"svengali" poems
~
*abruptly waking to discover
the sempiternal daylight of herself
in a small silent village in Brussels
the sky's a cloudless blue
and she needs the sun
like children need two parents
sunglasses conceal bedroom eyes
smiles hide like inverted *******
clothed in peekaboo milieu
a highly individual creature
in an era of the exaggerated curve
she's an amnesiac
doodle-dawdling in the altogether
wrapping herself around
mise-en-scène
it's breakfast with Mr. Svengali
then unacquainted foothills
and undergrowth
in the flaring of conjugal
light and shadow
hum
thrum
'n strum
she's got the whole wide world
in her hands
her simple slantwise silhouette
declivitous neck
inclining embonpoint
summoning him
no clock, no watch
the keeping of time
is served by rapping
her crown upon the headboard
at regular intervals
her open-tempered sighs
closing with the heaviness
of a sleepy hush
until the echoing of church bells
announce the footfalls
of tomorrow-come-looking*
~
Aug 26, 2021
Aug 26, 2021 at 3:02 PM UTC
I've never met Andy Rooney. So I can't truthfully say I know Mr. Rooney. But you can't help forming an opinion after watching him on 60 Minutes for more years than I care to admit.
First, Andy's opinionated. Well, who wouldn't be if they were paid, presumably well, given an entire week to collect and share their thoughts with millions of viewers, and on any matter that rankled you that week!
Second, Andy has Svengali eye brows that you just can't take your eyes off. I'm sure CBS provides Andy free barbering, as sure as I am that he tells the barber, "Nothing off the brows."
Third, how many times has Andy told his audience not to send him things. After which he dips into a cardboard box and pulls out a cheese grater, a bible printed on playing cards, or a logo baseball cap?
Andy, don't worry; I got the message.
Is my minute up yet?
Fourth, Andy's hand shakes. Not unusual for a man his age. It's not likely to happen, but I wouldn't mind shaking that hand just once.
Jan 5, 2011
Jan 5, 2011 at 9:23 PM UTC
Manufactured individualism
Quickly assimilated into societies and cultures
Conditioned to salivate uncontrollably
Whenever marketeers ring their bells;
And the conglomerates ring their hands,
Anticipating chaching, kachinging cash registers
And the ecstasy of zinged credit,
As their manipulations percolate
Through the media-saturated masses, moping
Susceptible to provocation of whims
Due to implanted inadequacies.
The child, youth - by extension, parent;
The socially inept, unconforming conformists,
All fall under the svengali-spjaller's dulcet nagging -
To Buy! Buy! See you next Tuesday, Suckers!
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 6:14 PM UTC
Desire. It's the storm cloud that creeps
Across the skull and blocks the light of common sense.
It's the janitor with a hidden agenda
That doesn't allow any light bulb to come on.
A Svengali swinging a pendulum left to right,
Until the mind is at its complete beck and call.
Desire. It reaps millions of butterflies;
Grown in the stomach. Wanting to be free.
It's the cause of the tension in your body.
The tsunami in your eyes. The quaking of the hands.
Most importantly, it's the internal burning sensation
That spreads to become a hole in the heart.
Desire. It's the delicate crumbling of anxiety
That melts with the comforting warmth of relief.
The fire of temptation; burning so sweet
As sweat collects upon victims unknown.
The aching in the muscles, the knocking in the chest
Of a heart whose cavity has been patched up.
Desire. It's the patch that frays over time
And the hole is re-opened. Tears re-flood.
The trembling vocal chords and the cracking voice
That fall like foundations under searing heat.
The eventual destruction and its finality
That hit you with a dull metallic taste in the mouth.
Finally knowing that no matter how bad you want it,
You will never own it unless under its own terms.
Advice? Read the fine print.
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 7:08 PM UTC
You are watching everything I do.
You make sure I repeat the words; your words.
I'm your mouthpiece.
Your ballerina.
If I wanted the fame and glory,
Then I will deal.
You are my Svengali
Watch as I dance and dance,
Never realizing...
I didn't stand a chance.
I now know
That I am a puppet
In my very own show.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
I scribble away every day
because every scribble and
scramble might be a preamble
to the last write
the goodnight
I fire off finale's
to guru's
svengali's
like emails
they sail
fail to send?
spend some more time
fine
like I've got all of that and more
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 5:37 AM UTC