"swapping" poems
Human Observations (the woman pees)
if you walk the world with pen and paper
or eclectic electronic devices,
sure as the sunrise espied,
the pen will quick leak
when wearing white
and so will too the
righteous words
righteously,
thereafter
when you can't sleep and you must
slam your sweaty fist into pillow
know that the pillow is
silent thinking, dude,
you really ain't
got a hope, a
prayer
fallen asleep in the soaking tub
a thousand and one times,
ain't never drowned like
the warning ones say I
will do but only when
restless in my rustling
no-safety night sleep
in my lumpy bed,
where I’ve already
dream-drowned
a million
times
the woman pees, safe and secure,
comforted by the knowledge
that we have bathrooms
separate, her toilet,
man *** free, tho
we just finished
making sweaty,
fluid swapping
***
she does not, won't put on makeup
in her pj's to take out the garbage,
that is why she keeps loverman,
so handy, nearby, shamelessly
firm, unwavering, good god,
great for one "disposable"
use per night
when you tell your child that you love them,
and they do not reply at all, it isn't that they
don't love ya back, 'tis only that they haven't
learned to love themselves
something well that just
cannot be
taught.
the more trinkets I buy her,
more she screams stop,
but never not once
has she said, here,
take it
back
if you don't believe in Faeries and Elusives,
try, for then you have a middling chance
of getting the missing, disappearing
whole sock hiding
in her ******
back, intact
If must look up the time where your
love is currently hiding/residing,
then the probability is more than
1.000, that you no longer love
her enough, or
she, you,
not at
all
you know it is time to shut down,
hang up the pen and close the
iPad cover, surrender,
give up the poetry gig
4 real when you start
to prefer an
autocorrect
suggestion
~
More to follow.
someday.
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 7:19 PM UTC
Look around,
You will find all eyes down;
some expressionless,
some desperate,
and few smiling!
Both tiny and fatty thumbs
yearning for a rest,
after typing those texts.
Some consulting the Doc
for having a smartphone thumb
and some for lacking vitamin D!
Posts wanting more and more likes.
Kilograms of followers on Instagram!
Swapping stories on Whatsapp!
Unopened notebooks
when you have a Facebook!
Television screens consigned to oblivion
when you have a Youtube!
Discovering the veiled world,
missing the real scenes around.
Emoticons spreading fake feelings,
Stupefying infants swiping through the screens,
Kids imploring to their parents-
To drag out the patterns.
What is more satisfying?
Hitting play button on the screen or
Hitting a six on the field?
Carting products online or
Shopping on a girls day out?
Dribbling a basket ball or
Dragging down the newsfeed?
Watching daily soaps without a dish or
Helping your mother out to wash the dish?
Sharing the snaps of poverty and hunger or
Reaching out to them with eager?
A game of candy crush or
Gifting a candy to your crush?
I feel like whooping out to myself
and to people around;
To raise their heads and
Look around!
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC
The fisherman’s swapping a yarn for a yarn
Under the hand of the village barber,
And her in the angle of house and barn
His deep-sea dory has found a harbor.
At anchor she rides the sunny sod
As full to the gunnel of flowers growing
As ever she turned her home with cod
From George’s bank when winds were blowing.
And I judge from that elysian freight
That all they ask is rougher weather,
And dory and master will sail by fate
To seek the Happy Isles together.
3.8k
Forced to act on the stage of life
so humble, feeble & half-clad.
Daily swapping of dreams for a few coins,
He is shunned, lonely, starving and sad.
No rhymes, no stories
No pen or pencils,
No book, no papers
No colours or stencils.
No playground, no park
No friends to talk,
No love, no kisses
Only a lonely walk.
Compelled to sell both body & soul,
Toiling hard, he does his best,
Story of hard work, wounds and pain,
No joy, no fun and no time to rest.
The present is all gloomy & dull,
lacking colours, excitement and vim,
Shattered hopes with no dreams,
The future is touching, dreary & dim.
With deep anguish, I weep and yell
cuss myself for his ill-fate,
Losing all hope, I wish to revolt,
I need to speed up before it is too late.
Mukesh Kataria
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 3:01 PM UTC
Maybe it was the first time I gazed upon brilliant brown eyes that needed a second look to satisfy my desire. Maybe it was the moment when greetings dropped from your mouth, my eyes transfixed on the sound resonated from within. The seconds we spent swapping hellos down hallways made my smile glow, I can’t define perfect but, you’re the only one close enough to tickle its chin. Skip five paces forward, now we aren’t like two peas in a pod, we are too tight to snuggle up close to anything. I can still smell the scent of cheeseburgers and teenage angst as you and I wasted away our day with jokes filled with *** innuendoes and american stereotypes. The face you make when laughing causes me to reclaim my thoughts of what universal beauty can be. You made forest fires look like buckets of ices when you stepped in a room, wearing that navy blue dress with ruffles filled with humility and self-confidence. Maybe it was the moment you can to me for help. I would do anything for a third look at brilliant brown eyes, enough time for me to escape any painful memory from first period. It could have been the first time I saw you blush when I called you beautiful. Rosey red cheeks never looked so good on tan skin before. I don’t think I could go without saying, it might have been the first time I was able to wrap my arms around your waist and lift you from tiled floors, giving you freedom to fly. My dear Julia, I hope these words shine a light of perpetual friendship, because that’s all I’ve ever wanted from you. So in your native tongue, Eu te amo.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 10:07 PM UTC
<> The human genome consists of 20 000 paired genes… about…
<> During meiosis, gametes are generated by randomly swapping genetic material… let's shout…
<> 2^(20 000) = 10^(6 000) possible ***** (proud of daddy)… boy scout…
<> 2^(20 000) = 10^(6 000) possible ova (proud of mommy)… far-out…
<> 2^(40 000) = 10^(12 000) possible zygotes… freak out…
<> 1 zygote in 10^(12 000) = Improbable Me… no doubt!
;-))
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
Lee was posted up in in usual spot
back by the stacks,
with his phone on life support.
Its umbilical cord was knotted up like a nest,
and held together by electrical tape.
It sat next to his vape
box and a stack of books
about the GED, twenty-fist century
side hustles and back issues of Ebony.
People come in and out of the library
and everyone says hi to Lee,
He is the man to see,
He asks about their lives and gives sage advice –
How you been, my man?
How’s the kids doin’, girl?
How’s married life treatin’ you, my dude?
My man, you gotta do this.
Babygirl, look into that.
Don’t wear your hat like that,
Boy, ya look silly.
Lee lives in a van
that he parks nearby
so he can job-hunt on the free wifi
even when the place is closed.
If you feel sorry for me, don’t
says Lee
I’m the freest now I’ll ever be,
so, don’t you dare take pity on me
I’m doing all I can do,
being all I can be.
Everything’s temporary.
Tomorrow I could be you,
you could be me
we’re just one bad day,
one scratch-off lottery ticket away
from swapping places, my man.
Yeah, I live in that van
parked outside the library
but if you think I’m sad,
you’re thinking wrong,
Won’t see me moping, or doping
floating along
you won’t see me frowning,
or drowning,
singing a sad song.
I’m happy with all that I got
who wouldn’t wanna be in my spot,
I’m The King
of the Library Parking Lot.
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 1:17 PM UTC
Hero got a phone call,
From the being with three eyes.
So often his existence,
Could be validated by advice.
It is then organised by rhythms,
So that the words solidify,
If the chaos cant be structured,
Then all vision is blinding light.
Hero said to the being,
“I fall in to infatuation with such ease.”
The being said, “You’re seeing,
Your own love reflectively.
“Your brains mirror neurone system,
Causes you to smile at a smile,
This mirroring of others,
Allows for formation of a tribe.
Now you know this wisdom,
Think of your romantic life.
The subject of your infatuation,
Did not cause your love inside.
The love all humans seek,
Is already in your possession,
Which is why the search feels bleak,
You’re hunting the impossible obsession.
You’re all looking for your lost keys,
Tearing everything apart,
All the while they’re in your hand,
Or your breast pocket by your heart.”
Hero nodded rhythmically,
But found it hard to understand,
“If the love’s inside of me,
Then how has any love began?”
“A lot of love is a product,
Of false infatuation;
Two people seeking it from each other,
And thus there is divorce and separation.
But true love is the love inside of you,
Which is the love of the universe,
If you can learn to embrace this,
Then it will free you of your curse.
The mirror neurone system also detects,
The love inside as if it was a grin.
Within another, you’re existing love will reflect,
And embrace and share this world that the two of you are in.
It’s not a swapping of hearts,
But a pressing of them together.
The look in her eyes was not the start,
The start of love was forever.”
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
Reaching back,
Back to that fork
In the road
Where irreversible consequence
Hid like angina
In a dunhill bubble
And you veered left,
Smitten by the decadence of mint
And mythical circles
Blown with liberal disdain
From a camel's ****
You followed the green line
Rippling like waves
Of vintage wine
Through gomorrah
Caution blown
As a midsummers gale
Between tarred lips,
Your ship sailed
The straits of cool
From bogart to newport
If dean only knew
Nat the king
Could still be singing
Nature boy on the square,
Live
He might have spurned his spyder
And lucky strikes
For a slice of life
Beyond 24
And you might have
Veered right
At that fork in the road,
Swapping scarred consequence,
Tarred lips,
And angina
For the whole pie
~ P
(#FromTheCamelsButt)
12/24/2014
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
. tiky torches, and not football hooligan red flares?! i want gnashing teeth.... the red worm... i want the crude.... waiting feud!
you, don't, make,
dictum, in, this,
part, of, the world!
nein!
you, can, have,
your women!
but, not, the, ego,
of males!
**** you, and your
colonialist past
rewrite!
**** you...
dr. dre, ******
so no, what becomes
musicological
click-bait?!
****** ****** yo **
******* term
gets... owned?!
like *vomito *****
making reference
to the black plague?!
you do your ****** bit,
i do mine...
and we meet in the middle...
and then...
we crash and burn...
for whatever it's worth...
now catch me petting
rottweilers...
heavy headed
craniums...
ready to bullwhip
a gnash of a raiding bullish
cranium head-butt...
just, gagging,
to perform,
the jaw-swapping gnash!
sure... big, bogus,
jaw dropping crude...
of a count of teeth...
but...
i'm itching...
itching to fasten onto a feast
of a fist;
not in eastern europe, ******
you come here...
you play by our rules...
the whole
anti-rap...
the whole
hip hop scene of Warsaw...
no, not really...
i'm not exactly
part of either, "scene"...
god...
i haven't even allowed myself
to use edgy words...
girl worth a *****
but to succumb to motherhood?
i'm a heavy drinker,
i'm not exactly the moralizer;
wrap up, clean the shit-show...
and forget i even
managed to circumstance
a narrative.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 10:48 PM UTC
“a decade old is forever new, for
truth is never old.”
Pradip Chattopadhyay
this man, ten years of inspiration, ten years of friendship, here,
on HP,
provides nourishment to my lagging body as it nears eight decades
of Earthly occupation, for
his eyes and heart and his mastery
of the songs of the tongue,
have wrenched me straight,
we, attentive to the tears
he makes me weep, for his insights penetrate my insides,
even now as one, unexpectedly, reflects midst
yet another first poem of the day, my eyelids blink away
the wet,
my brain revels at his pithy, how he corrals,
encapsulates the daily smoke and fire of life,
it truest value,
in words that make one wonder,
what admixture of mineral, chemical, history,
adventures, atmosphere, parentage, spices,
love gives him these super powers to gentle
seize the moment, size our souls, causing my
cheeks to wide smile, while mine eyes sheds
monsoon droplets of feelings so deep, that
my repaired heart oxygenates my very soul,
making me high, my mind reels that a day will
come inevitable
that one of us will be unable to sit by side,
swapping tales of granddaughters, and
other earth meaningful events, to walk his
streets or he, mine, finishing each other’s
couplets.
to think that I awoke with no intention of
composing this paean, but his brief pearl
knocks my head side to side,
and with the
tears, come words,
that age, or an entire
decade,
cannot restrain,
retrained to modesty,
for regarding my friend
Pradip,
my boundaries expand and cannot be
contained, even by my delimited vocabulary,
the paucity of my skill, the insufficiency of
the adjectives acquired over a lifetime, but
do my unequal-to-the-task best efforts,
but without choice, but compulsed, compelled,
one more time, to say,
to my new day,
perhaps my last,
I love this poet~man.
this is one of my truths.
<>
Wed Jan 17 8:31am
City of New York
<>
read the poetry of
https://hellopoetry.com/pradip-chattopadhyay/
<>
Jan 20, 2024
Jan 20, 2024 at 12:27 PM UTC
Marching, hopping, running, waddling
down the street, people with working feet
oblivious to the stares of the woman
in a chair.
Why would they see her?
She's not even their height!
They are just people plodding and
plotting, lives rotting slowly away.
But, back to the woman in the chair
Snooping on the crowd
Watching the mothers tug at toddlers reins.
Rowing teens shouting "bruv" a lot!
She's mocking the crowd in her own way
She has become them, just invisible.
She likes it like that, knowing of you
Yet them not knowing of her.
Her awareness is acute, sees the businessman
in his suit. The homeless man in his home
called box, the elderly matrons
moaning about bingo.
The drunk with his bottle clutched as tight
as the baby clutches her bear.
The smokers all congregated at the altar of tar
The shopkeeper eyeing the kids, missing the thief
The security guard, guarding the pretty
Little things, no, not the jewellery the
teenage girls! Oh, his eyes are popping!
His legs are twitching. His fingers itching to touch!
Along with the sights are the sounds,
shouting, laughing, heckling and coughing
Smell,also plays a part in people watching
fast food, sweat, the great unwashed.
All plodding along, flocking like birds
clogging the street, swapping gossip,
unaware as always of the
young woman in a wheelchair.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
A Brittish psychedelic
Benjamin Button.
Maverick explorer
54 years young.
A groovy dude connected to Dahab since the 70's.
Sure doesn't hurt he knows the folks who own the land.
A kindly herb surgeon, the man knows how
to live, give and roll a spliff.
Enjoyed your company
swapping stories and smokes.
Keep on,
hang loose
and be cool.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 6:24 AM UTC
Of a night on a battered red leather sofa
It's moved with us three times
It sits in a room with a broken bay window
And we sit on it too
And we sit on it too
Drinking yellow anise from mismatched glasses
With ice, not warm water
Singing stories, spinning yarns with broken bottles
Of girls with leopard-print hands
And the straw man in the moon
The straw man in the moon.
The cord hangs on the wall:
A symbol, but not symbolic
As chords rise, break off and fall
All a sham, but not shambolic
A sham, but not shambolic.
Swapping tales and anecdotes of cars parked between cake stalls
And days with names that don't suit them
People dying for causes they don't understand
And war is an island; a land hyperbolic
A Green land, a war land; unplanned hyperbolic.
Linguistics are twisted and brass tales are dropped
A cork is unwrapped from the web where it popped
But the darkness is rising, the hours are ticking
The side is hitched up so we all know we're doomed.
We hear children singing in the guitar strings,
Their screeches rising as they fall,
Our speeches diving as they fall.
And speaking of speeches, he says, a performance is mine
But in France, man... in France the markets are open
And the fields of Provence roll down to the menhirs of Carnac
And Brocéliande lies to us all,
And Brocéliande lies to us all.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
I'm not going to write about you in my journal
Because unfortunately I feel that that form of confession tends to backfire dramatically and leave me jinxed.
It's like those ink-stained secrets wrapped up in leather counteract the decadent visions I drift to sleep with at night
And so,
No
I'm not going to write about you in my journal
You see, I care about the concept of you far too deeply to chance our lingering moments on teenage whimsical compulsions to gush in secrecy
About the way your words shifted my anchored soul,
About the flooding in my heart when you bared yours,
About the mass amounts of internal riots
(The butterflies doth protest)
Of your pragmatic, flirtatious adequacy
Nay, mastery.
No
I'm not going to write about you in my journal
For fear of risking those moments of substance:
Secret-swapping
Joke-exchanging
Soul-bearing times where I wanted nothing more than to jump eight hours ahead so that I could see the undigitized blue of your eyes and feel the ends of my nerves explode off my skin like the Fourth of July.
How is it
That physical proximity has nothing to do with the closeness we seem to share?
I feel
Compelled
by some unexplainable piece of mind to insist and hope and wish that
Like you once told me under volumes of conversation,
We are connected.
I don't want to waste any of this enigmatic familiarity and sudden interdependency
On matters of my own private indulgence
And for this,
I'm not going to write about you in my journal
For you say that you are Atheist
But I know that you meant it when you told me
Your soul knows mine.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
Human Observations (the woman pees)
if you walk the world
with pen and paper,
sure as the sunrise,
the pen will leak,
when wearing
white and so
will the
words,
right
after.
when you can't sleep,and you
slam your fist into the
pillow, know that the
pillow is silent
thinking, sir,
now, you
really ain't
got a
prayer.
fallen asleep in the soaking tub
a thousand and one times,
ain't never drowned like
the warning ones say
I will do, but
really, in my
night sleep
in the
safety
of bed,
I have
drowned
a million
times.
the woman pees, safe and secure,
comforted by the knowledge
that we have bathrooms
separate, her toilet,
man *** free, tho
we just finished
making sweaty,
fluid swapping
***
she does not, won't put on makeup
to take out the garbage,
that is why she keeps
me around, her love,
firm, unwavering
once a night.
when you tell your child
that you love them, and
they do not reply,
it is not that they
don't love you back,
it is that they have
yet to learn how to
love themselves,
something
that can't
be taught.
the more trinkets I buy her,
more she screams stop,
but never not once
has she said,
here, take it
back.
if you don't believe in Faeries,
try, for then you have a
chance of getting the
missing sock,
back, intact.
If must look up the time where
you love is currently residing
then the probability is more,
> than 1.000, that you no
longer love them enuf.
you know it is time to
hang up the pen put
down the iPad, give up
on this poetry gig
when you really prefer
the autocorrect
suggestion.
More to follow.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 6:42 AM UTC
Thinking back on all those nights spent with you
Barely exchanging words
Mostly swapping tongues between us two
I still wonder why it was so easy
For me to fall for someone
Who plays for a living
Not caring about who they could lose
Making me feel special was step one
Attention was two
Saying you missed me
So easy for you to do
Now I see
How easy
It all was for you
Even if you never really cared
I can't say that I really regret those nights
I wish we could be together
I wish we could fight
I wish that you would come back into my life
Oct 5, 2021
Oct 5, 2021 at 3:39 PM UTC
0:00
I fly through the front doors
racing upstairs like hunted prey
praying she didn't see me
1:00
I tear open the make remover
and feverishly rip off
the overpowering
jet black eyeliner
2:00
I steal a glance in the bedroom mirror
and throw on a hoodie over my black shirt
quickly swapping out the black pants for jeans
in a crude attempt to look normal
3:00
I hear her steps ringing off the stairs as my heart beats
sounding together like a drum kit
I pull off my spiked black bracelets
and trinkets
hands shaking palms sweating
as I hide them away
4:00
I feel the door opening before it does and
hope i covered up the look, the spikes hidden
the eyeliner gone
i glance in the mirror and see a pale
empty girl looking back
terrified of being caught
5:00
she asks how my day was while casually looking around the room
her ever seeing eyes falling on my undoing
my small black spiked gothic bracelet
hanging off the desk
sticking out like a sore thumb
6:00
she asks what it is
and looks at me questioningly
talking about how she deposes the style
hates the look
as I fumble for an excuse
of the unusual possession
7:00
I lie, its easy now i do it all the time.
But this was different. I tell her
that its a stupid birthday gift
a throwaway I keep because
friends like to see me wear what they bought
but as I utter the words
I feel like Im stabbing my soul
twisting a knife
calling a part of my identity garbage
telling myself that part of myself is simply a throw away
and despite the fact that I use a fake knife
The sting still feels real
because I know that part of what I say is true
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 2:10 AM UTC
There is such intimacy in ***
Particularly *** with someone new,
Swapping spit with some one else,
Seems a strange thing to want to do,
Touching someone else's skin,
The tingling feel of lust,
Their hands across your rising hips,
their lips upon your bust,
Fleeting waves of passion,
Joining mind body and soul.
Mad pursuit towards one goal,
Bonding, becoming whole,
Naked setting passion free,
Is vulnerable beyond belief,
But when we suffer from trapped wind,
We hold tight and grit our teeth,
If you can get on farting terms,
It brings such sweet relief,
Running out the room each time,
You want to let one go,
Or pinching cheeks together,
It's difficult you know,
It takes more time ,if you care to linger,
Before you can say, hey, pull my finger,
And laugh together at the noise,
And appreciate, girls will be boys :)
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE.
The best day of my life,
the day my son he took a wife.
The bride,
she wore ivory and lace,
there were no elephants involved.
As she brimmed with natural beauty.
She was shining like a holy diamond.
My daughter's they were beautiful creatures,
dressed in pink, as goddesses came,
Goddess bridesmaids.
My son developed a tail for the day,
it was attached to his jacket.
He wore no hat,
for,
it would have spoiled his hair.
The registrar spoke tales of legends
of wedding rings and other things,
My goodness what a day we had.
As she pronounced them man and wife,
God willing, for eternal life.
The bridegroom,
In his speech,
he spoke of family values,
and then we had a laugh,
with tales of swapping shoes with homeless chaps,
in the land of regency.
upon his night of stags and bucks.
The best man,
well, he obviously delved deep into Mark's little black book.
We had fountains full of chocolate,
with strawberries and fudge,
we had roast beef and Yorkshire pud,
Goodness me,
it was so good.
A great big day was had by all,
The music played we had a ball.
Congratulations to you both.
(C) Livvi
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 9:57 AM UTC
A solitary bird does sing its song to be heard
Above the cacophony of others
Its song is the only song
The one all others should sing along to
Moving from perch to perch
A different audience it attempts to convert
Sing my song for you will prosper
With the dulcet tones I create for you to replicate
Nothing will stop this beautiful melody
A flying march upon those inferior drones
Leaving the nest in search of home
Swapping warmth for self-worth
They must hear me sing, my song is all
All they must hear, for it is truth
A simple beautiful truth
Those who deny my song
Resign them to the winds
Let them fall from their flight up high
To hit the ground and silence their malevolent grins
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 2:59 PM UTC
If you’ve only ever smelled fir trees covered with freshly fallen snow-
then you haven’t smelled it.
It’s an acquired smell, for sure.
It comes just in between the whiffs of
mashed potatoes
mashed carrots
mashed peas
mashed turkey
hell, mashed ginger-ale for all I know. . .
Somewhere amongst that microwaved menagerie, masked with the smell of eau de toilette,
it lives, and smells sweeter the longer brown sugar bubbles on top of caramelizing yams.
If you can’t smell it, maybe you can find it.
Not many can, or do.
It hides in plain sight, though.
A lost and found box with accumulated cobwebs - everything still unclaimed.
A flyer for free puppies that no one ever took because they were “too much responsibility.”
Maybe there aren’t enough seekers in this game of empty rooms and blank guest books.
But keep looking, until bingo prize hand-me-downs after school plays look like Oscars.
You won’t see it until it makes you believe that plastic Mardis Gras beads are Tiffany-blue boxes.
It’s not so much in the nose, or the eyes as it is in the endurance.
Endure the voiceless Glenn Miller until his brass bellows become her voice -
whispering “I love you” to the effortless rhythm of “Moonlight Serenade.”
And imagine her,
swapping her orthopedics for black heels,
elegantly taking Pop’s hand as he helps her up from her wheelchair,
to join him for just one more dance.
Watch as they become the sepia-colored couple in every anniversary photo.
That black dress. Those fake pearls.
The crescendo of the band.
It’s hard to miss when it’s screaming at you.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
My Night with Art Garfunkel
some years back wrote a poem titled
My Night with Paul Simon,^
so it seems that in time,
this his companion’s piece would find me,
reaching its own due date, the timing right,
indeed, perceived, by the muses
that this one, the poet who cannot sing,
needs urgently another soft poet’s voice,
to come to me at night, and so it came to pass last night
a regaler, the teller of tales, both of us looking admiringly upon what was our youthful appearance that only we see in a vintage Murano mirror
the where the why, no matter, just two NYC boys
in their declining years reminiscing about growing up
in Queens, telling tales with no need for exaggeration,
too old for that, for old men lying is always sadder than sad and the truthful stories are not stories, but harmonies
the voices are worn soft, the worse for wear, and the velveteen
is two shaded where usage has reduced the weave, and sunlight has discolored but not discouraged the aging agents
we exchange verses, the swapping of our ****** fluids,
I do not share my prior pope paul adventure,
a separate but now equalized recording
he signs his new book for me,
full of reminisce and new verses
and I am thinking
Art for art’s sake, or art for Art’s sake
or both
wistful higher and higher notes that can longer be reached
of no consequence,
for the body is the work and the work is from the body
let’s take a selfie I ask, but a polite demurral hints of better a preference remembrance of things the way they were, in the past, but I snap a quick photo and it resides on a Facebook entry, unless the muses deleted it without telling me
(which they do quite frequently,
hoarding the best I made all for their elusives elfish selfish-selves)^^
Dec 5, 2017 10:20pm
<•>
^
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/387251/my-night-with-paul-simon/
June 2013
^^
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/747333/the-elusives/
June 2014
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 5:19 AM UTC