"theatrically" poems
Friends, family, foes, and those of woe,
I invite you to dance this delicate tango with me,
right on the line of reality and fantasy.
It is here, that,
I invite you to the mad tea party.
Now, let us get one or two,
three or four,
maybe ten, one hundred, zero things straight,
you are not to be late to the mad tea party,
you are to set your time straight and do not stray,
but rather show up without delay at the time that serves your mental estate,
at a time that feels right with your bones,
now, now don't miss that time and don't be late.
We are of strict dress code here at the mad tea party.
You are not to wear what you saw on him and she and her and we unless it is of,
suitable expression to your situation,
you are to dress accordingly with your mentality,
nothing else will pass the test.
You are to act accordingly.
Do not laugh when not appropriate, and sit up straight when your spine tells you.
Do not speak when your mind is forced to be spoken.
Now, have we all straight.
I cordially invite you to the mad tea party.
Where we dine and wine and tell tales of time,
and rejoice on the words those delicately spoke,
and dance on the lines theatrically strewn across the room,
and sail across every last tale from you and he and yeah her over there too.
I invite you to the mad tea party.
I invite you tell of when you first saw the earth breath,
when the trees and the leaves set to dancing,
when you first heard the wind laugh at your grin,
and when the raindrops ran fearfully from the erupting sky.
I demand of you to tell nothing but that of truth,
and watch as the molecules in the air take to vibrating.
Take notice to musical clinking of the entities amidst you,
and take pride in the gentle stride of the clouds overhead.
Did you notice the flowers laughing at you,
in between the birth, death and rebirth in accordance with the sun?
Did you notice the flowers pull in their petals as they shyed from your step?
Take notice to the music and laughter around you at the mad tea party,
take great care with the feelings floating about the air, vulnerably buzzing from mind to mind,
before their decline and descent to rest their heads.
You see, it is here at the great mad tea party,
that we do not devoid you of the ability to do as your energy demands,
with the issues of time and dress and proper behavior.
It is here that we tend to focus on the earth and the breathing of the molecules and atoms around you,
it is here that we go mad.
and it is here that I cordially invite you,
but before you make your reservation, please eliminate all hesitation.
You see the mad tea party is not readily accepted,
by the constraints of society and the binds of reality.
You see the mad tea party is misconstrued by masses more than just a few.
Those who long buried their soul look down on the guests,
for they are different than the rest, in that, they're welcoming,
into their soul the ability to go mad which is taught to be bad.
So before you make your reservation be inexplicably sure,
that you are in fact,
ready, for the mad tea party.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC
The gruff factory worker
in the coarse leather boots
and stained zubaz pants,
yelped with displeasure
when the tour guide of
the Pullman company town
revealed himself to be a
PhD candidate in English
during a Q-and-A.
He questioned his credentials,
dismissed him as overeducated,
as soft-palmed, not of his caste,
loudly declared that he was
just another bureaucrat in waiting.
"Institutions just exist to perpetuate
themselves; they don't care about
the people, just about keeping
themselves alive," he theatrically
confided to his friend,
wanting to make sure he heard him,
took note of his flagrant, raging skepticism.
"They got to pay the lawyers."
"All these institutions, they don't care about the workers."
We strode on, amid the shadowed reaches of the empty train car factory the owners long ago abandoned to the rustling prairie,
left to the wind and weeds and elements.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 4:16 AM UTC
When Dissent becomes illegal,
the Law becomes inhumane.
As Dissent is criminalized,
Democracy becomes a crime.
As peaceful protest
is met with violence,
Democracy will die theatrically
behind closed doors.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC
Reverie remember me
Dreams like penitentiary
And they just won’t let me go
It’s my ego, it’s montego bay
It’s hard to say like “anemone”
Another day another Hennessy
and i’m drowning away
Craving useless euphemisms, i’m still lost at sea
Haunted by consumerism, the ghost of Ronnie McD,
Mr. Clown meet mr. Clownfish
Mr. Marty lost his son
So i ain’t the only one actively and theatrically
looking for “no one”
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 12:26 PM UTC
And she cried out most theatrically,
"My spirit is with you and it is carried in the endless lows of your negligence."
What she meant to say was;
I feel as if;
I am the sleep you wipe from your eyes in the morning,
Or,
I am the ripped and stained pants you throw out,
Disregarded.
She carried on,
but to herself,
"oh, How dejection stings!"
Like the tearing of skin but duller.
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 6:59 AM UTC
i never understood why people decided to couple such symbols into images esp. in fictional narratives rather than see the sound in lipstick smooched for symphony; how hard you try, the a to z will not provide you with a mental cinema image of a giraffe; more like a gaff, and what's a gaff in photo? leopard on giraffe or a giraffe on a leopard, because it's all very fine telling the narrative of traffic coordination evolution coming back from africa with the zebra to suit pitchfork stoppages in hay on the redneck lazed walk. the sole reason why it's understood: fiction is the use of lettering for the creation of images, poetry is the use of lettering a bit like a waterfall for a bored emperor apprehensive of the sound of thinking; and philosophy is the reverse of all that, strike two flints together, and enter the realm of ideas with the onomatopoeia of the image - given that onomatopoeias act like surgical scalpels, or a miscarriage of ideas bundled up for something else by kandinsky; actually, saying that, onomatopoeias are images in motion, prior to the movies, when all you had was a painting embraced by a fancy rim - still life of decay of the royal flotilla on the thames with a mouth moving: chatty chatty boor of a bloke who talked.
i see the dead sea when i cry,
and i wager
a salmon with other sea fish cropping up flying
into a butterfly net:
before the assemblage of bacon
into the mouth watering eye.
i see the dead sea when i cry,
and i wager
to have seen a thousand flamingos
strut invoking tide -
on a boneless march into marsh of
a bubbled gill of fish popped for whatever name alive,
or dead in the disco crescendo for a nixon:
tears of a robot had always the glory of man laughing akin;
since annexed was the dualistic ambiguity
of the theatrically mistaken two masked.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
You sit only inches from me.
Every right turn's tragic momentum
Theatrically lunges you closer to me.
The smallest points of your elbow
Lightly brisk the top of my memory.
The tickle sends a shivering pulse
Between the blades of my back.
The knot of my neck is hardly strong,
But weakness has fled from my head.
The feelings emerged are nothing new,
But my feelings submerge about you.
Wondering how well you know me,
But how much more you know my friend.
The compassion of trust to a friend,
Verse the pressure of lust to a trend.
The car stops, my place is on the left.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 12:32 AM UTC
by Arcassin Burnham
Haven't been a third wheel for a while now,
and all you do is look at her when she smiles,
memories floating in the nile,
third wheel is not my style,
and i told you that this would happen,
were not talking for awhile,
i hope yall have a child,
as beautiful as she,
and name it kyle,
with that same smile,
she has,
and the phone,
when she dials,
you better pick up,
so she could tell you about the good news,
instead of going through your tribulations and trials,
what are you gonna do now,
what if,
theatrically,
you dont get to see that smile,
anymore,
and she calls her parents,
gets the kid,
and the keys,
and head out the door,
what are you gonna adore,
better do all your chores,
if you always wasn't such a bore,
your EX wouldn't have been a *****
now i'm standing at your door,
waiting for you to hang out,
i can see your heart is broken,
but the crying we can do without,
don't you ever leave your bro,
for a girl or virtue,
i listened to your story,
now i'm in this place with you.
What are you gonna do now.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
an excerpt of 'Things Fall Apart', poem #68 from volume 3 of The Hollywood Hearts Trilogy (THHT3)
...My psyche has become,
an eclectic collection of past relationships,
a combination of all the feelings any stranger has ever felt,
along with all the feelings of every girl I ever had relations with,
I still feel each one of them inside, they are a part of me,
exchanged a part of myself with everyone I’ve ever slept with,
this, is, way beyond our control, slaves to the physical,
maids made from the momentary expressions of souls impulse,
here on planet earth, none of this is rehearsed,
no seats are reserved everyone thinks but no one is sure,
no one wants to play along if the DJ’s not playing a song,
when the music ceases to sound we sit down where we are,
in hot seats & Musical Chairs not prepared to be served,
but so what, who one cares if you’ve prepared,
or what you’d prefer, you know what, it’s inconsequential,
because regardless of preference you’re gonna get served,
& rest assured you’re gonna get served what you deserve,
& you’re gonna eat what you’re served, no alternative,
& guess what the ticket you grip decides what you’re severed,
at the table as has been actors with ADD act inattentive,
they stammer can barely remember the words they’ve learned,
forgetting their manners & forgetting their words,
a prima donna Rick Dalton Once Upon a Time in Hollywood,
at times can be theatrically awkward, but I give you my word,
every thing is real, life’s a trip, from thee Benz to thee hearse,
from the sands & the dirt to a towering mountain top perch,...
THHT3
9/9/19
instagram @aaronlalux
Sep 7, 2019
Sep 7, 2019 at 12:56 AM UTC
Incessant musings of you compel me
to cease attempts of drawing our bond
to a close inevitably only reminiscing
your coquettish simper, manic gaze, the depth
of your unhinged voice as you theatrically recited
a brilliant rendition of the divine, Comedy
captivating my awe and admiration, interludes
to endless rounds of battles unilaterally sparked,
by you out of the blue. Instantly silenced as I
never knew when you would start them nor how
to bring quarrels to an end, incapable of finding
rational meaning or a reason for there never were
any other than your debilitating insanity
of which you were tragically aware. Asking for
forgiveness wiping out my tears in those,
rare glimmers of lucidity short lived moments of delight.
I vividly remember myself laughing in your arms,
as you recounted ironic comic versions
of Bible anecdotes. Where Jesus was just another fellow
with whom you sympathised, rhapsodising over
your uncomprehended similarities. Gentle gestures
towards strangers, innate altruism, love
for Earth and Humanity as a whole.
With individuals you appeared to have a problem
as they recurrently rewarded you with a cross.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 6:13 AM UTC
A dog’s day
It’s not that I’m lonely I like the beauty of the landscape
without having anyone to interrupt my thoughts, telling
me how nice it is.
My dog sees my mini-Savannah as enemy territory
barks and birds take flight leave her in the car with
open the window and try to take a few pictures.
We are going out for lunch, my wife and me, food
is not as great as nature, golden grain and green vines
it is about forks and knives looking decorous talking
about nothing and chewing in silence
The door to the yards is ajar so the dog can go into
the living room when we are out.
She pretends to be distraught it is an act, she knows
I will bring her leftovers; when we return, she great us
theatrically, I know she has slept on the sofa, drinking
water in the loo and barking at noises outside.
Jul 17, 2022
Jul 17, 2022 at 9:12 AM UTC
At Day’s End
Beneath the jungle canopy all is quiet, and very still.
The heat it prickles up and down my back, beneath the sweat.
And the faces that I see from where I crouch, look tired and ill,
And the cam-cream smeared theatrically about my face,
feels not quite wet.
And I carefully check the rear-sight of my rifle once again,
Trial the muzzle back and forth, from side to side.
For the thousandth time I wish that it would hurry up and rain,
And I wonder, were I him, where I would hide.
And I hear them scraping track-plans and that worries me a bit.
The harbour though should shortly settle down.
Then Frank will come and take me back to man my weapon-pit,
**** give out the evening o-group with his usual, surly frown.
Then as the barking deer call forth the fresh, cool, restful night,
We'll stand-to, listening quietly 'til there's no more light to see.
'Tis now, oft-times, we hear the noise of someone else's fight;
(queer, how those distant, violent sounds, engender peace in me)
And at the last, when darkness comes, each boot I shall unlace,
And these sweat-soaked, dirt-encrusted socks, place in my shirt to dry and keep.
With webbing spread beside me and my rifle, cleaned and in its place,
I can lie at length to rub my toes in peace,
Then go to sleep.
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 6:07 PM UTC