25.1.12
18.1.12
NO SOPA
In support of all the things we may never be able to see/hear/experience/study/think about/consider/etc via the net again... and in protest of censorship... the ultimate outcast rebellion anthem:
(If this song offends you, I promise you have no idea what this song is really about... Consider yourself clueless.)
(If this song offends you, I promise you have no idea what this song is really about... Consider yourself clueless.)
29.10.11
28.10.11
e.e. knows...
when my heart sang between your perfect breasts darkness and beauty of stars was on my mouth petals danced against my eyes and down the singing reaches of my soul
* this an except from the poem 'if i believe' by e.e. cummings
27.10.11
An Almost Made Up Poem by Charles Bukowski
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
10.10.11
Vote for "Those Limber Lips of Summer's Edge"
Click here to vote for my poem!
I entered my poem entitled "Those Limber Lip's of Summer's Edge" in a contest through the World Poetry Movement's website. Please click the link above to read and rate my poem... and oh, I may win some money too, so just do it!
I entered my poem entitled "Those Limber Lip's of Summer's Edge" in a contest through the World Poetry Movement's website. Please click the link above to read and rate my poem... and oh, I may win some money too, so just do it!
6.10.11
My friend, Joe Gardner
One of the most talented artists I have ever had the pleasure of knowing...
Visit Joe's Website: www.expressedfreedom.com
3.10.11
17.3.11
14.3.11
12.3.11
25.12.10
11.12.10
8.12.10
LINGERING FOOL
Nothing I can do
I have said it all
Nothing has changed a thing
Nothing left to feel
It's been here before
Haunting all the good parts of me
The sting of bitter love
The shame of wanting me
I may feel this way forever
I have said it all
Nothing has changed a thing
Nothing left to feel
It's been here before
Haunting all the good parts of me
The sting of bitter love
The shame of wanting me
I may feel this way forever
10.11.10
Wither
-
I just felt it
a little more
I keep fighting the truth of what I know.
Hopeless
I am
A hopeless nag
Knowing can be the cruelest of all conditions
It can murder
your soul
I can feel the pulse of my hope
as is jerks and fades
and turns into nothing
Jagged truth
has no soul.
I just felt it
a little more
I keep fighting the truth of what I know.
Hopeless
I am
A hopeless nag
Knowing can be the cruelest of all conditions
It can murder
your soul
I can feel the pulse of my hope
as is jerks and fades
and turns into nothing
Jagged truth
has no soul.
7.10.10
26.9.10
A Quick Jotted Thought (Crystalline Pains Snag Memory Lane)
I remember you when your were not so cute
And the boys didn’t call as much as they do now
And the beer was there but you weren’t allowed
So don’t act like you were never
I knew you when smoke breaks were secret
And the punch wasn’t spiked
At least not at first
When our bodies were lucid
and fluid and fumbling through questions
Someone could be fooled by you
I’m glad it’s not me
I wanna know you just like this
The way I do
The way you are
As far as I know you
Cause it’s a great part
That I get know
And I pity those more fond of their lesser versions of you
The journey has been half the fun
But I’ll give you this…
You are something so lovely
A sight to behold
Don’t worry ‘bout all of that before
It only ads to the truth of you
And the glow of you now
You’re here in the moment
Be proud
And the boys didn’t call as much as they do now
And the beer was there but you weren’t allowed
So don’t act like you were never
I knew you when smoke breaks were secret
And the punch wasn’t spiked
At least not at first
When our bodies were lucid
and fluid and fumbling through questions
Someone could be fooled by you
I’m glad it’s not me
I wanna know you just like this
The way I do
The way you are
As far as I know you
Cause it’s a great part
That I get know
And I pity those more fond of their lesser versions of you
The journey has been half the fun
But I’ll give you this…
You are something so lovely
A sight to behold
Don’t worry ‘bout all of that before
It only ads to the truth of you
And the glow of you now
You’re here in the moment
Be proud
ODE TO A GIRL I NEVER REALLY KNEW AT ALL
She is the sun in my eyes
hard to look at for too long
a beauty adored then gone
but her mark stays singed
in my sight, even after dark
appears, like an almighty burning
ghost, that just won’t stop
stinging.
She is the dread and the hope
of my once living love.
18.9.10
NOLA GIRL
“Cheers to love and life… and red shoes.”
- Shawna Atkins
- Shawna Atkins
My anchor leg baby
Put on your red shoes
Move a little closer to me
We can fight the morning rust
Draw the world into dust
Hang the colors high and low
Punch and bleed and thrust
Little painter
Nola girl
River bathed love
We can see the birds in flight
Resurrected from the night
Soaring through the graves of our
Hearts stitched raw and tight
Moon dweller
Star child
Dream one time for me
I long to see the scar the lives
Through the war that ever is
Ripping through the take and gives
Past post emery
There’s a place where love is real
We see it when we start to peel
Our heads out of the metal fields
With hands that crave
A cunning zeal
But you’re miles from the man of me
Gripping through the fantasy
Far as my eyes can see
From the present boundary
15.9.10
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