if i was a pearl i’d feel itchy scratchy stuck inside an oyster shell if i was a tree i’d  be a big fat redwood fantasizing about Julia Butterfly Hill living and peeing around me if i was a dog i’d be a Catahoula hound if i was Italian i’d be Sicilian if i was pasta i’d be spaghetti if i was Icelandic i’d be Bjork if i was a rock star i’d be Elvis Presley Bob Dylan Jimi Hendrix Jim Morrison John Lennon Bruce Spingsteen Maynard James Keenan if i was i writer i’d be Herman Melville Mark Twain James Joyce William Faulkner Thomas Bernhard Yukio Mishima Naguib Mahfouz Phillip K. **** Gabriel Garcia Marquez Annie Proulx Lydia Davis if i was a poet i’d be Walt Whitman Sylvia Plath Ted Hughes Gwendolyn Brooks Pablo Neruda  Heather McHugh Carl Sandburg Robert Frost Arthur Rimbaud Dante Alighieri Homer if i was a painter i’d be Leonardo Da Vinci Michelangelo da Caravaggio Johan Vermeer Rembrandt van Rijn Paul Cezanne Marcel Duchamp Jackson ******* Mark Rothko Ad Reinhardt Anselm Kiefer Susan Rothenberg if i was a photographer i’d be Man Ray Ansel Adams Edward Weston Diane Arbus Robert Mapplethorpe Sally Mann Helmut Newton Richard Avedon Annie Leibovitz if i was a philosopher i’d be Socrates Plato Aristotle Jean Jacques Rousseau Sören Kierkegaard Immanuel Kant Karl Marx Georg Hegel Friedrich Nietzsche Henry David Thoreau Ralph Waldo Emerson  Jean-Paul Sartre Jean Baudrillard Michel Foucault if i was a singer i’d be Woody Guthrie Otis Redding Grace Slick Bob Marley Joni Mitchell Marvin Gaye Johnny Cash Patsy Cline June Carter Patti Smith Chrissie Hinde Nick Cave P J Harvey Beyonce if i wa a band i’d be Velvet Underground Ramones *** Pistols Clash Cure Smiths Joy Division Uncle Tupelo Pixies Nirvana Nine Inch Nails Madrugada Sigur Ros White Stripes Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra Justice of the Unicorns if i was a boot i’d be Chippewa Frye Ariat Red Wing Tony Lama Wellington if i was a shoe i’d be Christian Louboutin Jimmy Choo Kedds Chaco Chuck Taylor p f flyer if i was a dress i’d be Channel Dolce & Gabbanna Giorgio Armani Marc Jacobs Comme des Garçons if i was a cowboy shirt i’d be H bar C Rockmount Temp Tex Karman Wrangler Levis Strauss Lee if i was a hat i’d be a Stetson Borsalino Stephen Jones if i was a fruit i’d be a mango apple banana blackberry if i was an scent i’d smell like fresh perspiration jasmine sandalwood ylang ylang the ocean if i was a doctor i’d be a gynecologist neurosurgeon if i was a flower i’d be a hibiscus rose orchard if i was a stone i’d be a sparkling ruby diamond opal if i was a knife i’d be a k-bar switch-blade machete if i was a gun i’d be a Remington Winchester Beretta Glock AK-47 if i was a car i’d be a Lamborghini Ferrari BMW Saab Volkswagen GTO Ford Mustang Dodge Challenger if i was a  TV show i’d be Law and Order if i was actor i’d be Charlie Chaplin Humphrey Bogart Steve McQueen Robert De Niro Ed Norton Shawn Penn if i was an actress i’d be Marlene Dietrich Ingrid Bergman Natalie Wood Audrey Hepburn Marilyn Monroe Helen Mirren  Meryil Streep Brigette Fonda Robin Wright Julianne Moore Angie Harmon if i was a female comedian i’d be Gilda Radner Lily Tomlin Nora Dunn Joan Cusack Sarah Silverman Tina Fey if i was a  football player i’d be Sid Luckman George Blanda Walter Payton **** Butkus Mike Singletary Joe Montana Jerry Rice Payton Manning LaDanian Tomlinson  Drew Breeze if i was a celebrity i’d be Charlotte Gainsbourg if i was a rapper i’d be Tupac Shakur if i was a movie director i’d be Sam Peckinpah Robert Altman Stanley Kubrick Roman Polanski Werner Herzog Rainer Fassbinder Louis Bunuel Alfred Hitchcock Jean-Luc Godard François Truffaut if i was a bird i’d be a eagle hawk sparrow bluebird if i was a fish i’d be a dolphin shark narwhal Charlie the tuna if i was breakfast i’d be a French toast pancake folded in half with 2 strips of bacon in between if i was a cold cereal i’d be snap crackle popping rice crispies shredded wheat cheerios oatmeal if i was tea i’d be Japanese green matcha Irish breakfast Tulsi Thai holy basil Lapsang souchong Luzianne Lipton if i was a soap i’d be French hand milled ayurvedic Avon Ivory Dove Pears Aveda  if i was a man i’d be a football basketball baseball tennis swimmer athlete if i was a woman i’d be a track star runner writer painter gardener doctor nurse yoga mom i'm just scratching the surface and the beat goes on lahdy dah dah

Another Version

Hartley Forde

You can’t see the wind,
But that old mango tree,
Outside my window,
tell me it’s there..
.
I never travel with a raincoat,
Even though I hate getting wet,
Then here comes the aches and pain
And I started to wonder,
was it because I got a little insane..
I thought that I could
Have run faster than it pours
I haven’t heard of
any aircraft that outrun  a jet plane yet,
But, not so anymore,
I never leave my coat and cane,
When I am on a stool,

Oh dear, what has happened to me?
Am I aging? I am not young anymore,
Nor grey, nor old: for age is just a number,
But when the toil of the day
Merges with the aches and pain
With sighing sounds I start to wonder:

I still dance the night away, with my social tunes,
And waltz across the floor to all-time favorite of Strauss
See how I step back in time with the reggae beat,
Lighter than a feather on my feet,

Smiling, with my pearly teeth from ear to ear:
Life just isn’t fear: because age is just a number
That’s when the rubs and oil granny left me:
Come alive again in the neck of time,
to soothe the pain of my aching joints
I smile once again and said
“Oh dear, what do they say again,

Age is just a number and life begins at forty,
Because, I am just starting to be naughty:
Downhill !

written by:
Hartley Forde

At the mailbox, again:
“Who loves me, baby?”
Well, let’s see: there’s a flyer from Mercury Insurance,
Reminding me that most middle-income customers
Save an average of $4 million smackaroons when they switch too.
The Penny Saver USA.com is here,
Thank God, almighty!
So now I know that Thomas Roofing & Paving
Is having a special on 20-year leak-free flat roofs;
"All work guaranteed & insured.
No job too big or small.
Free estimates/Emergency services/License # I8U-69."
And thank you, Jesus,
For another $4.99 Farmer Boys 3-Egg Breakfast
Combo with Coffee coupon, and that
Little Caesars Hot-N-Ready, $5.00 cheese or pepperoni,
Mae-West-“why-don’t-you-come up and see me sometime?”—mailer. And, of course, another technology Siren’s song:
Verizon FiOS delivers entertainment this big,
Dish me up some dish NETWORK, $19.99 a month . . .
Are you ******* me?
For 12 ******* months?
AT&T;: whack me off on 120 channels.
DIRECTV.com - DIRECTV® Official Site‎
Worry-free 99.9%  . . . cue Joe E. Brown,
"Some Like It Hot“ Osgood:
"Well, nobody’s perfect!"
Time Warner/Sprint/T-Mobile;
And ******* Leather, Polk Street, San Francisco.
******* leather?
Must be for my neighbor: that ***** ****!
And here’s the weekly 8-page color fold-out from Stater Bros:
Lowering prices every day, large cantaloupes
(Jessica Lange, are you back?)
10 for $10.00, 32 oz. Gatorade
Or 24 oz Propel in 30 assorted varieties @ 79 cents
+ CRV: California Redemption Value?
Nice euphemistic cover-up for a TAX.
Nice, nice, very nice, CA elected state officials;
Nicely done, Sacramento.
Everywhere else in the country you get real money—
A fixed number of pennies, nickels, or dimes—
For your plastic bottles and aluminum cans.
But in California, the licensed recyclers
Get to pull the market price out of their *** each morning.
California Redemption Value?
What ******* genius government kleptocrat thought that one up? Conspiracy Alert: who gets all that CRV money?
And what are they doing with it?
Feeling plain, Jane?
Marinello Schools of Beauty, want you,
Offer you hands-on training in cosmetology,
Skin care esthetics, manicuring and vaginal deodorizing—
Just kidding, Babaloo.
Food tip for the Third World:
Never try to write poetry on an empty stomach.
Sizzler 6 oz juicy & succulent.
RENEGADE DEAL:
El Pollo Loco guacamole chicken sandwich,
Coupon free, small drink and small chips,
When you purchase a guacamole or jalapeno sandwich,
includes pepper jack cheese and a southwest sauce.
Gardenas sandia con semilla, 7 lbs 99 cents.
GARDENAS: “en precios, servicio y calidad, nadie nos iguaia.”
Bud Gordon’s Quality NISSAN:
One at this price after a $1500 factory rebate.
TERMINIX: get them before they get you!
The Kingdom Animalia, Phylum Arthropoda, Class Insecta
Bug up my *** again.
And a form letter from the VA
Asking me to please update my whereabouts.
And a form letter from the VA asking me
To please update my whereabouts.
And miles to go before I sleep.
Bite me, Mr. Frost!

An outing, at last.
I am going for a walk around the inside of my gates.
I live in one of those gated over-55 lunatic asylums.
There are gates. It is gated. Get it?
GATED! We feel safe here.
Probably a good thing at our age:
Self-imposed institutionalization,
Putting oneself in an asylum to ferment and die.
The fact that so many of us
Need it so bad at only 55
Says something itself about the current state of
Baby Boomer metal-fatigue.
I am now standing at the far end of the golf course.
I wait at the far end of the 18th Hole.
A ball bounces past my head and
Rolls off past the green into the far rough.
The 18th Hole is perched atop a small plateau,
Out of sight, far above the horizon for anyone teeing off.
I am Puck, invisible and impish.
I pluck the ball up.
I scamper to the green.
I pop the ball into the hole.
Which is better than popping a hole in the ball,
Surely, kind of a drag,
As we were once fond of saying.
Deflated Ball.
Deflator Maus.
OPERA can be ****.
Bodice-ripping corsets, whorehouses and naked ******!
Hardly what you might expect from
A night with the Welsh National Opera,
But they found their way into this production of "Die Fledermaus."
Ripe language, contemporary jokes and
Toilet humor thrown in, adding immensely
To the pleasures of Strauss’s operetta.
"Die Fledermaus," or The Bat’s Revenge,
Is all about drunkenness and adultery.
Despite being written in the 1870s,
It remains equally pertinent to today’s pub culture of excess.
Daring; Colorful; ****: PGA golf.
I steal a golf ball on the far end of the 18th Hole.
I pick up the Titleist and stick it in the hole
(Steady Jessica, not yours.
I hide behind your bush.
(Cue up PSA, First Lady Bird Johnson’s 1960s
Nationwide Beautification Campaign:
“I want everyone in America to plant a tree,
A sherrrr-rub, or a booosh.”)
The golfer now searching frantically:
Why is the cup always the last place they look?
Then, wham, bam, he looks:
A legend is born.
A hole in one,
His name forever immortalized
On a plaque over the bar, the proverbial 19th Hole.

As you know, I speak for all mediocrities,
Safe in my 55+ gated-community.
I go next to the Club House,
"The Lodge" as it’s called.
Each afternoon, the usual suspects
Claiming first come/first serve tiered mini-theater seats
Where Netflix matinee gems are screened.
It is two minutes to DVD show time.
I walk to the front of the room.
I stare at my audience.
I count the house slowly,
Making meaningful eye contact with each wrinkled face.
I cup my hands behind my back and speak:
“I assume you are all here for my lecture on Kierkegaard.”
No one reacts.
I turn to leave but do a double-take and smile.
One old woman in the top right corner of the amphitheater laughs, Perhaps the one other human being within the gates
Who has also smoked a joint today.
For an instant, I am overwhelmed with paranoia,
Perhaps I’ve gone too far over the line:
No longer “oh-he’s-a-character;”
I am now “that creep is ******* nuts.”
Is it time for someone to approach my family,
My next of kin, my “who-to-contact-in-event-of-emergency” number? Who will make the call on behalf of the HOA—
The Homeowner’s Association—
The Tsars, the Duma, the Supreme Soviet in these parts?
They are the power inside the gates;
Those who determine the state’s enemies,
Who govern its community norms.
Power within the gates.
Law within the asylum.
Little Hitlers one and all.
Hopefully they reach my sister first.
She’s been briefed.
KEY POINT IN THE NARRATIVE:
The new narrative is non-linear.
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We grow more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen;
We become more intimate with a legion . . .
Did someone say a legion? SPQR:
Am I having some sort of genetic-linguistic seizure here?
Am I channeling Benito Mussolini again?
Il Duce speaks to me from the grave,
Still blowing smoke up my Hopi-Jew-*** ***,
Filling in my insecurities,
Plugging the holes in my character
With delusions of classical Roman grandeur, glory and empire. Hmmmm? Quite an appetizing pitch for the average *****,
A message so completely, so ethnocentrically slick,
Olive oily, and so seductive.
A non-Italian would have thought
American Legion or Legionnaire’s disease,
Or The Foreign Legion, The French Foreign Legion.
The French: a virulent, promiscuous people.
Do you want fries with that, Simone?
No, I don’t get out much.
Only an occasional brisk walk around the asylum,
In and around the golf course, around but inside the gates. (LINKS) Bill Gates. Daryl Gates. Billy Bathgate’s Gates? Ghiberti’s Gates? The Hot Gates? Thermopylae? 300 Spartans/700 Thespians:
“The noun causing idiots to think of
Two girls sloppily eating each other’s mighty vaginas,
When they hear mention of someone being an actor.” http://www.urbandictionary.com
Not even close.
No, I rarely venture out.
This is Hemetucky.
There are methamphetamine-stoked
Teenage zombies at the gate.
Note to costume control:
Perhaps camouflage clothing is the safe choice?
No loud red Hawaiian.
No garish Indonesian batik.
Fleet of feet are these Hemet tweakers,
These cranked up Riverside County teenage barbarians,
These Huns & Visigoths,
These amped up, ravenous jackals.
And why stop there?
These Vandals & Vandellas.
A Motown flashback:
“Nowhere to run, baby, nowhere to hide.”
With or without Martha—
They remain dangerously lethal.
Yes, let it be camo clothes for me.
Those **** heads may be young.
They may be fast.
They may be able to run me down
On a dry grass dog-legged fairway savannah,
Tearing the meat from my carcass.
But the sons-a-******* have to see me first.
Besides, we know who are real friends are.
Hooray for our media peeps!
We become more intimate with a legion
Of television personalities on 125 different channels.
Most of these we know by name and context.
We know their families, their friends,
Their histories, their tragedies,
Their favored hyperbole and manner of speech.
Sometimes we establish intimacy with celebrities
Strictly on the basis of universal body language.
At times–in the absence of any other
Empathetic facility of identification–
We connect on instinct alone.
Instinct: perhaps animal at its core,
An animal kingdom affinity group,
Connecting on a bio-linguistic level,
Particularly when the Korean, or Spanish,
Mandarin, or Arabic,
Japanese, or even Hebrew language version is broadcast.
All languages cryptically alien,
A dense boundary, a barrio border wall,
Undecipherable, impenetrable concrete.
But we’ve never spoken to our neighbors,
Nor do we know their names.
Celebrities are the neighbors we know best;
Although the intimacy is an illusion,
Permission to invade their privacy presumed,
Tacit in the relationship between celebrities and their fans.
I am an independent contractor now,
An outside consultant to the NSA.
Try as I might I cannot crack the enigma,
Kim Kardashian remains far beyond my code-breaking prowess.
I repeat myself:
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We are more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen; we become more intimate with a legion . . .
Back to you, David Ulin:
“Sometime late last year—I don’t remember when, exactly—I noticed I was having trouble sitting down to read. That’s a problem if you do what I do, but it’s an even bigger problem if you’re the kind of person I am. Since I discovered reading, I have always been surrounded by stacks of books. I read my way through camp, school, nights, and weekends; when my girlfriend and I backpacked through Europe after college graduation, I had to buy a suitcase to accommodate the books I picked up along the way.”
Thank you, David L. Ulin.
I cannot help myself.
I grow more eccentric each day.
My eyeballs glued to that flat screen!

Cosmo Kramer: "The bus is outta control.
So I grab him by the collar, I take him out of the seat,
I get behind the wheel, and now I’m driving the bus."
Jerry: "Wow!"
George Costanza: "You’re Batman."
Cosmo Kramer: "Yeah, yeah, I am Batman.
Then the mugger, he comes to and he starts choking me.
So I’m fighting him off with one hand,
And I kept driving the bus with the other, ya know.
Then I managed to open up the door,
And I kicked him out the door, ya know,
With my foot, ya know, at the next stop."
Jerry: "You kept making all the stops?"
Cosmo Kramer: "Well, people kept ringing the bell!"
(Share this moment with a stranger.)

I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.
Boom Chaka Laka. Boom Chaka Laka.
Boom Chaka Laka. BOOM!
Isn’t it time Salieri tempted Constanze–
Frau Mozart–with a plateful of Capezzoli di Venere:
“******* of Venus.”
You had me at hello, Kidman.
I know you too well, Nicole.
I knew you from before,
Way before Tom’s Oprah couch freak show.
Listen to me, Nicole:
We are face to face
With the most profound question in American literature:
"What is the grass?
The flag of my surrender?
The flag of my disposition?"
I resort to Socratic maxims: Know yourself;
The un-****** life is not worth living.
Is it stress? Is it lack of conviction?
Everything Jeff Lebowski neither wants nor needs in his life?
I watched you *** in "Eyes Wide Shut," Nicole.
Now I know you with my eyes and your legs wide open.
Thank you, Sidney Pollack.
Sidney knew.
Sidney dealt us cards
From his Hollywood Tarot deck.
We are intimate, Nicole.
I watched you squat.

There’s a giraffe in here, in my house
There’s a giraffe in here, his name’s Strauss
There’s a giraffe in here, watching my TV
There’s a giraffe in here, he's got a key

I think it’s fun to have a crazy friend
I don’t care if we go round the bend

There’s a giraffe in here, in my kitchenette
There’s a giraffe in here, he’s a great pet
There’s a giraffe in here, in my car
There’s a giraffe in here, smoking a cigar

I think it’s fun to throw away my meds
My crazy friend, is in my head

There’s a giraffe in here, in my mind
There’s a giraffe in here, he’s refined
There’s a giraffe in here, in my padded room
There’s a giraffe in here, I assume

M.GANDHI dijo una vez:
“si no tienes religión, yo te recomiendo una : LA VERDAD”

UN LUGAR PARA MI ALMA

Durante mucho tiempo, cuando los amaneceres  fueron  un umbral para  los días apagados ,  existía  en mi mente ,una lucha interna entre las capas de mi razón ...y los zócalos profundos de mi piel.
Yo estaba segura que mi origen , había sido de una cepa siniestra, estúpida idea defectuosa que carcomía mi cerebro y me hacia sentir como una partícula insignificante, sulfatada, viviendo un exilio y confinada a lo mas mínimo e inexistente .

En medio de esta desvelada costilla, había una duda rodando siempre en mi cabeza :¿qué era la vida? Realmente era esto vivir, así sin respirar sin sentir el latido del corazón? No!, yo estaba segura que la vida era otra cosa, era transcurrir  y suceder mientras sientes como fluye tu sangre por las venas, es vibrar sin sentir miedo,andar descalza y disfrutar lo que te ofrece el suelo.
Entonces,¿ por qué yo sentía dentro de mi, cosas opuestas? , ¿Por qué mis pupilas últimamente sucumbían… cuando el espacio sin forma alguna, seguía arrastrándome al **** abismo?, lugar incómodo para mis huesos, donde ya no deseaba estar más.
Esta invalidez de mi sequía mental, este virus polimorfo que se instaló en mis venas , ha atormentado mi alma por mucho tiempo cuando yo aun estaba viva.

Todavía  recuerdo cuando
comencé a obedecer la misoginia autoritaria de una bestia putrefacta, y de como se metió profundo y desgarro mis miedos desmenuzando todas mis dudas para luego vomitarlas  sobre mi fragilidad. Fue justo ahí cuando la oscuridad absoluta, la soledad última, se adueñó de mis sueños y al parecer ,del mismo modo que cualquier estrella recorre su dominio en forma precisa, yo...avanzaba por este mundo, quebrada, con un corazón débil, sin rumbo y con un horizonte completamente sombrío y la confianza rasgada y rota.

En ese entonces,yo solía sentarme en un banco de madera, muy al fondo de todo ,donde las hojas secas eran el único alimento para mi razón y fijaba la vista en el suelo, queriendo encontrar una salida , pero una vez metida en este estado algo, o alguien me hacia observar como con cada amanecer , mi vida caía al fondo del tiempo, muy profundo , muy intima de mi misma , naufragando mi condena perpetua , esa que caía sobre mi estéril cuerpo  cada vez que me  abandonaba  a los vientos revueltos, al arrastre irrespetuoso de ese alguien, de ese gusano letal que creí que me cuidaba.

Y si, muy pronto llegó ese momento, donde los que me conocían, ya jamás pudieron saber nada de mi.Nada de la que fui, ya  nunca más pudo asomarse a ningún nuevo crepúsculo .
Dentro de ese vivir sin anhelar nada, sin querer nada, solo lo indispensable (comida y agua), mi vida, que no era tal, un día deseo terminar de nacer, pero no ahí, en ese injerto tejido de engaños, donde era una sarcófago siniestro para mis nuevas ilusiones.,

Invisible para muchos, con un carácter incompleto y con mis ojos repletos de tinieblas y temores, un día ...me fui a terminar de venir a este mundo , ya grande, sola y sin esperanza alguna, decidí dejar de deslizarme por esta vida venenosa y comenzar a pisar la tierra, ésta que me dio origen y me perdió por un tiempo y así , de a poco ,me alejé de las mentiras disfrazadas con ternura y me quite de encima  a muchas sanguijuelas que a mi alma primera, la vieron morir día a día y no hicieron nada.

Esta lloviendo sin parar afuera , falta todavía una hora para que la noche cierre, entonces peregrino por mis últimos tormentos, abro mis ojos , y los veo a ellos, iracundas almas inocentes, que jamás comprendieron los misterios  que aun aprietan mi cuello, pero saben que fui su único lecho y la única caricia real que jamás sus latidos sentirán.

¡Ya llega el día! ¡ya llega el  día!
¿En dónde hallaré ahora , un lugar para esta entraña  mía que está libre,
muy dañada y rota?



Diario de una Maldita  Poeta Condenada

AZUL STRAUSS MARKUART
TITULO : “UN LUGAR PARA MI ALMA”
[relato: Texto completo.]
Autora :Azul Strauss M.
04 de febrero del 2015
BUENOS AIRES.ARGENTINA
©Copyright –Derecho de Autor Reservado

Después de que la noche al fin duerme
las incoherencias imprudente del día
tú, te acercas susurrando a mis oídos :
te deseo tanto!-
Sé que te mueres de ganas de poseerme
lo noto en tus ojos
en el pulso delicioso de tu cuello
en el roce de tus sudorosas manos maestras
cuando acarician mis caderas insolentes
de continuos estallidos.


Mía es tu carne amor, lo fue antes, lo es ahora
Soy la única que conoce tu cuerpo de memoria
la única que lo navega entera sin zozobrar nunca
la única que sabes que no dejarás que naufrague
en confusos oleajes

Adoro cuando me bebes entera
y entre mi falda juguetea tu aliento.
Tú me sacias con tu experiencia
eres mi delicioso bohemio atrevido
amante de mis pezones
que despiertan cuando suave los muerdes.

Ven amor, ya sabes que tu piel es mi locura
Ven que mi sangre hierve
al ver tu pene hinchado y apurado
ven cariño y clava tu lanza ardiente entre mis piernas
que ya están abiertos y humedos los capullos de mi flor.

No sabes como venero tu cuerpo navegante
gimiendo y gozando cuando te cabalgo.
Amor, es en tus ojos donde puedo ver
como te pierdes del mundo entero
como te pierdes acabado en mì.
Y te gozo lento
te hechizo
te blasfemo y te conjuro
antes de que mi boca comience el descenso.

Hoy tu marea está de fiesta
danzando apetitoso sobre mi lengua.
Que bello honor es recibir tus gotas
de diamante perla sobre mì.

AZUL STRAUSS MARKUART
TITULO :Gotas de Diamante Perla
Poema: Texto completo.]
Autora :Azul Strauss M
18 de Mayo del 2015
BUENOS AIRES.ARGENTINA
©Copyright –Derecho de Autor Reservado
_ Expediente nº EGXU-ZLQN-2W3E-96U2/1102180341429
Dirección Nacional de Derecho de Autor, República Argentina
Protegido por OMPI y el Tratado internacional de Suiza sobre derechos de autores

Tú que aun sigues  profundo implantado en mi piel
y prendido  en mi pálida memoria
bajo la misma corriente mortal,
no sebes cuánto  desearía que nadie, nadie,
nos sujeten  las palabras.
¿A quién le escribiré yo ahora,
quién me hablará de filosofía
y me contará raras historias ?

Anoche…me haz vendido una ilusión desnuda,
amarga , sin polen,  muy atroz y visceral
que arde  como braza mi garganta
y muerde... muerden demasiadas sombras
de mis esquinas cóncavas,
espacio sin negrura, donde yo me permitía existir callada
mezclándome en los espejismos que  envolvían suave
cada una de mis  fracturas.
y aunque hayas conspirado en contra de mi razón,
de mis puntos cardinales
y los eslabones de mis crepúsculos que estaban calmo...te perdono

A menudo corazón, el vacío fue el único escape
que me salvó de intoxicarme de singulares
maniobras  oscuras o lo que es peor ,
seguir la corriente como todos hacen
y adaptarme a los discursos narcisistas,
a lo cómodo a la farsa.

Soy escurridiza, lo sé, pero muy exacta
muy carne, muy pecado en mis palabras,
indefensa  muchas veces,
detenida a la orilla de algún terrible  miedo
aun no curado.

No sabes cuánto lamento que ya mi corazón
no te pueda abrazar más,
ya no siento tus susurros
En vano intentaran una y mil veces mis oídos escucharlos
pero sé muy bien, que nunca más volverán,
no podrán, porque ahora estoy
encontrando mi nueva tumba.


De:Diario de una Maldita poeta condenada

AZUL STRAUSS MARKUART
TITULO :Ilusión Desnuda
[Poema: Texto completo.]
Autora :Azul Strauss M.
10/02/2015
BUENOS AIRES.ARGENTINA
©Copyright –Derecho de Autor Reservado

[Given to Frank Bidart]


You won't become a gourmet* cook
By studying our Fannie's book--
Her thoughts on Food & Keeping House
Are scarcely those of Lévi-Strauss.
Nevertheless, you'll find, Frank dear,
The basic elements* are here.
And if a problem should arise:
The Soufflé fall before your eyes,
Or strange things happen to the Rice
--You know I love to give advice.

                Elizabeth
                Christmas, 1971
          

Forbidden word
* Forbidden phrase


P.S. Fannie should not be underrated;
She has become sophisticated.
She's picked up many gourmet tricks
Since the edition of '96.

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.

Local designer Vanessa Froehling has denim on the brain. Stonewashed, herringbone print, chambray, stretch and black denim, to be sure.

In her home studio, Froehling flips through hangers of designs, including sailor-style high-waisted women’s shorts, a men’s blazer and a women’s jumpsuit.

“It’s something that’s in everyone’s closet and it will never go out of style,” says Froehling of the French-born fabric (denim’s etymology comes from “de Nîmes,” the French town where Levis Strauss first procured the tough cotton twill for your 501s). But, she adds, “people are stuck on what denim can do.”

The line is called Carpe Denim and it’s Froehling’s entry into FashioNXT (self-described as “Portland’s Official Fashion Week”) — not to be confused with Portland Fashion Week — three days and nights of runway shows in early October. She will present Carpe Denim in the UpNXT competition, the “emerging designers accelerator,” alongside four other Pacific Northwest designers the evening of Oct. 5.

The fashion week has a cozy relationship with Project Runway, the fashion-designer reality show running since 2004, and, in fact, two of the judges assessing the competition are Seth Aaron (winner of Project Runway season 7) and Michelle Lesniak (winner of season 11).

In 2015, Froehling applied to both Portland Fashion Week and FashioNXT, but was only accepted by the former that time. She says auditioning in front of the FashioNXT judges was intimidating.

“My nerves were like, ‘What do I do with my hands?’” Froehling says, shaking her hands by her sides and laughing. The judges were tough, she recalls, and they recommended that she develop the marketability and cohesion of her line.

Over the past year, she took their advice to heart and decided she would try out again, this time with a denim ready-to-wear line, a departure from the couture gowns that have distinguished her style. She took inspiration from the city — recalling watching the denizens of Portland walk by, falling in love with their street-wear style — and the layers of people, buildings and traffic.

Eight jean looks — five for women and three for men — will walk the runway, but rest assured, this will be no **** of Canadian tuxedos. Although denim is the common thread, the designs feature smart juxtapositions against black leather and a colorful textile that looks like a cross between gas puddles and graffiti.

The self-taught designer has also developed several innovative details: a woman’s denim peplum jacket that unzips at the waist, transforming it into a more casual cropped jacket; women’s stretch leather pants that zip open at the knee, a nod to ripped jeans; and a men’s chambray shirt with the illusion of a double collar creating a fresh origami effect.

This summer, the judges welcomed Froehling on the FashioNXT train.

Froehling says one judge told her that she’s the first designer to return the following year to try out again after being rejected.

“It’s the highest fashion production in Oregon,” she says.

The winner will be announced at the after-party Oct. 5, and the prize package secures a spot for the designer in the main runway show in 2017 and includes business mentorships, feature stories inPortland Monthly and Portland Mercury, and a strategic marketing course at Portland Fashion Institute.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

I knew you forever and you were always old,
soft white lady of my heart. Surely you would scold
me for sitting up late, reading your letters,
as if these foreign postmarks were meant for me.
You posted them first in London, wearing furs
and a new dress in the winter of eighteen-ninety.
I read how London is dull on Lord Mayor's Day,
where you guided past groups of robbers, the sad holes
of Whitechapel, clutching your pocketbook, on the way
to Jack the Ripper dissecting his famous bones.
This Wednesday in Berlin, you say, you will
go to a bazaar at Bismarck's house. And I
see you as a young girl in a good world still,
writing three generations before mine. I try
to reach into your page and breathe it back...
but life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
This is the sack of time your death vacates.
How distant your are on your nickel-plated skates
in the skating park in Berlin, gliding past
me with your Count, while a military band
plays a Strauss waltz. I loved you last,
a pleated old lady with a crooked hand.
Once you read Lohengrin and every goose
hung high while you practiced castle life
in Hanover. Tonight your letters reduce
history to a guess. The count had a wife.
You were the old maid aunt who lived with us.
Tonight I read how the winter howled around
the towers of Schloss Schwobber, how the tedious
language grew in your jaw, how you loved the sound
of the music of the rats tapping on the stone
floors. When you were mine you wore an earphone.
This is Wednesday, May 9th, near Lucerne,
Switzerland, sixty-nine years ago. I learn
your first climb up Mount San Salvatore;
this is the rocky path, the hole in your shoes,
the yankee girl, the iron interior
of her sweet body. You let the Count choose
your next climb. You went together, armed
with alpine stocks, with ham sandwiches
and seltzer wasser. You were not alarmed
by the thick woods of briars and bushes,
nor the rugged cliff, nor the first vertigo
up over Lake Lucerne. The Count sweated
with his coat off as you waded through top snow.
He held your hand and kissed you. You rattled
down on the train to catch a steam boat for home;
or other postmarks: Paris, verona, Rome.
This is Italy. You learn its mother tongue.
I read how you walked on the Palatine among
the ruins of the palace of the Caesars;
alone in the Roman autumn, alone since July.
When you were mine they wrapped you out of here
with your best hat over your face. I cried
because I was seventeen. I am older now.
I read how your student ticket admitted you
into the private chapel of the Vatican and how
you cheered with the others, as we used to do
on the fourth of July. One Wednesday in November
you watched a balloon, painted like a silver abll,
float up over the Forum, up over the lost emperors,
to shiver its little modern cage in an occasional
breeze. You worked your New England conscience out
beside artisans, chestnut vendors and the devout.
Tonight I will learn to love you twice;
learn your first days, your mid-Victorian face.
Tonight I will speak up and interrupt
your letters, warning you that wars are coming,
that the Count will die, that you will accept
your America back to live like a prim thing
on the farm in Maine. I tell you, you will come
here, to the suburbs of Boston, to see the blue-nose
world go drunk each night, to see the handsome
children jitterbug, to feel your left ear close
one Friday at Symphony. And I tell you,
you will tip your boot feet out of that hall,
rocking from its sour sound, out onto
the crowded street, letting your spectacles fall
and your hair net tangle as you stop passers-by
to mumble your guilty love while your ears die.

¿Qué es la tarde para mi?
La tarde para mi es :
Un sótano de arenas dormido
sobre un cielo roto
Un rincón de blandas enredaderas
Un cónclave solitario
Un pájaro albino sin miel
Un péndulo inmóvil
Un río sonámbulo derramando sombras
Una palabra atascada en la garganta
Y un canto mortal para mis antiguas  pisadas.


AZUL STRAUSS MARKUART
TITULO :LA TARDE
Poema: Texto completo.]
Autora :Azul Strauss M
3 de junio del 2015
BUENOS AIRES.ARGENTINA
©Copyright –Derecho de Autor Reservado
_ Expediente nº EGXU-ZLQN-2W3E-96U2/1102180341429
Dirección Nacional de Derecho de Autor, República Argentina
Protegido por OMPI y el Tratado internacional de Suiza sobre derechos de autores

Todey they told me that I shud rite a powm for you Algernon
Mr. Strauss sed that youre sick
I dont want you to be sick
Youre smart
Remembir the amazed
Youre a white mouse
Youre smarter then other mice
So please *** well soon
Goodbye

- Charlie Gordon

******* at tickling the ivories,
at inducing the jet buttons
to chortle, say, in a concerto ;
but I do strum and flirt
with those amazing royal,
88 unrepentant loyal
keys for Jupiter and Saturn,
for Mars and Neptune,
making a blank bland tune
for extraterrestrial beings for fun.

On the cosmic moors
the moon's whirling feet
cease for my discordance.
What a slurred entrance
by F in D major!

Only a novice--an amateur.
I'm no magnificent pianist,
O majestic Mercury.

Summon the stars the search
to lead for a supreme virtuoso,
one of  no incongruent ingenuity
like this dilettante--a pseudo
music polymath, counsels Thebe.

A Mozart, Beethoven, or Bach?

Any of the greats scored above, as well
as geniuses like David and Handel.

Impressario fly! Flee thou away
and go get a classic maven.
Otherwise sleep there forever at Erebus,
never dream of waking up in Eden.

Circuitous world stops: strings break off
at the Earth's axis--
the Sun's panels pause

and darkness' movement begins
its own obscure notes to improvise:

apace demented melody
is released,-- bathos of symphony:
tinny wine of concord
settles on the lees of discord.

Asteroids hooting some ***** calls
when into the grand chrysolite chamber--
in her tailor-made blistering gown--
strolls in the coruscating Venus
in the sturdy arm of jaundiced Uranus,
garbed in his glistening stomacher.

Like a ball, all eyes are bouncing
hither and thither, up and down,

googling and ogling,
once more at them leering,

gaping at the irreplaceable paintings of
da Vinci, Picasso, and Van Gogh
cavorting  upon the weightless walls

to the romantic performance of Strauss
in the palace orchestral of Bacchus.

A bright lad called Alistair Cook
Did enjoy the occasional book,
     He went out to bat,
     NO - don't play at that,
They did him; line, sinker and hook.

On him I'd bet my whole house,
More like a lion than a mouse,
     He bats with aplomb,
     Both dainty and strong,
It can only be Andrew Strauss.

From the pavilion did Jonathan Trott,
Nervous and anxious he is not,
     He'll be there for a while,
     All England will smile,
And South Africa know he is hot.

Next in is the feisty KP,
His batting, the top of the tree,
     Sixes so great,
     They should be worth eight,
Now just stay IN for a hundred or three!

A chap from ooop north who is good,
Goes by the name of Paul Collingwood,
     Gritty and tough,
     We just can't get enough,
Fight as hard as him, we all should.

No more will the fear he smell,
He's been down to the gym as well,
     His batting is slick,
     Number six does the trick,
The crowd cheers for Ian Bell.

Swinging his bat, it's Matt Prior,
Born with iron grit, steel and fire,
     If he holds each catch,
     We'll win the match,
And his ranking will go much higher.

Our spinner is next, Mr Swann,
His bowling is coming on strong,
     His batting is great,
     Which the opposition hate,
Not to pick him much sooner was wrong.

Our tall quickie is young Stuart Broad,
His bat is a rapier like sword,
     He can oft' bowl too short,
     Yet the batters get caught,
And Of wicket-taking we never are bored.

James Anderson is our king of swing,
Late movement his favourite thing,
     Please bowl nice and full,
     Offer nothing to pull,
And just hear those stumps go 'ping'.

Graeme Onions comes in at long last,
Cannot bat but, he can bowl fast,
     He makes them play,
     While others may stray,
Durham long-hops a thing of the past.

God made jeans for nice jewish boys


as I walk down the street
I invoke and bless his name,
my eyes criss-crossed,
cause I am an ecu-man-iacal  
lay man womanizer

he,
be my fellow descendant from
Adam & Abraham

Levi Strauss

who had a
prophetic vision
(of course)
why stretchable tight jeans
were even better
than apples
and started
a gold rush
that will never
end

A remorseful young man named Nat
Tried hard to find where life was at.
     Wine, women and song
     Put his thinking all wrong.
Too much of those things can do that.

We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot’s house.

Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The ‘Treues Liebes Herz’ of Strauss.

Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.

We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.

Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille,

Then took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.

Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.

Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.

Then, turning to my love, I said,
‘The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust.’

But she—she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.

Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.

And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.

The worst part seems to be
Not being able to breathe
Its unfair
Maybe it would've been best to
Not be at all
No, this is good
But wasting it is not
Drunk on a futon
Reading Goethe
Its going to be very
Hard
To let this all go
Won't it?
The worst part about it seems to be
Not being able to breathe
But as you watch the others go
Your cats, your mother, your loves
You will be ready
Young man.
Won't you?
............................................................­...........

Simple is the story of hard earned money;
Hard to earn hard to spend;

Single penny is worth and respected;
Fight within continues, spend it or save it;

Earn, when u have nothing;
But yes problems accompany;

Giving doesn't mean much, if you have much;
Giving, when u are having little;

Smile covering the helpless forlorn impotency;
Even smile hiding the difficulty of spending;

Parents choose comfort of child over there need;
Sacrifice not because its responsibility;

Finding satisfaction in giving;
It’s known to be utmost;

I witnessed that smile on a worker;
Offering tea when you barely earn to eat

I witnessed that smile on a father;
Those muddy legs told me real cost of college fees;

I witnessed that smile on a customer;
Confirming billion times before paying off;

Increment in bus fare by 20 rs made a huge difference;
How I throw 20 bucks on a soft drink;

I wonder why I don’t think like this;
How can I feel sad for inadequate money?

How man gets satisfy in cheap cloths and food;
Here i think i wear a signature instead of Strauss;

Simple is the story of hard earned money;
Hard to earn hard to spend;

RESPECT
Mr C Penguin the head of the house
Wears a uniform and listens to Strauss.
Seals plonked by the door as a draught excluder.
Chimps are taking tea in the parlour Room.
Judging how many cakes they can consume.
“Get a brush Foxy and sweep up those crumbs,
I will be charging them double when the time comes”
Mr Badger making endless trays upon trays of cakes
For the ignorant posh chimps and the mess thy make.
“Bag the goose and send the felloe to me,
I will give the chimps something to do for free”
The penguin cracked his knuckles and gave a cough
He had told the chimps he had taken the day off.
“The goose is here” half smiling “the goose is here”
The chimps shook, gulped and felt a trifle queer.
The goose frog marched in and the chimp went limp
“Right you posh lot, eat nicely is that clear chimp”
“I’m not old fishy pengy” he snapped straightening his wing,
“no hanky panky on my watch, nothing, no anything.
“I run a tight ship chimp, my rules old chum.”
The chimps heard right and put an end to the fun.
“Respect, respect,” the goose patrolled his little space
The chimps now ashen with a worried look on their face.
It is all about respect

The day was for England to look solid
  South Africa were happy to play slow
It turned out that England wanted squalid
  Opposition gave us nowhere to go

Andrew Strauss was done in by a shooter
  Jonny Trotted past a full one today
Collingwood survived ***** past his ******
  Ian Bell gave us most cause for dismay

Now Kevin played nicely for a while
  But Colly got out to leave us in fear
Prior left us too soon for a smile
  So for Broad and Swann the plan was clear

Jimmy hit them for the SIX of the game
But for glory Graeme Swann was the name

let me elaborate... like a tender realisation: why do i abhor Strauss and Brahms? waltzes... classical music composed for dancing... and not thinking and going mad... classical music intended for dancing! seigl ******* heil! nein nein nein! scheisse... little operas and even littler: loitering theatricals with intended amusement uplifting with song no desired existential pangs... blah! ah... long the days of rivalry between the gemeinsamvolk songs of the tavern and Teutonic monks... ugh... classical music dedicated to waltzes... Germans dancing, back then, even now... conjures up a concoction of vomiting, diarrhea ******, scratching one's ***, picking one's nose and lighting a match with devilish insinuation of arson. Valkyries screerching...

because living among
the English is
never, ever so rarely
as demeaning as
living among the Germans,
ironically
maybe not...
maybe not in how
i so abhor German opera
sung in the 'Leash...
such a terrible tongue
to sing opera: perhaps church
alms of praises...
but so welcome to learn
that i abhor Strauss as much
as Brahms...
can't help myself:
withheld at Schumann and
Schubert...
**** deutsche vox...
but then how much
of the English is deutsch'
if i find the isles of these
morose fabric
an extension of Scandinavia
like Denmark is: too?
among the Britons
those Velches and Scoots
and Ires of the green land...
an Anglo-Slav among
the mongrels of alt pocket
of Saxony.
geographically, though...
if Denmark is Scandinavia...
then England isn't?
peculiar... that concept of
"west": Europe...
as far west and uninhibited
as France and Spain...
as far "east" as the centrality
of Poland? Bohemia and Germany...
England is a Scandinavian
country... the miserably-happy
platitude of workaholics:
arbeit macht frei: poignant:
more than ever.

Dusk of the decade.
Dynamics alternate.
Collective consciousness
On the threshold of change.
A movement had happened.
It was to stay.
That way.
Assumed wrongly.
Permanancy is chalk.
Duster enough to erase.
Decade of contradictions
Revolution leads to war.
Mirror view image.
Evidence of change..
The Seventies became.
Aurora like a thousand searchlights.
Whipping across the sky.
Pulling out all stops to Kingdom come
To stop the atrocities in Vietnam.
Neil and Buzz.
Aboard the Apollo eleven ,
Small step was humility,
Giant leap for humanity.
Bob and Carl,
At the Post.
Navigated by *******.
Investigate Watergate
All the President's men
Final days for Nixon's reign.
Beat Generation, Flower Power ,hippie movement or Counterculture.
Christened by Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg.
Capsuled the mood in the air.
Ken Kesey and the Grateful Dead
Acid Trips taken on a Bus.
Experimental tour on
Music and drugs.
Civil Rights and Dr King
Another battle about the skin.
Won the Nobel.
Proving everyone is equal.
Wars, Marches ,Protests.
Illustrated in bedrooms.
Live television was the boom
Horrors of War ,seen by all.
Casualties of  War Were in every room.
Rock Music explosion.
Nexus with the counterculture generation.
Talents aligned
Bands formed
Music into existence.
Legends born.
Myths created.
Millions gathered
Traditions established
Parables designed
Life altered
Generations affected.
effect felt , effortlessly.
Captivating? fascinating? entrancing? hypnotic?
Words can't describe.
wasted words .
Demiurges  divinity diminished dramatically.
Drastically devoid.
Haight and Ashbury.
Cradle of Counterculture.
Intersection of both.
Became the Cross
worshipped upon
Beatnik a fish out of water.
Took to the crossing like a fish to water.
Contradiction in words
Unity in Society
Gathered in entirety
For the Summer of love.
Civil rights and Vietnam War.
Gay rights and Nuclear War.
Women Power and Human Sexuality.
Sub Cultures and Anti Authoritarian.
Bohemian and Mind Bending drugs
Ikigai for Millions
I'm the Greatest the world has ever seen.
Heavyweight champion and king of the ring.
Rumble in the jungle
Thrilla in Manilla
Foreman and Frazier
Bout after bout
Showed  the world what Ali was about.
Many are called ,few are chosen .
Scandinavian Teenager
Tennis' first rock star
Grass or Clay
Dominated the play
Resembled Chirist
Bjorn Borg was a delight
Raised by women to conquer men
Jimmy Connors became a legend
Winning titles was a cinch
Played 5 generations and 2 decades without a flinch.
Longevity laudable
Point or Life
The offer he made.
Battle of the sexes
The Great Billie Jean king.
Gave the women's movement a zing
Grasping at the straws,
Bobby Riggs the competitor
Remained a spectator
Astrodome witnessed a milestone
Billie beat Bobby
Three sets to none
Quality questioned
Answer given
Inferior no woman
King remained Queen.

Cinema of the 70 s
Greatest ever made
Censorship boundaries blurred
Artistic expression blossomed
Studio system failed
Television boomed
Auteurs and Polymaths
Actors and Superstars
Collaborated .
Symbiosis enriched
Individual and Team. Delighted Disciples  Demanded  .
Studios responded
Classics  in order
One equal to the other
Talent made them timeless
Quality gave them immortality
Excellence brought Endurance.
Warner Brothers and Warren Beatty.
Bonnie and Clyde .
Canadian Premiere.
Jumping off point.
Films that altered lives.
These films have no death
Proved Montreal as holy as Nazareth.
Fashion was about expression.
Androgynous looks
Reigned supreme.
Wearing Tee Shirts and Levi's Strauss Jeans.
Bold and Daring was the theme
Stand out and Fit in
Principle behind the dressing.
Turtlenecks
Heeled boots,  braided belts , Corduroy pants.
Long collared shirts  leisure suits and flowing scarves.
The 70 s was more about costume than clothing.
Hairstyles and Sunglasses
Unique in itself.
Retro and relevant
Stylish and current
Smart and trending
In and out.

So now we have captain Cook
OK, he might be worth a look
  But Andrew Strauss
  Back in his house
To my very core I am shook

In the test team new names do pop
With Carberry right at the top
  All rounders not thin
  With Tredwell for spin
And Wright giving a biff and a bop

Shahzard is there for swing
Of reverse he can be king
  And if Prior gets vexed
  Steve Davies comes next
Pardon me if start to sing.

Onto the **** One-Day side
This I simply cannot abide
  Or believe what I read
  Cook is now made to lead
At table bottom we will reside.

T’was the night before Christmas
And in his outhouse
Sat Ja quietly listening        
To waltz’s, by Strauss.
(Really, he was leafing thru Penthouse)

The ******* was fitted
With all manner of lights
That couldn’t be missed
No matter what heights

When up on the roof
There arose such a clatter
Ja, kicked open the door
To see what was the matter

So there sat Ja
With his pants pulled down
His *** in a hole
On his forehead, a frown

He leaped up so quickly
Through the doorway to pass
Tripped over his pants
And fell on his ***

Then flat on his back
His bare *** in the snow
He looked up to see
The roof all aglow

Poor Santa had landed                        
On that, small, sloped roof
But there wasn’t enough room
For sleigh, and each tiny hoof

Ja had decorated everything
So the outhouse, shone bright
And Santa mistook it
When he arrived that night

The reindeer slid off
Were hanging by their straps
And Santa had saved them
By grabbing, the roof *****

Poor Rudolph fell the farthest
Boy, was his nose beaming
Just then, losing his grip
Santa started screaming

Fly Dancer, fly *****
Fly Donner, fly Blitzen
Don’t let me fall into
This ****, Ja was fixin

Then just like magic
They started to float
And Santa, raising his fist
Did this warning shout
              
Be very careful old man
I’ll get you some day
Stay alert Christmas Eve
Don’t get in my way

Now, each Christmas Eve
Ja, won’t step foot out that door
Cause he knows Santa is waiting
To even the score
BOEMS BY JA 18

it's just a selfie... don't forget my face is mandible and is  non-representative of whatever idealism you have of dundee / glasgow.  you ever noticed it's only paris that's mentioned in 20th century  classic literature? oi! ****! why not oslo schweggenladder stockholm or  edinbrugh? so 20th century of you to mention any place south of london.*

when i hear modern poets wheeze and ooh and ah
and climb the everest... i think of the bee gees
or michael jackson, not one wrote the illiad... but it’s
still memorised - what’s the point...
poetry begins with the thought:
i can rhyme bling with bee sting... ****... i’m in!
heave of relief interlude with abba’s super trouper
in the background to breivik’s slaughter...
now that’s taking satire to the extreme of absurdism:
you know that french thinking movement
that changed hammering a nail in with the elbow
rather than the hammer.
‘orchestra!’
‘ yes maestro?!’
‘play me the divination of vivaldi in #strauss for winter!’
‘yes maestro!’
‘ah the autumnal leaf waltz via psychadelia
of femininity given to the beast of feminism
of lost ego, what splendour... and the reindeer,
ah... it’s only missing the alcohbolic reindeer of the
puffed-up cheeks and red noses of burst veins to hue
the canvas of red with streaks of blue.’
as benny hill said... it’s not called black english humour
for reasons that might suggest it was the oxford rowing
team losing against h.m.s. belfast that made the cambridge rowing
team sing the chritmas carols in halloween costumes:
the wise pumpkin, skeleton and hybrid tarantula sang
in soprano: the shepherds put on castrato opera for a reason
that became apparent with roman authorities despising
celibacy but turning quiet fond of castration for the pope's opera:
plus the **** orgams sounded more feminine with
guilottined *******.

Yo podría haberlo  amado un poco más,
por ahí.
Quizás  si hubiese besado más
la miel de la aventura,
estoy segura, que hoy estaría
acabada por su lengua mezquina.

Sin embargo,
lo único que hice entonces,  fue huir
para no extraviar el legado de mi alma,
y para no pisotear  mi juventud
con un fracaso , que de cualquier manera
ya estaba escrito en las magras sombras de las  dudas.

Yo podría haberlo amado mucho más,
pero no pude, no quise.
Tampoco hoy lo lamento.


DIARIO DE UNA
"MALDITA POETA CONDENADA"


TITULO :YO PODRÍA…
[Poema: Texto completo.]
Autora :Azul Strauss M.
10/02/2015
BUENOS AIRES.ARGENTINA
©Copyright –Derecho de Autor Reservado

Don't Stop.

Was the gentlest command that ever passed your lips.

My fingers danced across the keys,
Playing to the tempo of your scribbling pen.

We wrote a symphony that day,
Broken to the beat of our passionate hearts.

The arias of my poetry were never enough for you.
You had to hear them played in the form of

Chopin
Bach
Strauss

Anything you could write to.

Pseudo-scientific writings
Of two men named Strauss and Howe°
Talk about an existential
War that we are in right now.

It's called a war of the Fourth Turning,
And here's one thing the writings mention:
By aggravating societal pressures,
Leaders control the nation's attention.

Leadership will take measures
To assert public authority. (How nice!)
Then they will apply pressure
To demand public sacrifice.

An unexpected leader called
The Grey Champion will emerge--
A messianic strongman who'll
Lead the nation as allies merge.

It ought not to be so difficult
To see through this fiction, ought it?
However, the president's right hand man,
(Gulp!) Steve Bannon, bought it.

This is the "birth of a new political
Order," Bannon has said. What' more,
We're "in the top of the first inning."
He puts it this way: "We're at war!"

Expansionist China and radical Islam
Will bring about our defeat
Because the Judeo-Christian West,
Bannon adds, is in retreat.

He talks of dark days ahead.
Part of the apocalyptic plan
Has to do with being "reborn"
Or having to face the end of man.

Bannon has the president's ear!
It's really scary when buffoons
Are given top positions and power.
THIS GUY is ****** TUNES!

- by Bob B (2-11-17)

°William Strauss and Neil Howe

im umzug & krawatte

strauss am herzen,

augen zu.

schuhe geputzt

flugkarte in tasche

grinsen.



suit and tie on

bouquet across the chest,

eyes shut.

shoes shined


plane ticket in his pocket

beaming.

*note: this poem was inspired by a student suicide on my university campus two years ago. the idea of dying with so much before oneself would not get out of my mind.

Denim and plaid angel
beautiful bad *** in Levi Strauss
she's amazing, I'm lucky

Cicadas hum quietly,
amongst the summer choir.
Locked doors,
birds on their wire's.
Keep from harm's way,
but thorted by desire-
Blinds colored gray
block out humanity.

These dreams speak to me through insanity,
a tv plays white noise,
my mind is in calamity.
As nightmares creep in through my eyelids,
amid the darkness of this quiet house.

This is my Strauss-
wooden floors entirely silent,
the thoughts inside are violent.
Recalling Baptist Hospital.
No cart rhythmically on call,
a nurse alloting me two pearls to swallow.

Making the sea of seretonin flow,
making happiness through my body grow.
Tonight,
I take my trazadone
no longer resembling a pearl,
my toes curl.
At the bitter taste,
following the nightmares that make haste
to follow me to bed,
praying I don't wake up dead.