Posts tagged poetry
I knew the bed would be too small
for all the things
I still want to dream about us
that we would toss
turn our way lose ourselves
in each other’s limbs
and rut there all over again
too small for the full-bodied voluptuousness
too small for the full-contact fuck
too small for the full slick sweat we surrender
too small for the grunts and the screams
we extract from each other
to small for the way those grunts
struggle up from our stomachs
somersaulting themselves into ‘iloveyous’
and spasmodic cum shots
it is good we also have the floor
and the bathroom
and the tub
and the chair
and the desk
and the park
public spaces and the wide open savannas
of our imaginations
these places will have to substitute
offer room for the volume
of our fucking and our poetry
for the way this animal love
lurches monstrous up my chest
wanting to make you happy
and warm and unafraid
so - get a bigger bed
one that can hold all the things
I still want to dream
but ready me a tiny corner on this one
so I can still get lost in you.
“ Language is driven fundamentally by the desire for unconscious experiences to leap like lightning from one brain to another. That’s why writing is so dangerous.”
another year of surfboreds stranded
in pangs of plumber’s burlesque
‘twixt gatling gazette glances
lashed by soot and rust
mustang swims wild
‘gainst tears and erects sandcastles
curses tides but swills her own bad luck
crowded palms wave at her for reading
and hide callous kid gloved cartwheels
that raze and ambrotype her sand
so he hears the dance tonight
of horseshoes and stilettos
his gaze is Omaha beached driftwood
a shipwreck blurred and Gaussian
that taps shoulders shrugging salt
and again he’s overboard
Cut my shadow from me.
Free me from the torment
of seeing myself without fruit.
Why was I born among mirrors?
The day walks in circles around me,
and the night copies me
in all its stars.
I want to live without seeing myself.
And I will dream that ants
and thistleburrs are my
leaves and my birds.
Cut my shadow from me.
Free me from my torment
of seeing myself without fruit.
Federico Garcia Lorca
Song of the Barren Orange Tree
Translated by W.S. Merwin
Billy Cook, “Salt and Meat”
Last night I asked myself,
what was my true work?
Was I just a pile of ideas
in a bloody bag of dirt?
And I posed myself the question
where would the value be
‘cause you can’t live on intentions,
but you can thrive on salt and meat.
So I stumbled ‘round my apartment
confused by these new thoughts
suddenly disgusted by all the shit that I had bought
So I smashed all my possessions
Screaming ‘This is all my fault!’
Eloquently, violently, beating meat and salt.
So I stumbled to the kitchen
and turned on my ancient stove
and as the gas kissed the fire
it was this that I was told:
Let me keep you warm, dear
Let me kiss your face
Let us burn together, in fiery embrace
Lemme roast your bones
Your aroma fills the streets
Let me be your home
For I am fire, and you are meat.
So I ran to the window
and I tried to get some air
but when I took a great big breath
I found that there was no more there
‘Cause the cities were all burning
and the streets were filled with fire
while the politicians and the anarchists
switched sides for awhile
while the monkeys filled the scientists
with beautiful disease
and the poor were teaching ‘FUCK THE RICH’
And while wild-eyed feral children
are consumed by tiny screens,
I beg please pass the pepper,
‘cause we’re all just salt and meat.
Salt and meat.
THE CHERRY TREE DREAM
Luna looms as Leonids chase her
pawing tinsel, silver milk and umber
a string figure noose above the sky.
Yer yawning yarns hem werewolf threads
as boldly man goes to plot trajectories
to systems binary, ne’er’less bereft.
And though dancer’s feet do warp and tumble
our engineering needs no bridge
rocketeers can fire and forget.
MUSIC doth uplift me like a sea
Towards my planet pale,
Then through dark fogs or heaven’s infinity
I lift my wandering sail.
With breast advanced, drinking the winds that flee,
And through the cordage wail,
I mount the hurrying waves night hides from me
Beneath her sombre veil.
I feel the tremblings of all passions known
To ships before the breeze;
Cradled by gentle winds, or tempest-blown
I pass the abysmal seas
That are, when calm, the mirror level and fair
Of my despair!
Reaction to misunderstanding and miscomprehension of one self’s anima would conclude to an ignorance of one self’s internal renaissance
Denial also forces one to block their opus of emotions, to reach internal control of deity
Dismissal is emotional/spiritual suicide
To fear what is not understood is not an option for the spiritual realm
This decision is for the ignorant, arrogant, and the spiritually pigmented
The insecure are also on the list of the emotionally stigmatic
But realizing 85% of the brain is still attached to the physical body is the realization that 15% functioning is brainwashing
15% is a minor figure. To avoid pushing our mental thresholds, would result in the mental regression
A mind regressing would result in the discontinuing of evolving knowledge.
The deprivation of evolving knowledge would conclude in the loss of elite divinity.
No divinity terminates spiritual progression.
Without spiritual progression the soul is theoretically dead.
An interesting poem, purportedly by Tool singer Maynard James Keenan, that I first encountered back in the Napster days when I was first introduced to Tool.
A common strategy employed by unknown or newly-formed bands in those pioneering days was to piggyback your album on the name of a more famous group in file-sharing programs; in this case, a little band called Hallow released their record with the ID3 tags set to titles from Lateralus (which had come out earlier that year). Having not heard Tool before, they fooled me for a time, and I didn’t much care for their music, which I later discovered was a pale imitation of Tool.
This “Intro Poem,” though, is something of a mystery to me. Although it’s supposed to be a MJK poem, I’ve also seen it attributed to Alex Grey, who did album art for Tool and Nirvana, among others.
In any event, there’s a really great spine-tingling effect achieved with the telegram style “Stop. Stop. GO!” motif and all the sfx in the background. It leads into Tool-esque, mind bender music quite well.
Karol Szymanowski - “Nocturne and Tarantella” [Leonid Kogan, violin]
The loveliest tales of the East
Are bought for a handful of coins.
We must accept with a smile
The gifts bestowed by the stars.
But the blue fantom of love
Wandering through the shantytowns
Seems less showy by day!
– Yes, but the Night changes your eyes,
The Night is a great magician –
Shahrazad - the enchantress –
The hex of her breath
Will grant you rare drunkenness.
“Vagabond,” Karol Szymanowski, 1919