lily
Felt so lonely
The champagne
half-heartedly
The whole Monet
Chandon
shirts
of Gucci
She's perked me
up Pucci *******
coo
Danger me dandelions
The next recruit
black rose pin
pursuit hungry like
wolf
Duran Duran
The discovery of
custard flan
The Geisha flowery
New York State
Who snitched out
her spouse
Flowers divinity Godly lands
I gotcha
Right in the palm
of my hands
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 12:29 PM UTC
SoHo
South of Houston,
an ethnic divide
that turned into yuppiedom
and new hipsters,
but not the Beat kind.
I miss those snaps,
the Nueyorican taps
of bullet fast words
steppin’ into the streets
with wild eyes beats
and the howling rage
at hypocracy.
Now all you find
is dead eyed
zombied out,
but starbucks energized
bunnies
and freaky fellows,
all into themselves
as though they
knew something
more than the chase for
money and ***
And they say this
is the American Dream;
follow the greed
as humanity burns
to pay for these pleasures.
SoHo, Village groupies
who long ago
gave up their tongues
and their eyes...
Aztec Warrior 8.2.15
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
there stood the queen
in her dressing gown
upon her face she wore
a very long frown
for she had lost
her diamond and ruby crown
she hoped it would be found
before sundown
she called Scotland Yard
to search every locale
as without her crown
she'd be an unadorned gal
inspector Jones arrived
in his ex-army jeep
telling the queen
that he'd catch the thieving creep
he thoroughly combed
every inch of England
he even looked under
the white Dover sands
a lady in central Manchester
gave him an address
saying that a felon in Soho
had the crown of queen Bess
high and low in the streets
of Soho he did look
to find this most
cunning and stealthiest of crooks
by a measure of luck
he found him sitting on a park bench
he was talking to
a criminal associate named Roger Dench
the inspector seized the felon
and cuffed his hands
saying pilfering won't be tolerated
in any part of England
at Scotland he grilled
him for information
about the queen's crown
which he pinch without hesitation
some three days later
he fronted an Old Bailey judge
who sentenced him
to sixteen years of jail drudge
overjoyed was the queen
to have her crown back
she could now wear it
to The Ascot Race Track
the inspector was knighted
by good queen Bess
as he was a fine man
at the detection profess
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 7:09 PM UTC
The Soho lights
Were shining like an electric lobster
I was thinking what an Edmonton boy
Should do-
As punk rockers smoked marihuana
In small corners
Shadows danced a routine that was choreographed
In hell-
And glue, speed and alcohol blended into humidity
Eerybody knew God had no recognition
For this recondite humanity
I thought about something else............
Life became static blind
Drunken dreads were jostling in plastic conversation
****** out of their minds-
There became a powerful flow of left-wing
Political notion-
The stale scent of a previous saviour
Became more obvious and universal
Reggae pounded into the trashed idealism
Like an anti-septic commercial
And thoughts of EXODUS and the bible
We became victims of a faith reversal
But there will will be cold solace in this
For the gloved left fist.
I thought of distant times
Where reality wiped out role models
As their dreams vanished into hallocinogenic fungi.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
Should it come to this, without remorse? Like that orange, feeble
and deciduous, while we waited with binoculars through that gray on gray
afternoon for the owl to spread its wings. Perhaps it did, past dusk,
behind the trees, under those vaguely baleen-formed clouds.
The clouds cast shadows on other clouds, as if holding them up against reality, even for our affirmation. Did you think of me this morning, over your Life cereal, and did you miss the fruit? The “organic wholeness?” What is the determinant thing that dissolves?
The dissolution of the self-contradictory comes from the dissolution of the determinant thing. Arguments formed in apartments over a bowl of cherries or a bowl of **** or some such. Loss of a determinate thing (under Article 1262, par. 1.) is the equivalent of impossibility of performance in obligations to do referred to in Article 1266. We are left with the form of a bowl, perhaps a ginger bowl, or some form of lost lacquer.
The distinct lack of skyscrapers from SoHo up through Chelsea was said to be a function of Manhattan bedrock. But modern materials seem to have overcome that problem. Getting on the subway, he heard someone say “…as if each word is born with another word, and spends its life on lines looking for the perfect rhyme". "You know they mate for life," he thought, "the swans. If one is killed, the other often dies of boredom.”
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 11:36 PM UTC
I
Dansons la gigue !
J'aimais surtout ses jolis yeux,
Plus clairs que l'étoile des cieux,
J'aimais ses yeux malicieux.
Dansons la gigue !
Elle avait des façons vraiment
De désoler un pauvre amant,
Que c'en était vraiment charmant !
Dansons la gigue !
Mais je trouve encore meilleur
Le baiser de sa bouche en fleur,
Depuis qu'elle est morte à mon cœur.
Dansons la gigue !
Je me souviens, je me souviens
Des heures et des entretiens,
Et c'est le meilleur de mes biens.
Dansons la gigue !
Soho.
II
Ô la rivière dans la rue !
Fantastiquement apparue
Derrière un mur haut de cinq pieds,
Elle roule sans un murmure
Son onde opaque et pourtant pure,
Par les faubourgs pacifiés.
La chaussée est très large, en sorte
Que l'eau jaune comme une morte
Dévale ample et sans nuls espoirs
De rien refléter que la brume,
Même alors que l'aurore allume
Les cottages jaunes et noirs.
Paddington
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