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| GATHERING STORM
Posted: 6/21/2009 9:35:08 PM | death doesn't exist.
emptiness does.
i look over my shoulder
and see nothing.
i love, and i miss love,
and i miss lovers.
then i come back to myself
until i can't come back.
life is beautiful.
let's make love,
ignore the narrowness
around us
and make love,
and make love,
and make love.
life is love. | |
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| GATHERING STORM
Posted: 6/21/2009 9:39:14 PM | wishes speak
toward completion of sunsets
they take inward and seduce
brevity and chance(s)
make the heart sing exultant
once west of Lytton | |
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| GATHERING STORM
Posted: 6/21/2009 11:02:46 PM | Lytton is so very brief
Blink....too many are gone this way.
Such brief, quick, slamming prose
like lytton, answer nothing
suggest that nothing was gathered.
appreciated in the baby born
raised, wild in these hills, these valleys
moments that never accepted erased.
the earth knows, cannot care, leaves it to you.
to hear, surround, place upon yourself..
the blanket of ghost voices. | |
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| GATHERING STORM
Posted: 6/22/2009 3:01:25 PM | rebirth
blankets of ghost voices
riding into the mist
exultant becoming
the wind is in
my face and
my horse's mane is
shaking like
old bones in a candlelit dawn
of becoming
closer
unfathomable bells ringing
silent intonations
resound
hoofbeats on the heavy air
sodden
the end of sadness
curses lifted
the land
sighs
LPGOF
(with full attribution to 60 to 70)
:) | |
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| GATHERING STORM
Posted: 6/22/2009 3:16:39 PM | death exists as surely as Siva's scowl
fvcking unfortunately doesn't solve all of life's problems
believe me I've tried
Caffeinated Troubadour of Tomorrow | |
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| Il PLEUT A MOURIR [+ CLATTER LIKE WORRY]
Posted: 6/22/2009 7:19:34 PM | Il PLEUT A MOURIR*
[+ CLATTER LIKE WORRY]
The moist beautiful day,
she said,
then the raining eyes,
we shared.
Clatter like worry.
We placed our deaths
in the clouds, placed the clouds
in one another's mouth.
Afterwards,
the susurrsant rain & nothing else.
*Title by Godspeed You Black Emperor | |
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| Il PLEUT A MOURIR [+ CLATTER LIKE WORRY]
Posted: 6/22/2009 11:17:06 PM | I think the phrase means the 'rain of death' but am not completely sure.
the poem is symbolic, for instance, clouds are metaphors for the body [Rimbaud]
thus the death or quietude is symbolic of cessation of thinking and doing
the we that is referred to has no relevance to anything other than landscapes, immediacy | |
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| Il PLEUT A MOURIR [+ CLATTER LIKE WORRY]
Posted: 6/23/2009 9:51:01 PM | I am eight.
You are almost gone in my eyes.
Light fondles bony body, lips suggesting marks of everything.
Body eternally bent, supple... as soft
as the tears that are refused by your eyes.
Let me cry. You can't; the arm moves
the sound rises in trembling arcs of pain
your violin translates the journey. | |
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| Il PLEUT A MOURIR [+ CLATTER LIKE WORRY]
Posted: 6/23/2009 10:08:46 PM | you ar right stream
light arches about bounces or
is a halo about the surface
homo curvatus stooped ryhmes with stupid
means humus moist succession'f from
rain lips, liquido, lick-e-do,
labios sucretos, waves apon waves, full, pleno, | |
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| lard of the imaginary pairing
Posted: 6/23/2009 10:23:03 PM | just these walking shimmering moon light
pebbles underfoot cool
a clean solution for all
in a moment of enchantment
we are left to dissolve
the universal experience
to leave the place of naked facts
of hard laws
facts are not values or to be dis-valued!
but subject to 'strong inference'
to be weighed by a balance
of competing interests
to be used by tools forged by
the mind
not as manacles
to enslave the imagination
and ensnare the host
but to lend credence to the
tillage and humus
to help make fertile the earth when
amongst more bleaker times
of ice and chilly winds
men women and children
were all huddled up around salvaged
tinder and bits of coal
as though before the ancient oaks were felled
for ships to gather spice and gold and tea
as in each,
whose mode,
whose fall from grace,
the divine
in each,
clutches together
some yarn and feathers,
places pitch to hold
this center,
dark, molten
luminous in parts
according to the sun,
the remainder too
is divine,
and
cherished
to the core,
still some frisking
wish it was now just spring
can't think what in marx you'd be referrencing?
surely marx redeemed messianism (helder camara & co)
against the dr's of the word for judeao/xtian civ ?
and who in the tradition? bloch, maybe?
but none of them leave the earth, facticity, behind,
in favor of the house of language.
liberation from earth and facticity
for a language?
in Shuswap the word
for walking
is different and varies
depending on the time
of day or month of year
willow shimmering
moon wanton
waving sand
this is walking in Shuswap on a clear night
perhaps language
is to convey in winter
months
amongst heated stones
heaped up stones
the temptations and redeeming
heat of warmer, less imagined
veces, tiempo
otters slide and play
on riversides
in the Orinoco
and the Tum Tum
who dreams of summer
dreams not of winter in summer
but dreams of endless hours
internal sense of time or Bergsonian time/duration
aloft a raft in exquisite light
or adrift as though in nectar found
in a sieve
honey
we were as though men lost at sea
we were in a boat without a rudder
lost and adrift at sea
we were truely adrift without much to hope for
then we found our faith
amongst the reed boats
high above the river
that flows to the sea
later amongst ancient places
of worship
amongst porticoes of granite
crucifurous lichen
as old as these hills
as I am
my heart is moved by a woman
who wears a shawl on her head
it is black
even through the thick mud walls
where ancient light from moon
illumines this bed
there are still no lights on
in this town
and out on the lake that is oceanic
far above the Orinoco
how much mystery and wonder
could have been given
on this quietest of nights?
Soft Fluffy Cloud
Isla Taquile, 1998, | |
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| lard of the imaginary pairing
Posted: 6/23/2009 11:04:19 PM | ahem trulio....and violin players have a place in some histories. The end.
soft, fluffy clouds have a way
of easing oceanic far above any lake
any stake, any wishful wish for plunder, power
to lift one onto the motions of movement
that masquerades then, hurray, become life.
The old crone, wasted, ancient female lifted her veil
Pinned the works with her eyes. | |
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| “WELCOME TO BARCO AM/PM...”[L.A.X. 5/14/00]*
Posted: 6/28/2009 7:33:16 PM | thoughts leading up to an orgasm
there are flecks in your eyes like
intrusions in quartz crystal
infusions of trapped
life
waiting to
melt
there are scars deep inside
me that your love can't
touch
there was a small bird this morning
who tilted his little head and looked at me
there are places within me like chambers in a cave
vaulted ceilings in a towering cathedral
the abyss of the sea
bottomless
there was a time when I loved you more than I
could love myself
there is a place somewhere
free
of daunting possibilities where
we can
smile
TJJ | |
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| “WELCOME TO BARCO AM/PM...”[L.A.X. 5/14/00]*
Posted: 6/28/2009 8:02:07 PM | | Nice....JauntyJane... very nice...the bird that looks at you lifted you beyond and away from physical sensation like orgasm and possibly connected you to the Whole. lol. | |
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| “WELCOME TO BARCO AM/PM...”[L.A.X. 5/14/00]*
Posted: 6/28/2009 8:16:35 PM | attribution to BM:
she climbed the Hollywood hills
so did he, dive into cocaine, ecstasy
and the advent of being forty, fifty
clueless. And not free. Yet, some transform
see seething sealight. | |
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| love poems wasted
Posted: 7/1/2009 7:31:35 AM | let your skinny as*s show
with your circus cl*it
I slap you against the wall
I hang all your dogs
I speedball on your family pictures
why do sinless wh*ores
oh there you are
I'll wrecking ball your mouth
bruised taffy pu*ssy
dental teeth plates in the toilet
mixed with blood my cum dripping from your cut lip
holy is the sky,
God pukes out of his ass
new day dawning.
Your kids scream like crack babies with nothing to eat
there is a thunderstorm brewing in the ocean of your as*s
the more I hurt you the more I want to marry you.
you dream of horses night and day
your pa was a preacher
he licked the wounds off your knees
and taught you Beckett and Proust
you still think you have the sorrow of Flaubert
but there is no urgency to your love
would you have me sleep under bridges?
for a pasture
a poor mans barbed infatuation
I lasso your feet to the back of my truck and drive
engine gunning for the sun
the lopsided sophistry of the sky
my whisper pounds the highway haunted
fetterd ghost
I have lost my love for the Mona Lisa. | |
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| love poems wasted
Posted: 7/1/2009 11:12:26 AM | NV-As always your incredible tenderness comes shining through. I especially liked the closing lines:
the lopsided sophistry of the sky
my whisper pounds the highway haunted
fetterd ghost
I have lost my love for the Mona Lisa .
Now, where's that essay? | |
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| love poems wasted
Posted: 7/1/2009 3:18:24 PM |
the more I hurt you the more I want to marry you.
Necro.....
I'd hate to be someone you didn't like... | |
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| love poems wasted
Posted: 7/1/2009 8:22:16 PM | I'm just tryin' to look up brizo's skirt. That's why I'm here.
Had you ever heard of a skort before, sister mary?
we're so out of touch.. yanno it? | |
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| love poems wasted
Posted: 7/1/2009 9:16:31 PM | black hole
then into the nothingness
we appear
soul full of memories
loneliness is vast
perhaps an eternity
have you stored
enough love
to fill that void?
LS 07/01/09 | |
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| LYNX 102
Posted: 7/1/2009 10:46:38 PM | LYNX 102
Squidman boards the 11:15, eyes leaking yesterdays of
poppy light. And tonight himself and the underwater voice
reading “Tendrils is the Night”, his favorite book.
“ If only we could fly out of the bus pages to join ourselves unto the feral stars. To drink black space down with parched throats. Our restructured will aligned to the credit default swap tempo of a 24 hour party people. O sweet hocus-pocus of a divine globalism will you not push the blood through our galactic bodies? What is not the last? There is indeed a ferryboat and a river as well. And along the riverline, the banks of ephemeral promissary notes.
My underwater voice yearning
to turn the corner
on this thing with its language
of islands and clouds,
of playful houses, and vagabond priests. “
Someone pulls the STOP REQUESTED rope, a stander steadies,
grabs the aluminum rib cage. Outside depths are neon.
A first person pronoun reads
a text of darkness, the minutes pass,
reflect golden iris of damp air under city lamps.
I have no pity for myself in late evening rain.
Nor pointless fear of what gapes inescapably.
For after all, it was known all along.
You knew it too.
I order you right here and now,
I insist
that you not think of a
rhinocerous.
I will think of a rhinocerous
and a coffin. And whatever else
is unavoidable.
The first person pronoun is a rider.
It sees the flying light, alone side by side with itself
in the deep sea voice.
“ O fellow rider. O tendril, O tentacle is the night and harbor is the day. Long ago I memorized the velvet curves, and if I grew blind in the red exile of the sun, it was for another purpose of seeing without eyes or words. Only the traditional horror film supports the final girl theory. What relies on correlation is charlatanism. Black Scholes/ Black heart, we curse the Gaussian copula of your collateralized debt obligations.
When.
When the angels trumpet by the grey stones, above the slow waters.
227 years of melancholy float beside you.
If then a promise of happiness, elision of.
Lightening over snowy fields I've never seen.
Following this. Following this – my deepest regrets in the margin of the guest book. And then occasionally.
Participants and celibrants. Occassionally a story.
Every story tells itself, the snow drifting, and the ascendent fogs of Mt. Kilimanjaro. This ending or that ending. Over there, dry leaves on the cloister. And farther back, the loving rivers and trees, both green and stark.
Erase this image, build a house of white pages. | |
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| LYNX 102
Posted: 7/1/2009 11:30:52 PM |
erase this image, build a house of white pages.
that line left me with some unnerving dichotomy of emotions
and nv, your tender poem is a masterpiece of tearing the superficial and shallow to rags and blood...tying to the car and pullng gunshot to the sunshine brings the light and a cleansed body inside and out to capture the suns wisdoms ...LOL
Good Images as always
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| love poems wasted
Posted: 7/2/2009 10:19:55 PM | I have regained Mona Lisa
Her smile is the minute
my eyes saw the light.
Saw through human physical greed.
Saw through the bloody hands
the whelp of all, crying, sawing at the sky.
Understanding, not understanding
the function of human screwing.
Hey every baby, every baby, every baby
gets the Mona Lisa smile.Through the sky.
through the looking. | |
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| love poems wasted
Posted: 7/3/2009 12:25:04 AM | White pages exist only on paper.
and procul harum's whiter shade of pale.
All else, pulses, bleeds, lives...continuim extended.
then, plop, dead. you had your chance. Didn't you? | |
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| MAPPING HORIZON
Posted: 7/3/2009 8:08:46 PM | MAPPING HORIZON
White alphabet on the sun's pages
and then to say this faith
much like a flag or the next thing.
A set of equations
or what is known,
what is outside
or what links
the edges of the forest
to an exit wound.
What washes down
the curvilinear skies
occurs also against edges,
sea edges, or the edges
of a facet.
As crystal
coming forth.
Let's say window
or perspective of
city streets, then meadow,
and field finally faces.
Between one hand
and another,
where the air expands
in a language for leaving. | |
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