Showing posts with label MWP Sculptures. Show all posts
Showing posts with label MWP Sculptures. Show all posts

Monday, January 26, 2015

The Edge of Abstraction and the Voice of the Muse




In an Ancient Dialogue between Drama and Psyche, or a more modern equivalent, between the Artist and his Muse one wonders if it is dialogue, whose dialogue? Who speaks the poem? What is the source of the poetic voice?

Do not these questions about the essence of poetry, what metaphor is, and who it serves?

If I listen for metaphor behind a narrative or expository composition, will it explain the ancient Greek use of theatrical techniques to ritualize confrontations between the conscious mind, and unconscious psyche?

I hope in this essay to parse dialogues of some modern and Romantic poems into dramatic characters.

Reading re-enacts. Poetry is a voice performance. The voice moves in and out of a dramatic space the ancients correctly attributed to Dionysus. In this manner metaphor inhabits a numinous space - the poets make an approach to what is numinous.

Why the overlap in subject with the nine Muses? Here I'll posit a quick notion, and then get on to the substance of my primary argument.

The numinous implies a divinely infused quantity and needn't arise from an accepted canon. For instance, Modern Hindu mythology amalgamates a historically complex pantheon into a simple trinity of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. This implies that the many other named 'gods' in India are now either phases, or aspects or incarnations of one of the three primary Gods. The divine experience that an approach to one of these 'Gods' can bring about, eventually tires, as it becomes reduced by history, when all the tributaries of all the rivers coalesce into one gigantic stream which spills it's essence into the sea.

So the numinous in poetry may arise without a trace and without explanation. Calling the source of Western poetry the Muse is enough. Study of her brings one no closer to her phenomena. The numinous is indeed found upriver, by a rustling brook, or a vital youthful river plunging down out of the mountains.

In poetry we make an approach to something we have lost touch of. A poem is an appeal for direct contact. The mythos of most divine experience degrades into a tired tract which holds little mystery.

The classic Greek pantheon, being more complex than the one practiced through worship in present day India, leaves the amalgamation of simpler roles less complete. The ritual of this worship is preserved, or rather was preserved, through drama, without explanation. As the universe constantly generates stars, so Gods are born. They rise, as characters in a mythos, and are merged into greater bodies, larger longer stories. Every so often the entire mythos explodes, or there is death, and recycling into the Underworld.

In the modern day, this process continues unabated, due to the shadow effect of science, which purports to have put  stake through the heart of any God-like vestige.

For the Egyptian, whether a pharaoh seeking Osiris, or laborer awaiting judgement in the passage of the soul via the Egyptian Theatre of the Dead the Journey into the Heavens, may be seen as an flow opposite to the return of Demeter as experienced at Eleusis experienced through the ingestion of ergot tainted wine.

The practice, the theatre at Eleusis, was in essence group poetry,  a collective approach to the numinous.

-=](:W:)[=-


Thursday, January 8, 2015

Az Ének un Pennsylvania Vampir






Magyar culture spread itself around Eastern Europe from the first millennium BCE. After the first World War, which cut the Austro-Hungarian Empire into bits, Hungary lost all of Transylvania to the reformed nation of Romania.

The Carpathian mountains are inhabited by a diversity of peoples and tribes. The region known as Transylvania has heard Latin, German, Russian, and hundreds of dialects over the past two thousand years, as well as local tongues, mainly Romanian and Hungarian between which there are almost no similarities. Dialects abound. In some places the lingua franca changes from village to village. In Romania the mother tongue Daco-Romanian or Moldovan is a Romance language and part of the giant Indo-European language family. Hungarian on the other hand, is Finno-Ugrik, and does not derive from the Indo-European root at all. Its only close relatives are in Northern Scandinavia, Finland, and Estonia, though a few patches of Finno-Ugrik are spoken south of this region and inside Russia.

Acquiring language appropriate for a subject is only half of a poet's task. It may take a lifetime to learn Hungarian for a non-native speaker, and even so, would leave the studious foreigner unable to relate to concepts that are social in origin. The great linguists, such as Captain Richard Burton, were able not just to acquire foreign speech, but also pass in behavior, as natives of that land. It is notable that when Burton travelled in disguise to Mecca, his traveling companions were never wiser as to his British origin, except when mistakenly, he peed standing up, rather than squatting which was the Islamic custom.

Is it necessary to be Transylvanian to understand or feel for the vampire myth? I think not. Vampires are a universal suggestion of all mythos, as old as beliefs in aliens from other planets, and one that has roots in almost every culture. From Indonesia to Central South America, tales of blood-drinking beings are firmly embedded in the human imagination worldwide.

My perceived connection between Pennsylvania and Transylvania began when I made a weeklong trip to Philadelphia to visit the fine art museum there. I made day trips, and explored the local Schuylkill River to its source. At that time I wondered why most myths about Vampires posit that these creatures are afraid of water. The rivers in the Eastern US all possess a haunting beauty. The Hudson, the Delaware, the Susquehanna, carry a form of self-consciousness that at times can be terrifying. The rivers themselves tell their story. It is violent. They think, they feel, they are not us.

Never is this quite as true as around the upper Schuylkill and Brandywine. These are literally the veins of our history, blood vessels of our land, draining past and present into the sea.

And then of course I wondered, suppose there was a vampire whose modus operandi was to hunt along these rivers, swim in them, and move through their waters with ease. Suppose he used the carnage of the American Civil War to grow strong. Suppose he drank the blood of a desperate nation.

If he were from Transylvania originally, he would understand the situation in which he found himself. Once a man, now a mere form of consciousness, in human terms, dead already, but able to ponder his own fate and the fates of those he lives by. He would live like history lives, dead, yet always alive.

To do this right I'd need something from Transylvania. Not just memories, not just internet research, but something from the structure and sound of the language itself. If I could get the sound pushing inside the mind of my subject. he'll become a metaphor for the predicament of all living things. There are three forms of nutrition, plan, animal, and mineral. Having the latter helps, but one cannot survive without an adequate diet of the first too. We live taking the lives of other beings. Do we think we're exempt? Does nothing eat us?

Since beginning this project I've come to love the sound of Magyar speech, and know that past migrations of warriors to the Transylvania region of Romania suits the progress of my coal-dark tale.




-=:)(:=-

Az Ének un Pennsylvania Vampir

Révén Pennsylvania táplálja, a holló,
Ingyenes, és érezte a régi Erdélyben.
Ő a magyar, cseh származású,
Soha számít, ahol a magyarság ment.
A háború után hagyta el Romániát,
A halálfélelem, a gyűlölet és a vágóhidak.

"Drága feleségem, én itt található magyarázat,
Az élet külföldön, mert én fordult vámpír.
A szomjúság a lelkeket, egy fájdalom a vérben,
Teszi az én átok, sokkal rosszabb, mint a szén.

De egy perc ezekben Egyesült Államok,
Ott álltam a szenátus, győzött aznap versenyt.
Aztán gyertyafényes, vitatkozunk eltörlése,
Én lettem az áldozata egy angyali nő.

A hölgy megragadta a karom,
És préselt olyan közel, mintha a csók,
A kék szeme beszélt. Nem forma ártalmak,
Hozna a halál, de az életnek nincs rendjén.

Ő lecsapolták az én akaratom. M fej gyenge volt.
Összeszorított fogakkal nyakam helyett.
Azt gondoltam, hogy furcsa megcsókolta olyan nehéz,
Halvány, észrevettem, vér részeg volt.

A nő felállt, egy szerető elutasított,
"Most már tudom, ez az, amit keresett,
"A nap alatt rabszolgák minden küszködik,
"De most egy gazfickó, aludni alatt talaj."

Saját út Richmond, amikor fiatal voltam,
Becsapott a az a nő, és az ő csábító nyelvét.
Egy szénfekete éjszaka, vágási készült,
Ivott a lelkem, és elhagyta ezt helyette.

Hagyta, hogy elég oltja rá szomjat,
A legkegyetlenebb leányzó, hogy biztosítsa egy átok.
"Van most már tanulni, te csak egy szolga!
"Mint minden az életben, szenátorok, gazfickók."

Hetek nincs lélegzet, nem egy darab kenyeret.
Utáltam a víz, én majdnem meghalt.
Vágytam sót, húst engem geg,
Hogyan átkozva, hogy parázna banya.

Saját visszatérés az egészségre, amikor végre etettem,
Egy vértócsában egy baleseti halál.
De egy csepp megérintette ajkamat,
Egy sebből felemelte, a keze ügyében.

A rendőrség és a mentősök lökött félre,
És vissza a szervezetben, hogy szegény gyerek.
Rögtön tudtam, hogy mit száguldott az ereimben,
Az én ősi helyén, a magyar nevet.

Amerikai élet rájött,
Milyen bujkált benne mindezen századok.
Milyen gének vágy táplálja a halhatatlanság,
Cserélni átkokat az emberiségtől.

Kezem-lábam nőtt erős, az új hatalom megfogta.
Most már fürdött, az én testem kihűltek.
A szenátus elmentem több alkalommal több.
Nem szóltam, de even'd az állás.

Egy tucat rabszolga találkozott szörnyű véget ér,
A megelőző hetekben, hogy a lázadó kongresszus.
By este tombolt virginiai földön,
Szeletelés nyakára képmutató születés.

Dél-Mason-Dixon kerestem William Preston
Ki fejlett, hogy számlát déli győz.
A Smithfield Mansion, ereiben vért vettünk,
Halvány csuhé ültetett ágyban.

A lámpafényes hajógyári egy borús nautch,
Két Yankee tengerészek állt a végső óra.
A jelenés, hogy lecsapolták a fiatalok,
Volt, sápadt bőr, mint rabolt igazságuk.

Fedélzet alatti összes fogvatartott megjelent,
De megvágta őket először, így hamarosan ők 'táplálkoznak.
A gyáva Dél-átok szétszórt,
Elkapták a mesterek, majd hirtelen a szomjat.

Én rendezik a folyón északra Philadelphia városában.
A emberiség szerelmese voltam minden kerek.
Egy óriás kúria falai négy tégla vastag,
Nem lehet eladni, szellemek lakták.

Én nem vett tudomást a siránkozás lidércek,
Ki felsikoltott éjjel aludtam, mint nap.
A megrémült szomszédok pedig nem lép,
A jól őrzött otthont a távollevő bérlő.

Hogy a nagy barát város a férfiak,
Sokkal jó élet volt ütött, majd,
A nyomorúságos kórházban, tele kétségbeeséssel,
Lelkek, akik több remény, mint ellátást.

Azt kerülni üszkösödés azokban a szörnyű óra,
Mint egy éjféli nővér állatias morgás.
Éjjeli orvosok telt keresztül a korai reggel,
Hogy nem talál impulzusok, a legények voltak ott.

Nem halálos járványt fog dönteni a háború,
Nap eljön nélkül Istenről.
Én pimaszul bedugult a folyók ömlött,
Miután Shiloh a zsákmányt, a föld tönkre só,

Ettől a pillanattól kezdve ittam élni,
És szem előtt tartotta, hogy minden élet egy ajándék.
Egy kisgyerek egy kis labdázni.
Szakadt a gyermekbénulás, arra gondoltam, talán esni.

Örömét forró volt, mint áramok a füst,
Egy kis meccs, hogy az apró fazont.
Gyengéden, hálásan megragadtam, hogy az élet.
És úgy érezte, hogy szaporodnak mélyen.

Valaha zöld levél táplálja a vágy,
A nem kerül felhasználásra, így a virág nagyobb?
Bár minden lény át kell mennie az élelmiszer,
Jellemzők élet, hogy nekünk utódokat.

Csaták, kórházak, utak, iskolák,
Kedves követte vér medencék.
Ne veszítsünk csepp, amikor a ivás,
Nem öntsön lényeg vagy több, mint szüksége.

Kedves szereti a vizet, annak ellenére, hogy a mítosz.
De az élő száraz, mint a viperák megőrizni erőnket.
Mi rejlik a helyeken, ahol halál követhet,
És vágja le az állomány, mint egy farkas, hogy szólója.

Volt egy élet harc valaha nyert?
A győztes vámpír, a Bull Run?
Majd vadászni újra, ezek a versek I kísérteni,
Annyi voltam a boxban, de maradni örökre szikár.

Hol légiók bátor halandók menni,
Mint én most hazugság örökre hideg.
Akiknek a szíve egyszer megverte most már festett lelkek,
Egy vágy a folyadékok, ellopott és üríteni.

Szegény antietami a megszentelt föld,
Egy öreg katona I vérzett a Gettysburg városában.
A legkisebb száma életét I Döfködték,
Varjak mint a rettenetes Civil War.

Neath hulló levelek I follow'd a nyomában.
Öreg tölgyfa áldott lelkek tenni.
A presbiteriánus, hamar lenne ápoló,
Majd elájul rá riverside temetési halottaskocsi.

A háborúk vége erőm nőtt légió
Re életét vesztette az a hírhedt térségben.
Félelmeim a fulladás eloszlik,
Mélyen a folyók, én türelmesen várt.

És a part menti mélyén egy éjszaka
Egy szerencsétlen úszó megfulladt a láthatáron,
Az ő gyáva szeretője verte a partra.
Megtalálták a két testület által már reggel.

Ahol az Erie-tó vizenyős medencében végződik,
Vettem egy kőműves lánya, elemzi Jenn.
A következő éjszaka, hálát adva szórakoztató,
Én esett a rémülettől, majd ivott a fiát.

És végig a gyönyörű Lackwana,
Én Fanged egy hórihorgas gal nevű Joanna.
Egy szerető ma este énekel egy Randy dallamot,
Aztán szörnyethalt, alatta egy Borbuggyan hold.

A vámpírok nem szeretnek énekelni, és barangolni,
Bár este véget ér az agyarak és élénkvörös habot.
A zene egy módja van,
A elcsábítani szerelmeseinek a halála előtt.

Amennyire csak lehetséges, igyekszem megkímélni,
A fitt és egészséges, azoknak a lelkes imádság.
Bénító élmény, a jóga tanultam,
Inni, majd indulnak a nyomorult féreg.

Most túra folyók, patakok, és tavak,
Backyard játszani készletek, és szabadtéri felfújtak.
De sajnos a mi fajunk nem tudja eldönteni,
Milyen élelmiszer táplálják a szennyezett belsejét.

Mennyire hosszú a nedves ágy legtöbb,
Ahol én rég eltemetett régi cseh kísértet,
Hogy a pincéjében sötét és nedves,
Nem megyek oda, legalábbis még nem.
Vágyom aludni ezer évvel,
Hogyan Én már sírtam, mint a mérgező könnyek!

Van bányák meglátogatni, tengelyek szén,
Városok befeketíteni az én átkozva lélek.
Barangolni az esős Allegheny éjszaka,
És mi a sima költészet rémület.
Éhes, szomjas, éhen több,
Azt nem lehet megmenteni, kivéve metafora.

Saját szavai elsápad, amit üríteni őket,
Az én Wolfen üvöltés, és a prérifarkas hívást.
Sajnos én kutatnak ihletett vers,
Oldalak haldoklik az én átok.

Saját esze éles, van foga, mint a kés,
Nem tudom abbahagyni táplálkozó ezeket az életeket.
A tragédia nem tudok inni ahhoz,
Szavakat, mint én, és szeretem szavakat, mint a szerelem.
Keresztül nyugtalan hegyek, a végtelen vándorlás,
Én simogatni a kitöltést, a comb és a nyak.

Sávos pisztráng fut fel Northkill Creek,
A szeplős fiatal elragadtatott csak ezen a héten.
Hol Schuylkill hullámai robbant a Delaware,
Saját erkölcstelen izgalom volt a legrosszabb rémálma.
Amikor a gyors Susquehanna árvíz csúcsán,
Én formálni tolódik a vérem felé Chesapeake.

Amikor éjszakai jön, a szívverésem szárnyal,
Ijesztő Végzet, a hátsó utca üvölt,
Remélem és imádkozom gyógyítja Isten.
Éjszakai fordul nap, de végződik gyep szőnyeg.
Gyere rózsás hajnal, csúszik az én ágya.
Szunnyad és meleg, a büdös föld.

Dobálni, és álmodni bélrendszer fájó,
Vagy üvölteni és kiabálni jövőm kockára.
Az út, hogy vadásznak rám, hogy felajánl egy ünnep,
Szavak kábító én, a remény, a béke.
De az érintés a talaj, a natív sár,
Hozza forrni, én vágy a vér.


-=:)(:=-


Saturday, June 8, 2013

Stones and Water




Stones and water often mix,
With seaside drops and ocean drips.
Dried salt, like diamonds gleam,
Facets of mica, also seem.

I see elephants brushing paint.
Never rushing, they sweep and feint.

A day of bright sun becomes a day of white light,
A day for my spoon, which is silvery bright.

Poetry descends, dark photons in a cloud,
I send them back, and make her electrons go wild.

If I tell you what my poetry is, you'll go raving mad.
If I tell you what my madness is, will you promise to keep it in bed?

Mind is craved by soul the way that water needs a bowl,
Soul give worth to mind as coal gives birth to light.

Find this note, don't go this way, I left it here, then got taken away.
Life isn't perfect, fate isn't fair. I'm no more, but I don't care.

Love 'n lust don't share guests,
One is trust and the other arty,
Those who notice, crash both parties.

I keep him locked up, he's pounding my drum.
He wants back outside, to loose his rhythm.

Out west birding on a festive holiday,
I saw wren-tits of family Sylviidae.
True I saw Tits, I saw more than two,
but no bushy tits from clan Aegithalidae!

Tell this knight that if he stops pretending,
you can get right back to hops bartending!

Arjun had a chariot, The best in the Maha battle!
Krishna gave him a ride in it, In spokes that were pulled by cattle!

Like is to Sign, As Metaphor is to Symbol.
I liken Design, As a Door to a Thimble.

With what cold felony, I stole such fire,
Which bold mystery, I so needed to acquire.

Go tell the folks at Netflix, They'll say likely story,
Or you could say your dog likes DVD chips, and tell the truth that's boring!

I knew you in a previous lifetime, You were my previous lifetime gal.
I knew you so well it's frightening, Now you're my present life pal.

Mercury's going retrograde, time to stop writing poems.
Rhyme instead what I paint on pots, in my kiln I'll be baking soon.

A bloodless word has made us tire,
A gutless world that went vampire.

You jumped in deep scheisse, taking tea with Carol's hatter,
Pump up your siz-e, and make that devil madder!

I'm goin' down, had my precious blood!
To another town, to another bed of mud!

To whomever you've barked, wherever you blacked it
Your curses in the dark, will one day be enacted.

Life is a rumble where we all get to fumble
Get out and choose, if you're not wearing your juice!

Religion's a crucible that holds molten and unknown,
Vision that's reducible, into what's golden and forlorn.

My father was a wolfhound, my mother was a terrier,
He would rather run for love, and then come home to marry her.

What's indivisible and isn't named, . . . is fleeing,
But with that deserved name, . . . is seen.

Make yr passion yr passion then yr passion's won't break,
but if yr passion's yr job then your passion won't slake!

Tigers roam the imagination, whales below in dreams.
Birds over fly our nation, we long for what she means.

Human survival is not her game
Even our Bible can't make her tame.

Thought is craved by soul, as water abhors a drought.
Soul gives thoughts to mind, as coal gives watts to light.

As Oceans Tide



Ever since you left my light,
I saw the world in black and white.

The dark you took when you went away,
your heart sends back as sparks today.

Love that Buddha, and that hawk!
What dove he's true to makes me gawk.
That jade gremlin? I'm not tremblin!
He's got no belly, He's made of jelly.

When Raptors fly, over lands and fields,
It just about ruptures, our plans with Israel.

Water brought pain, from a tyrant above,
He's not stopped the rain, and seems tired of love.

Take all you've assumed, and all you hold dear,
Assume it's all doomed by your innermost fear.

Break out your shovels, take out some seed,
Plant lines of sweet clover, and stand by to weed.

Bedecked with diamonds, collared with pearls,
Heck I'm just rhyming, because I like them curls!

Bernd and I we like the crow,
'Bert and I' is from Down East though.
Birds in Brooklyn? - there are lots!
Sparrows, falcons, . . . Triceratops!

In the air and on the ground, a hawk will stalk, without a sound!

Every Pharaoh with a harem and a scarab ring,
Dreads the power of the net and the Arab spring.

The sacking of a goalie on account of a howler
Lacks all humanity especially this hour.

Ces cerveaux ne sont pas faibles,
un veut manger de ce pain sur table!

Des grandes penses, ils sont mieux,
Je veux dancer avec les deux!

When I talk to her, she's sweet to me,
And when she balks at words, I eat a Parle G!

If the Higgs boson,
Had the inclination to think,
One might read of quantums,
Written in Higgins ink.

The origins of Easter aren't at all Jesus,
But a goddess named Ishtar, so burn that old thesis!

My son with his stubble, says the world's at peak beard,
Hirsute chins make for trouble, when eating gets weird.

My flask runneth over, with the smell of your skin,
. . . Specific task odors in cuticular hydrocarb-in.

The sources of rhyme cast a bottomless spell,
Of course like the Nile, they pass time by as well.

A message sent, by the fire stoking,
What is meant, by all this poking?

I had friends who learned to fly
But when they talked, began to die,

They muttered aloud then heard a call,
Fluttered about, and began to fall

When you're painted red as wrath,
Be sainted by my tea-water bath.

Chartreuse eggs? I like the color.
The question begs: 'Who's the mother?'

I glazed and loaded ninety-nine bowls,
In five days time, the kiln will cool,
Then all these bowls will want some tea,
Poured within to give them souls.

You're messin' with me, but I'm missin' you.
 Please let's wait patiently, 'till our moment comes through.

What adds but cannot think, then ferments to a hearty drink.

Inspired a notion of a force unseen
Sits between me and what you're seeing.

On motion'd feet I carry all speech,
For when you eat, I cannot speak.
As oceans tide, I sally forth.
All your life, then when you goeth.

The death of one great, the cause of what's wild,
Reminds us we're late, to pause for our child.

See actors, sharp on stage, 'Neath clover, dark in shade.
Above them, a ficus forest, 'Neath them, a fawn adores us.


The Wind of Fortune



At riptide in a town that was tawdry and dark
I met an old fish with a guitar made of bark.

Ego loves the fox, sunlight tries the dark . . .
Should we lie down in a forest? Or go to town in a park?

Whether any Euro members mesh,
Germany will take a pound of flesh.
Printed funds from a paper sock,
To buy Grecian homes on a bare white rock.

Medicine or poison, overdone, or done just right .
True I’ve drunk so much, I've almost lost my sight.

Caffeine flows, I pee it away, Poisons created unfortunately stay.
A fair trade from coffee black, Kali’s drink, welcomes me back.

A lofty spire makes a crow come inquire,
And perch to look out below.
The heights of empire shall not equal a flyer,
Such as the most humble crow.

Who from the Crypt does first appear?
The Raven or her Master.
One drinks and feeds, the subject bleeds,
Death comes on so much faster.

I write what I can, and ink what I may,
and think that I'm fluent, in the news of the day.

Five hundred degrees, too hot to open,
Unless you're a potter, crackin' or dopin'.

A poem's a sandwich or an equation solved,
flowing from language, no reason's involved.

If poetry was wed, to symbolic mathematics,
You'd see verbal solutions to metaphysical antics.

Some says fate is history solved,
All that's done, and can't be shelved.

A romantic wander, through the streets of Queens,
Poetic plunder found some Keats of dreams.

When she grants a few more years,
I'll live and rant without frontiers.

Then she tendered blood for paint,
From poetry, a heart that's faint.

She's a mystery, tied up in code,
So much history, forever stowed.

Above the streets, above our tears,
Over all beings, loom all fears.
Horned beasts that trample lives,
The moveable feast of art will die.

Presume as true that those you miss,
will bloom anew with a makeup kiss.

Wherever you've parked, wherever you've backed it,
Your cars in the dark will one day be compacted.

I awoke to the stink of avarice,
that took us to the brink of precipice.

Ordinary life's full of mad dashes.
At the end of our strife we’re burned into ashes.

Shall I fly to the Yucatan, to play on sand while nude?
Though it's changed to black from tan, by all that BP crude.

To a scattered mind, a pile of rice.
Is a soul contained, but reminded twice.

All year I potted, now I glaze,
Got to fire, just one or two days. :)

Fired mud in temoku, A bowl for me, a bowl for you.

Playing Dylan, glaze re-fillin'.

There is one who lives in me . . . both when I dream and when I see . . .

The Wind of Fortune often blows,
Through wings of Ravens and humble Crows.

A stein of Beer, or a glass of Wine?
Germany or France, either's fine.

The wolf of need versus the wolf of love.
Which one to feed and which one to shove.

Grace looking west at the setting sun,
Is placed to show best her prettiest bum.

After a rich meal with fabulous wine,
Regale me with bitchy tales, as I get into Thine!

This firing's an experiment, who knows how it will turn.
That with some accidents, a fire sale after burn.

What hurts me most about vampires feeding,
Are fees for shirts I post to dry cleaning.

One of the problems with feeding on blood,
Are the troubles of sleeping in a coffin of mud.

The clay on this Earth in the not distant future,
Portrays man with some mirth as a planetary moocher.

Saturday, June 1, 2013

Pâté with Chanterelles


A caterpillar singing Dylan,
   to his lovely little daughter,
Met a Butterfly that was chillin',
   in a pool of Muddy Water.

A caterpillar took his rest, in a chilling mystery thriller,
   Met a sudden bookish death, by a serial butterfly killer.

A caterpillar sadly sitting,
   through a chilling mystery thriller,
Had her body badly bitten,
   by a serial butterfly killer.

When a caterpillar stewed, "I'll never get fine clothes."
   A butterfly bought him a suit, "For my caterpillar bro!"

A Butterfly played a clever Metaphor,
   His poetry got engraved, on a Caterpillar's door.

A tiny Butterfly sang a killer metaphor,
   The poetry he sang, hung on a Caterpillar's door.

A Caterpillar climbed, to a Butterfly's front door,
   So poetry grows sublime, on the shores of Metaphor.

Scanty and bare, what don't we like?
   Bra and panties, take a hike.

I heard a call, and wrote this ditty,
   Knowing well that graffiti's seedy.
Made it rhyme, and got it punning,
   arranged in time, and made it funny.

Au Frontenac à Montréal
I bought pâté with chanterelles.
I sought my queen in the rez-de-chaussée,
Après j'ai pris, un petit café.

Raymond Catalan wouldn't fit,
   Not in our car, nor the back of it!

I knew a poet, whom little was lost-on,
   He didn't know it but his name was Drew Boston.

The mortgage mess is a full-scale eruption,
Sordid bets, with bales of corruption.

Professor Newt once took a sack,
. . .  of government loot, from Freddie Mac.

These bankers whine, but act so noble,
     like John Corzine of MF Global.
He's got some gold in his knapsack,
     since he sold his stock of Goldman Sachs.

Republican candidates have Alzheimer's bad.
Can't remember dates, or who is whose Dad.

No sane reason to speculate,
 . . . that ancient treason was Hecate bait.
A Turkish dish writ on Grecian lace,
 . . . sent a kiss from Samothrace.

Milky silk and silken skin,
Beneath her kilt, I looked right in!

Permission requested to write some poems,
that won't be found in a reputable tome.
They might be struck down, but once on the town,
their mission's to romp as they roam.

I beseech you, are these leechees?
Or Leeches with Beach leaves?
Eyeballs for my highball?

Irene brought doom, duress and bleeding,
Her cost entombs success that's fleeting.

Money prowls through indebted streets,
Something growls, but nothing to eat.

Greedy feeding at the trough,
weeping wives and lovers lost,
Brooks and Murdoch not enough,
to pay busted lies, and karma tossed.

The brute refuted a working gal's rage,
But information she looted put DSK in a cage.

What feat or race of mortal men,
Could face or beat an Andromedan?

What fruits of bankruptcy corrupted the feast;
The boots of Italy, that stepped on Greece!

Get lost Silvio! Call and ring him!
Tell the truth he has no lingham.
Imperial love at last has soured,
On Berlusconi, master coward.

Papandreou withstood populous rage.
Hard to do, it takes courage.
But Berlusconi, across the sea,
Won't resign, until forced to flee.

Rupert M is on his knees,
   before Her Majesty the Queen,
The travesty now is what he's blown,
   and all the TV she's seeing!

Don't buy those bonds don't be such saps!
No putting off a financial collapse.

Who caused it all? I'm not talking,
But it isn't the fault of the subprime Balkans.

Papandreou the Fearless lives to fight,
An honest PM from a Greece in plight.

Berlusconi scorned the fuss,
Dines alone on Italian puss.

Berlusconi won't take aid,
From the one and only IMF maid.
If she were younger he might have asked,
For bunga-bunga, those times are past.

Greek bonds are weak,
German banks are wormy,
Thank the French, the stench is germy,
Italian paper's coming down,
A fire-sale in your home town.

The Mantis Male



After great Sir Walter got beheaded
They ate his daughter's brain, not breaded.

Such was life in this brave New World,
Where to survive, colonists ate young girls.

Get out your tomatoes and forget that tornado,
I'll massage your labido 'til it feels like Play Dough!

A torrent began of pagan words,
So a poem came and torched my earth.

I'm letting go of old tea-bowls,
Watching them flow to dear old souls.

I left, all packed, in a rental car,
But won't be back 'til I travel far.

Tantric experiments in symmetry,
Time got folded, literally.

The circles I travel in are like fabric unravelling.

When your lot in life is a salary,
You put salt in the pot from a company.

A train so needs a load of coal, yeah,
A shame no weed for old soul yoga!

One Bufo marinus, got to know Jesus,
Amplexed before sex, on females he seize-ed.
Bufo this Cane Toad, fast-tracked to Australia,
He aspired to sainthood, on the backs of femalia.

I once knew a pimp, a Mantis Shrimp,
Colorful, but decidedly fierce.
He met a sea-horse, a metaphor of course,
For his lover who liked to get pierced.

One Pimp who knows nature's carnality,
Is the Mantis Shrimp, he blows with finality.

The recessive painter colors for who?
An incessant prayer that's greater than you.

The Fed has set its oatmeal to bubble,
Face well away, or else there'll be trouble.

Sympathy for old friends, with coins on Mt. Gox,
Gold makes no amends, they've both got the pox.

Booked to stoke wood, from midnight to dawn.
Look into the kiln, third eyelid withdrawn.

All your guts know rot is balmy,
Roots grow back a thought that's calming,

A progressive writer, tools wit in a blog.
The aggressive fighter, duels with fog.

The rogue-est of states is run by a young-un,
The lowest-est of fates is fun for Kim Jong Un.

Many say love's an emotion,
Others say love's in the head.
Some complain love's a commotion,
And maintain it should stay in your bed.

As a Mantis Male,
 . . . I have a fantasy,
It's to grab your Mantis tail
 . . . and then to bed with Thee!
But as a Mantis Man,
 . . . I know reality,
You plan to eat my head instead,
 . . . the moment I bed with Thee!

Whatever you want to make,
 . . . is what you'll eventually be.
However many mistakes it takes,
 . . . shouldn't matter a whit to thee!

To my Mantis-wife,
I’ll dish my fantasy,
I’ll pray and wish my Damnedest-life
That you never prey on me!

If a Mantis-thee, is my fantasy,
I wish you'd grant us, prey on me!

Friday, May 31, 2013

She turns Time Over


Are all great nations afraid of poets?
Tall ancient stations meant to show it.

The fiscal seed made Earth our feed,
And set us up for tribal greed.

What's clear now is our nuclear diet,
For energy and how we freely deny it.

Paved asphalt roads over homes of toads.
Cars and phones, outnumber cobblestones.

The true free man will not believe.
The worst in another though he be thieve.

A boozed politician's mosquito suckling-sweet,
Nothing's so poisonous to an insect as weed!

I'll go to Philly, City of Man, I'll see Van Gogh . . and then?

A parsnip picnic with offbeat park-niks!

In days gone by the streets were cobbled,
The reason why then carriages wobbled.

Are all great nations afraid of poets?
Whose ancient station was meant to show it?

What's clear now is our nuclear diet, For energy, we freely deny it.

The true free man will not believe. The worst in another though he be a thief.

The bird Tit Latin family, is aptly named Paridae,
Back as a baby, I happily tamed a pair-a -day.

You cannot be a lemur since you're sitting on your femur!
Get out and be humerus! Swing through some trees for us!

The blather I wrote just jumped through me . . .
Another imperfect agent shunted my agency.

Spring trees now by cherries cloaked,
Hurry to dream and return my pokes.

My left wants my sandwich cast into law,
A commandment my right will blatantly ignore.

Shy to write your lover in code?
Time to lie beneath covers nude!

Who shines brightest? Compose an ode,
Be sure she knows your love has flowed.

When push comes to shove
I'll rush into love!

Take a load off me don't dote on me!

When a line is a word, our ears becomes blind,
Don't shine to be heard, or fear what might rhyme!

Abhorrent words for a pagan birth,
from a witches' coven, came a song of earth.

She passes darkness, turns time over,
Knows to caress and wine my lover.

If the ruin of my thumb be the tune that I drum,
The bruin in that robin will one day get me throbbin'!

What's our plan, if the icecaps melt, and snows all turn to water?
Will seas upend, take back the land, and the world return to order?

What divine spark. inside our soul,
makes the light that lives for us.
Same that shines in dark of coal,
and makes bright poetry rhyme for us.

Red robin comes, winter's over, a bikini runs through barefoot clover.
Inked-in thoughts, none rub'd in urns, a tricky message born to ruin.

The ruin of my thumb, is the tune that I drum,
but the bruin in that robin will one day get me lovin'!

A torrent began of pagan words,
so a poem came to search my earth.

I went through darkness, to turn them over,
Then went to caress and win my lover.

Drink from my poem as a bruise from a bear.
Imagine, don't sadden at the clues that I share.

I have a friend who stands like light,
Amidst a Floridian culture blight.

These bankers whine, but act so noble,
Like John Corzine of MFGlobal.
Got some gold in his knapsack,
and sold his stock of Goldman Sachs.

Was it Bush, if so which one, put us in Libya, or Afghanistan?
Cain's got the bug and can't remember, who did what since last September.

Republican candidates have Alzheimer's bad.
Can't remember dates or who's whose Dad.

Milky silk or silken skin's beneath her kilt, to to look right in.

There's no sane reason to speculate, that ancient treason was Hecate bait.
A Turkish wish writ on Grecian lace, sent her kiss from Samothrace.

What feat or race of mortal men,
can face or beat an Andromedan?

Coffee is tomato’s noble cousin,
The nightshade bean that keeps us buzzin'

What floods of bankruptcy corrupts this feast?
It's the boot of Italy that steps on Greece!

Get lost Silvio! Call and ring him!
Truth be told the man's got no lingham.
Imperial love at last has soured,
on Berlusconi, master coward.

Papandreou stood, amidst popular rage. Hard to do, it takes courage.
But Silvio who sits across the sea, won't resign until forced to flee.

Rupe is shown on his knees by the Queen,
I'm sure he's blown by the TV that she's seeing!

Don't buy these bonds don't be such saps,
There's no putting off a financial collapse.


Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Storm with Me



Let's storm off free on a sailing barque, sing to calm our fears.
Dream with me through Arctic snows, wind howling in our ears,
Sleep alone in Manchuria, a poem filled with light,
Wake aground on Pacific shores, waves lapping all the night.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

The Planet's Getting Hot


Raj or Empire, it matters not which,
Ones claws, breathes fire, the other's a witch!

Sorting socks is easy, but folding bras makes me queasy.
A panty in hand will make me stand, but bluejeans keep me needy!

On a grey ocean, struck by the notion, I looked for the almighty one.
Way overhead, dark clouds of lead, made space for the flighty sun.

Get set to do my yoga, invoking symmetry.
And get read to by my ogre, in lines of poetry.

As a father-earner, I've more than done my duty,
Now a Nevada-burner, a whore for fun and booty!

If it meows or gives milk it might be a cat,
But if it's a cow or makes silk, it might be a rat.

None of these creatures are found in a park,
One of their features is they glow in the dark!

Lee and Katia so yearn to compete,
like two grizzly bears at the edge of a creek.

Lee the old male, is slow moving but mean,
Katia the lassie is faster, and lean.

What's shows on stage are often tears,
Thus flows the wage, of softened fears.

Irene brought doom, duress and bleeding,
Her cost entombs success that's fleeting.

When Mother Nature disappoints, break out liquor, light up joints!
But if Irene is truly fierce, grab a Suzy, whoever's nearest!

Noble warriors with beards of grey,
Sober memories of that day.

Enough from our mongrels in Congress.
No stealth-leadership from self-feedership.

I beseech you, are these leechees?
or Leeches with Beach leaves?
Eyeballs for my highball?

'Anders Breivik' believes 'Braveries Kind',
Murderous anagrams dreaming 'Riverbanks Die'?

If right-wing politics indeed was meant,
what a horrifying sickness, killing innocents.

What's a mightier risk than a terrorist bomb,
is the threat to society from triple A bonds.

Let's chalk up what's going on!
BSkyB talked with Cameron?
It's absurd! Did he use his desk?
To help the Murdochs, buy the rest?

Time for our medicine, we should all swallow burdock, It may even work, if we throw up on Murdoch!

What in deed does Murdoch fear? He turned eighty, could play King Lear. James the son, his ego's host, Makes a run, with his father's ghost.

Follow the money, where ever it roams, You'll see good publicity comes from a plateful of foam.

This planet's getting so damm hot,
if someone fanned it would help a lot.

What a gorgeous gift the Sun. It seduces women, gets their clothes undone!

The Met chief falls on his sword, Do we take the PM at his word? If not business, what was talked, with back door meets and Chequers' walks?

Every fight, every scandal has a teflon Don, Let's all light a candle for PM Cameron.

Millions in severance, for not fingering her bosses, got Brooks booked by the Met, to control their own losses.

Should the PM pay the price, being infected by these lice?
If NewsCorp's disbanded, or ultimately sold, maybe a PM will one day get old!

Dig under Fleet Street, dig up the Yard!
There's a stink from Ten Downing, where they need to get tarred.

The mockery by smut that degrades what it touches,
Makes democracy a slut to whatever she hushes.

It's time to wake up to a gale of corruption,
The Newscorp scandal is a full scale eruption!

What prime assets does Newscorp own? S
cotland Yard helped hack Brit phones,
PM Cameron, Blair and Bush.
Victim solicitors, paid to hush.

Has sad sack Newscorp paid for its hacking caper?
By sacking execs and closing a paper?

Who hacked the phones of bombing victims? That's the worry of our legal system.
The FBI hurries to look, after the sacking of Rebekah Brooks.

Arad Acre Afula Tikva
Haifa Givem Baqa-Jat
Beta Tel Aviv of Karmiel
Reprieve Jerusalem and Gaza. Shalom.

Money may flow through empty streets,
Nothing grows, nothing to eat.

NASA's a pawn in a budget muddle,
The magic's gone, with no more shuttle.
Astride her boosters white with light,
Atlantis took her final flight.

Victim phones by News Corp hacked,
Sitting clones of Murdock sacked.
Cops bribed, prime ministers funded,
'Till it stops, decidedly sinister.

Is Facebook by Google doomed? Two social networks in one room?

All those News Corp hacks abound.
What goes around, backs Cameron.

Liars of the World will close their paper,
No buyers for their hacking caper!

A dream runs with puns like bugles and guns,
It's barking will start you awake.
Every dreamer knows, as with foxes and crows,
A dream can't be tied to a stake.

What allegations come from Fox
On this day our President mocked,
Not an error if you know that station,
Not due to hacking, or automation.

A sutra inquires of the Queen of Hearts,
   A mudra to inspire my writing arts.

A mudra to the Queen of Sight
   She'll dance with Rudra, her King, all night.

What cries and claws, but doesn't hurt,
A lover with fuzz, who makes you work.

Saturday, December 31, 2011

To the Studio



To the studio I make my way,
To write on shards, some poetry.
What is art but stopping time?
My heart's in bottles, plates and rhyme.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

I'm Just the One



I’m the one you called,
Please drop that aire.
You’ve been around me buzzing,
I see you everywhere.

I see through you always,
Through me to her this way.
So remember when you're calling,
You reach from here to there.

What Leads?


What leads, changes and whispers,
sacrifices she reckons I'll autograph.
Inscribe a figure, encrypt a cipher.
You wonder what on earth's the code.
Keep wondering, earthly beings will never know,
How this universe can be shown,
Which figures to engrave, what ciphers to compute.
You may inscribe a figure, encrypt an epithet,
In your grave you write your ode,
before she takes faith my word,
matter will be interred.
Before her language is fully calculated,
your curiosity will be more than sated.
Don't waste a second,
The puzzles of dreams, must all be reckoned.

You Sit to Write



You keep books, know permanence,
good grammar, logic, common sense.
As a broker gather chips,
and from the pieces, build your ships.

And one day you sat to write,
You saw what backed those eyes.
It went through you, right then right there.
Got caught off guard, by the saddest stare.

She gives you peace?
Dances like Michael, paints?
Cooks, writes poetry, sometimes faints.
Maybe you just aren't through,
Could she have a hold on you?

Thursday, November 10, 2011

The Print Empire



What genius from the Greek PM,
Threatens geeks with a referendum.
Papandreou’s politics cannot lose,
The populace got the one they choose.

A body's just ash, words can't compute.
   Items for cash, are less to transmute,
Silver can be faked, but tarnishes more,
  Gold remains sacred, an immoveable door.

My chosen destination’s Galaxy forty-four fourteen!
    But I'll have to be frozen, it's parsecs nineteen.
A long way to travel, to seek fortune and fate,
    Traveling at light speed, a sixty-million year wait!

What democratic tool makes for Republican fun,
Targets those ghouls with a memory-lapse gun?
Whose blind spot will likely be next?
Blast at Mitt Romney, he's finally hexed.

Old Mitt Romney fell in the mud,
Our American family all knew he would.

"Was it a Bush, if so which one?
Who got us in Libya, or Afghanistan."
McCain's got a bug and can't remember,
Who did what, since last November.

Swallow burdock as media medicine.
Follow Murdoch, then barf to jettison!

Emperor Silvio dreads a high rate bond.
His Fates reveal a dead Euro, conned.

The bears are coming to Italy,
To gore Berlusconi finally.

What print empire can fuss and strut,
conspire, sin, say 'sorry' in smut.
What karma's in prying private lives,
And comes to haunt even Murdoch's lies.

Commons is to Murdoch as blank is to bored.
Amens are encouraged since he won't be made Lord.

You thought it funny, who threw that foam pie?
Follow the money, and ask yourself, "For whom?" and "Why?'

Mind is craved by Soul, as water likes a bowl.
Soul gives thoughts to Mind, as coal gives watts to Light.

Bad karma keeps on stacking - the PM met NewsCorp on hacking,
26 appointments w/ Murdoch execs, Money does wonders, but can't get respect.

If Jabba the Hut was really King Tut, and Rupert was not a vulture,
The case would be shut, the PM's a slut, and smut, is really just culture!

Raj or Empire, matters not which.
With claws and fire, the Other's a witch!

Sorting socks by color's easy, folding bras will make me queasy.
A panty in hand will make me stand, but bluejeans keep me needy!

On a grey ocean, I was struck by the notion,
   to look for the almighty One.
Way overhead, dark clouds of Lead,
   made space for the blighted Sun.

As I do my yoga, I invoke my symmetry,
I'm read to by my Ogre, in lines of poetry.

Once a father-earner, I did my passive duty,
Now I'm a Nevada-burner, all for sin and booty!

I awake to the stink of avarice,
That shakes at the brink of a precipice.

If it meows or gives milk, it might be a cat,
But if it's a cow or makes silk, it might be a rat.

None of these creatures are found in a park,
One of their features is they glow in the dark!

Lee and Katia so yearn to compete,
Two grizzly bears at the edge of a creek.

Lee the old male, is slow moving and lean,
Katia the lassie is faster, but mean.

What's shows on stage are often just tears,
Thus flows the wage, of softened fears.

When Mother Nature disappoints,
   break out liquor, lite up joints!
Then if Irene is truly fierce,
   grab a Suzy, whoever's nearest!

Noble warriors with beards of grey,
Gave sober memories of that day.

Anders Breivik believed 'Braverie's Kind',
Murderous anagrams dream 'Riverbanks Die'?

If right-wing politics was what he meant,
What terrifying sickness, killing innocents.

When I feel I’m love deprived,
Like a bad trip when on acid.
It'll gets me high to think of your thighs,
And suddenly all gets placid.

A mightier risk than a terrorist bomb,
Is the threat to society from triple A bonds.

Let's chalk up what's going on,
BSkyB talked with Cameron . . .
It's absurd! Did he use his desk?
To help the Murdochs, buy the rest?

Time for medicine, we should all swallow burdock,
It may even work, if we throw up on Murdoch!

What indeed does Murdoch fear?
He turned eighty, could play King Lear.
James the son, his ego's host,
Made a run with his father's ghost.

The audacity of money,
   wherever it roams,
Publicity can be shaving cream,
   from a foam-pie thrown.

This planet's getting so damm hot,
If someone fanned, it would help a lot.

What a gorgeous gift the Sun.
Seduces women,  . . . gets their clothes undone.

The Met chief falls upon his sword,
Should we take the PM at his word?

If not business, what was talked,
In back-door meets and Chequers' walks?

Every fight every scandal has a teflon Don,
So we all light a candle for PM Cameron.

One's a cream, that comes with meringue,
   the other's the dream of the Tea Party gang.

Millions in severance, not fingering her bosses,
Brooks booked by the Met, to control their own losses.

Should the PM pay the price,
   getting infected by these lice?
If NewsCorp's disbanded, or ultimately sold,
 . . . maybe the PM will one day get old!

Dig under Fleet Street, dig up the Yard!
There's a stink from 10 Downing,  . . . they need to get tarred.

A mockery of smut degrades what it touches,
Makes democracy a slut to whatever she hushes.

It's time to awake to a gale of corruption,
The NewsCorp scandal is a full scale eruption!

What prime assets does NewsCorp own?
Scotland Yard helped hack Brit phones,
PM Cameron, Blair and Bush.
Victim's solicitors, paid to hush.

Has NewsCorp paid for its hacking caper?
Sacking execs and closing a paper?

Who hacked the phones of the 9/11 victims?
That's the worry of our legal system.
Did the FBI currie its books,
After the sacking of Rebekah Brooks.

Afula Tikva Arad Acre,
Haifa Givem Baqa
Jat Beta Tel Aviv of Karmiel
Reprieve Jerusalem and Gaza.
Shalom.

NASA's a pawn in the budget muddle,
Magic gone, no more space shuttle.
Astride her boosters white with light,
Atlantis took her final flight.

Victim phones by News Corp hacked,
Sittin' clones of Murdoch sacked.
Cops bribed, funded prime ministers,
Until it stops, decidedly sinister.

Is Facebook by Google doomed?
Two social networks in one room?

How those News Corp hacks abound,
What goes around, backs Cameron.

We tried, 'twas never quite dark enough,
Oh to make love, inside of a parking lot.

Liars of the World will close their paper,
No buyers of news for a phone-hacking caper.

What allegations come from Fox
On July 4th our President mocked,
Not an error, if you know that station,
Not from hacking, or automation.

I drove out west,
And crossed the Mississippi.
On a westward quest,
The effect was kind of Trimpey.

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