Presents, pasths, fut-yours:
While I lay under
your magnolia spell.
in the attic:
you and me.
A flower will
an apple falls and we bite,
then reek of the guilt of falling.
did your monitor explode?
do you spite my Buddha-touch?
is how one deserves a spare wing
or more, for lift connotes burden...
mestinks, May-bee quiet not –
there’s this number 41378 that we came to know
with no apparent add-ons nor tricks to show.
you ooze with taboo
from head to toe.
any word about
it will be an overkill –
[BeMineOr – Easy,Ven(ice)]:
a kiss – in a million ways's I please;
raspberry lips, raspberry ice cream,
n'is it true?
the Yogi is breathless again:
the right to never let her be lonely again
with a name to her given
rightfully, so verily:
pays-tree hangs from the chandelier
'fore tee-her-tea long years...
at the trough,
on a spring
reeks of passion
pretty (you/i are/am)
forever involved, forever
lame, wild and tame, thee.
when all ellipses coincide...
for yet another
session with the Lady with
a pungent Heart.
bearable hugs -- they,
in rainbow hues;
dreamy petals ride the wind
ever so lightly for lack of shelter,
not needing it like the child in you.
to my Nth
we've been [t]here twice,
we've grown twice as much;
till hue brake
with boo-duh laughed-err
clouds float light
after a night of a fright
that's never been.
♥∞ .. .-.. --- ...- . -.-- --- ..-
we're stacked up turtles
reaching for the doves;
each other's wish, spittle,
we should, must have.
wear boo-duh sat flat
on satori and spat
we’ll exchange eskimo kisses,
polar bear hugs;
near, ne'er gone...
inside of me:
way more childish and mature
than any certainty's eventual
overture on its own behalf;
on subverted wings
eternity is so beautiful it sucks!
a menagerie of lines taken from
all the pieces i've so far written
for and about Diana Jiganie,
♥∞ .. .-.. --- ...- . -.-- --- ..-
21 Mar 10
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I love it, when you are angry
If you do stack up turtles
i will call the RSPCA
and they will get heavy on your arse-
I wanted it to finish at 17.
loved 4-6 and 93-94
Take care fact
blogger heaven inside purgatory... when will the fog burn off and the real poet shine?
mike, yeah i know, hehe.
but this set of blog-lines could work if read twice to, say,
an 8-min instrumental track which would compensate for
the discontinuity and lack of innate music in the words.
going through each of my old posts made me
realize how much i suck at poerty-writing.
it's so hard to write a poem.
well, it's like, sometimes, reading the responses and the KIND of thing people write to get a response is like watching the kids in harry potter react to seeing jello for the first time.
you may well be 33
but that does not give
you the right to say my name
or even class it as --..---//
laying this upon an uneven terrain of some
instrumental sh*t i have been trying to finish
for 12 years now, allowed an illusory common
ground for the incoherent sections. the text, in
turn, added a whole new dimension to the music,
but it was more an instance of complementing the
text rather than the music, as the latter was the more
self-sufficient of the two.
music always works as a river to carry down the barges and drift, and it's the trip that's important, isn't it? if you had it in you, you could visualize this as a dance performance and see your figures -- people and bricks -- moving against and with each other. it'd bring another dimension to your poetry and help you see what can't be done in words.
you make me laugh.
i actually see the sections flow seamlessly without the aid
of the instrumental track -- i wrote them in the first place
and i know the moves, shapes, colors, transitions involved
a poem could be a private joke or secret handshake, among
other things. this one's a poem of poems which all point to
a single thing... a myriad voices coming from one poet.
this is way different from the different sources put together, though --
it is unique and a peace of heART on its own.
just making sure all sides of the argument are covered.
Frac, you are eccentric and intriguing. I dig your style Dew'd.
"imps aorta ants--" --AND this is what makes it complete.
a poem is always a play of the sounds of the words -- that's the 'music' part, and ephemeral and over is the mirage of content, the things we're supposedly talking about. but, they're there only to get the visual into the embryo so that a synesthetic harmony can form between body and mind. to get that, you have to be totally at one with body and mind when you write the poem. and, to get there, you have to be so fucked that you can't come up with a good comeback or prayer or slogan to keep you from wanting to die. the only way left is to rebuild the world sense by sense and make feeling.
you're setting some words to your inner soundtrack, and that's good for us, because it allows you to bend words to fit the flow, something which every poem must do.
I think he wants to bum you
Run , run , Run scared
thanks, rubber mandy,
and unk, too.
mike, do you notice the areas where there's [subtle] cleaving?
those transition points are sometimes more than sonics could
handle. in a case like this, where uniquely significant events
crystallized in sporadic time-frames are made to coalesce into
a hybrid reality, one has really got to tame all of those individual
energy packets to the absolute zero level, as they are very
distracting to the author.
i can be oblivious to the ghosts in the box and let the hairy patter
enjoy his vroom broom ride, so...
he crashed straight into the volcano's crater and bent his spoon
while sipping the sulfur soup.
how are things going from your wet, er west end?
i mean, *distractive* to the author.
your basic form is pop-song from the fifties, turned 'ironic' in the 70's and then redeemed by punk. it's linear, tell the story of peggy sue, and strum along. but, there's a point when you stop relying on happy-face to control your parents and start finding the world's vibration. for some, it's going to be people on happy street, and for others it's going to be the bang against the wall. you've got this thing to do, and you've got something you want to say. they're just not coordinated yet.
i summoned the ghosts to a hearing of this 8-minute fugue being
played by me and captured live on cam -- it's experimental and
the text is almost random. otherwise, i could've/would've written
a couplet, instead.
i'm not completely satisfied with it, but i'm happy enough with the
way it is now as a piece of writing. revisions are always open-ended,
the video is quite okay, too.
west end is my friend
he's in bed
Asked if he could
he can but baby steps.
This is not a-poem you know i know
do not get carried away
bye the compilation
oppss i farted
'video' is about motion, and seeing one is to pretend you're there and with them, but it's an art in itself and the really intuitive film just makes you feel like jerking away and standing still and twitching. it's got sound and visual, but the visual controls how to hear the sound and the sound blurs the visual into some kind of cheeze dip... unknowable from any other kind of cheeze.
sitting on the floor and making happy face and sad face trains your parents to come to you or stay away, but some time or another you start arranging your world so that they respect your space... they see that it means something to you... that you've got an idea of 'you' and 'space' at all.
i am ready
not for cheese though
It's MandEE. Mr.
you know what 'touch' is, and 'smell', and you know that these things are real, but you think that whatever you do is outside of the senses? some rational thing which makes such sense that everyone's going to laugh and all...? they'd laugh anyway... they want to laugh. it wasn't the poem, it was because they let you say something at all.
it is just about
the connections, but that's a mathematical thing, a rational dance played out more physically in basketball, where's there's supposed to be a 'winner'. there's none wanted, cause the games just get in the way of making the connections beyond 'stick it to me' and turn instead into 'where it starts'.
i won you lost
nothing is played
all is lost
you can be anything you want to be... they told us that. i'm going to win a marathon tomorrow and swim to china and write like henry james and ford maddox ford combined.
the thing is, i can't and don't even want to. what i can do is feel and work out my feelings into emotions for you, in my poems. and, i'm only going to write them when i have to, because poetry writing is like cutting your own heart out. you think that's fun, write a sonnet on what your mother thinks of you... whatever you think she thinks of you... can you do that? cause, you should only do that when you want to find out what you really think of her.
i don't want to see myself in some beautiful movie i saw, sunsets and wine, i want to make my own movie of what's what, and not even show up in it, not even a cameo, cause the next film's going to be better.
strings mike strings
This is fact's poem
An it's not bad
move over look sharpe
stand up get striaight
playing with a souvien
is it really a poem? you do this how you can, but i do it how i can, too. you're not wrong, but you can't tell when your right.
there are some golden lines here, threading their way from the heart -- sweet etchings stretching from inside toward the beloved sHe with child-like glee ...
I think the real question is, how does Diana feel about this poem.
yes, if it's written for her, and this is just posted here in happy-ness, then she'd be the only real reader.