tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-232171282024-03-06T20:30:57.311-08:00Blue Fred's KitchenPoetry from Blue Fred PressUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger50125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-13407456485564894542006-12-27T01:35:00.000-08:002006-12-27T01:36:54.153-08:00Bruce Hodderdecember 27<br /><br />one day i will write down<br />the story of our love<br />and how it ended, how<br />ever since the world<br />seems colourless, and flat.<br />but not today. today<br />i have to go to work.<br />today i want to watch<br />the post-Christmas television<br />for a while, though there's<br />nothing on that would<br />entertain a gnat,<br />according to the schedules.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-27776520925422666222006-12-18T08:03:00.000-08:002006-12-18T08:09:15.617-08:00RIVER PIRATE1.<br />My friend the gimp told me,<br />We were camping up<br />In a lightning storm,<br />“This place is haunted.”<br /><br />Woods he’d played in<br />As a boy,dense and dark,<br />Deer flitting between trees<br />Lit up every few minutes<br />By lightning throwing its<br />Fiery spears into the earth.<br /><br />“You’re an idiot,” I said<br />And struck him with<br />My pistol on the shoulder.<br /><br />That night,underneath my<br />Blanket,I kept my pistol<br />Cocked.The spirits of the dead<br />Moved about me.When<br />I saw the Paddy bastard<br />I emptied six chambers<br />Right into his spectral form.<br /><br />2.<br />Sleeping in the woods is fine<br />If you can go into a town<br />And clean up - sometimes.<br /><br />3.<br />I get sweaty in this thick coat<br />Black jacket and woollen shirt beneath.<br />The best is when I’m bare-arse<br />Naked jumping into a mountain river<br /><br />Especially from a moving train!<br /><br />4.<br />I didn’t lose my home,<br />I never had a home to lose:<br />Brat girls in white smocks,<br />Boys with no shoes on<br />Batting balls with sticks,<br />Dirty shack with a tin roof<br />That blew off in the wind<br />And let in rain continually.<br /><br />Always freezing,the same old<br />Shit to eat every day.<br /><br />My old man,what a bastard.<br />Spent his money on whisky.<br />His gums were always bleeding.<br /><br />The times I saw him beaten up<br />Begging the young lord<br />Not to kick him anymore.<br /><br />And my mother’s martyrdom,always<br />Staring into the stew pot bubbling<br />On the stove for the reflection<br />Of her suffering.She didn’t have<br />A thing except her piety.<br /><br />5.<br />The canals called me to them<br />And I went as soon as I could<br />Steal a few pence for my passage,<br />Bunked down on deck in all weathers<br />Freezing underneath a blanket that<br />Smelled distinctly of the captain’s dog.<br /><br />6.<br />Sliding over water in autumn mist<br />I knew Creation as a thing of wonder,<br />God immanent in the whole works:<br />It must have been the opium I took!<br /><br />7.<br />Song of the River Pirate<br /><br />I am a river pirate.<br />My name you’ll one day know.<br />I kill the men so quickly<br />And I fuck the women slow.<br /><br />My fists are hard as shovels.<br />They will pound your head to dust.<br />My cock has iron in the shaft.<br />I split ‘em when I thrust.<br /><br />Go tell the parson’s daughter<br />To get her bloomers down.<br />I am a river pirate<br />Of fan-testicle renown!<br /><br />8.<br />Killed some Paddy bastard in an ale house.<br />Got scooted out of there by the gimp<br />Before the locals strung me up.<br /><br />Threw up when I thought about him dying<br />And cursed my weakness underneath a tree,<br />A million stars lighting up the wood.<br /><br />9.<br />Drunk,I give my horse a slap<br />And wonder what will happen<br />When I’m old and toothless<br />And can’t rob or steal for bread.<br /><br />As if I will live that long.<br />Hang me in the town square<br />Gawped at by hags and by traders<br />Keeping their diseases secret.<br /><br />Give me your opprobrium,O good<br />Citizens of England,as I kick<br />And squirm against the hangman’s rope.<br />I’ll spit on anyone who gets close enough<br />And see all of you in Hell!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-88831894391593595192006-11-25T11:49:00.000-08:002006-11-25T11:55:04.880-08:00NEW POEM BY BRUCE<em>waylon and willie were the soundtrack to your youth</em><br /><br /><br />those outlaws presented<br />the perfect image<br />of what a man should be<br />to your teenage mind.<br /><br />with their hair and beards,<br />their rough clothing<br />which spoke of other places<br />unlike middle-class<br />estates in england.<br /><br />their songs of wild nights<br />and mornings in the<br />fresh, clean air.<br />they could handle bars<br />AND mountain lakes<br /><br />and their minds<br />encompassed both<br />with equal sentimental<br />love. the outlaws spoke<br />of the loneliness of heroes<br /><br />as you were lonely, tho<br />certainly no hero. they<br />made romance where your<br />father made only<br />the ugliness of duty<br />he never seemed to want.<br /><br />your dad was squashed down<br />by responsibility, or<br />the angry urge to show<br />that he had sacrificed himself.<br />they were cowboy gypsies,<br />poets living out a dream<br /><br />of women, drink, drugs<br />resistance of the hard iron<br />that gets into the soul<br />and kills it. this you knew<br />from watching how<br />he gave into his rages,<br />and left at dawn in<br />smart clothes heading<br />to the office, silent,<br />resentment bloody in his eyes.<br /><br />this you knew because<br />he never really looked<br />when you showed a picture<br />or some writing to him.<br />he couldn't come back far<br />enough from the chilly<br />world he lived in, not<br />even to make a stab<br />at faking a reaction.<br /><br />the outlaws set you free<br />from that fate, which<br />your road had been prepared<br />for. you might have those<br />chains laid about your arms<br />and legs by family, or<br />mortgage, but your mind<br />would always be your own<br /><br />and always itch<br />to hike into the backwoods<br />to smoke and drink and dream<br />and be large, as Kesey says.<br /><br />the outlaws helped you<br />to see your own life<br />as a movie in which<br />no one was the star but you.<br /><br />every time you find<br />a secret path into the woods<br />you turn into a wounded hero<br />packing iron, on the run<br /><br />even when you're carrying<br />two bags full of groceries<br />or heading off to work..Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-62976221994782570622006-11-25T09:56:00.000-08:002006-11-25T10:05:15.074-08:00NEW POEM BY AUSTIN McCARRON<strong>Stone Water</strong><br /><br />In a room of stone,<br />at the gate of water:<br />to lose the friendship of air.<br /><br />The draft of love:<br />underneath: the heart<br />is a fume of sinking rocks,<br />delivered by water, on seaflower ends.<br /><br />Time grows feet,<br />suffering wings, on the upturned sole.<br /><br />Tongue, crimson ladder,<br />zipped up in a uniform of skin:<br /><br />I watch its images drown.<br /><br />Mouth to mouth, mouth of hell,<br />plate of blood, I leave it with stone,<br />rolled over in front of its speechless eye.<br /><br />The invitation of air:<br />we exchange cards; air visits my room;<br />we drink out of glass words a mix of empty signs.<br /><br />The text of motion is like water to stars.<br /><br /><br /><em></em><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Austin McCarron lives in London.</em></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-52169868465194146312006-11-25T04:32:00.000-08:002006-11-25T04:34:17.831-08:00love story"jesus, what does it take with you?"<br />i remember one very kindly said<br />underneath her eiderdown one night<br />after her right hand failed to reach meUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-86856175758998349272006-10-20T01:16:00.000-07:002006-10-20T01:18:23.282-07:00stepped outw/ uncombed hair<br />and half sleeping<br />still, i stepped<br />out to check<br />if it was bin<br />day on my street--<br />my neighbour's bins<br />are always out<br />the night before, so<br />that wd tell me--<br />stepped out and i<br />was hit immediately<br />by such a blast<br />of gorgeous, chilly<br />rain i laughed--<br />impossible to<br />be angry now.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-72879839791207142422006-10-17T07:54:00.000-07:002006-10-17T07:55:49.400-07:00God Addresses The U.S.Congresssit down, mortals,<br />and listen. i've<br />got something to say<br />that's been burning<br />a hole in my head<br />for too long. and<br />I've come a long<br />way, so don't interrupt.<br />you people have got<br />me feeling all cranky.<br />Let me start, if<br />i may, with the gays.<br />yes, the gays. please<br />stop rolling your eyes.<br />the gays are NOT<br />automatically<br />going to Hell,<br />any more than you<br />"saved" folks have<br />a free pass to Heaven<br />it's a matter<br />of character,<br />which i actually<br />said two thousand<br />years ago, need<br />i remind you.<br />the true marriage<br />is love, people,<br />whatever form that<br />it takes. and while<br />we're at it, i DON'T<br />go whispering<br />in president's ears<br />about war, other<br />than to hint<br />that it's usually wrong,<br />especially when oil<br />is the super-objective.<br />to be truthful<br />(i can hardly be<br />otherwise) it pisses<br />me right off<br />being used to excuse<br />such a mortal<br />folly as the resolution<br />of difference by<br />horror and violence.<br />my way is to love.<br />do you know what<br />that means?<br />but ah, even i<br />reach the end of<br />my rope, though<br />mine unfolds back<br />to the beginning<br />of time. when i<br />see suits worshipping<br />while my raggedy<br />children starve out<br />on the pavements,<br />or drown in the flood<br />waters your negligence<br />let in over the<br />cities, when i see<br />that, i'm tempted<br />to pack up the whole<br />damned operation,<br />zap this doomed<br />ball back to the dust<br />and repair to some<br />virginal edge of<br />the cosmos<br />to start over,<br />this time giving<br />dolphins opposable thumbs.<br />but i probably won't.<br />why? because my way<br />is love. LOVE.<br />love is my cross.<br />it's what makes me<br />put up with you<br />dumb sonsofbitches.<br />but don't assume<br />it is limitless.<br />don't assume you<br />can go on<br />perverting my Word<br />and be forgiven<br />every time, however<br />heinous the crime.<br />that's a warning. i<br />can crush you.<br />now get out of<br />my sight.and give<br />a stranger your wallet<br />before you drive<br />home tonight.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-18751201206801649942006-10-17T04:06:00.000-07:002006-10-17T04:07:27.794-07:00on holidayincense gives the dust<br /><div align="left">a scent of jasmine--</div><div align="left">writing at the keyboard</div><div align="left">raging drunk</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-24174551364225496142006-10-16T14:30:00.000-07:002006-10-16T14:35:52.580-07:00LUKASH MEETS GWBby Geoff William<br /><br />In the cold doorway of dawn<br />lurks the one-eyed raven.<br />I see Lukash floating in a blue lake,<br />lavender blue, hiding from me your tongue.<br />Orchids bloom at the break of dawn,<br />slugs slide down stairways,<br />the mole digs beneath the stones.<br />The mole becomes a slug, a mosquito,<br />a locust, a rat, vermin, George Dubya Bush,<br />who sends the Zionists to swarm<br />over the Hashemites, to slaughter children, destroy orchards.<br />The children are neither with us or against us.<br />How could they know? You are either a slug<br />or a butterfly. But it is the slugs<br />who will destroy the olive trees.<br /> Horror. Fear. Death lies in the wadi.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-44425875688278035282006-10-15T23:58:00.000-07:002006-10-16T01:00:41.090-07:00PAYBACKby Steve DeFrance<br /><br /><br />I go downstairs.<br />My neighbor's feeding fish heads<br />to some local dogs.<br />I find my car.<br />The day's hot enough to<br />glaze pottery in the back seat.<br />I start the engine & crank up the air<br />conditioner. It's running hot.<br />I flip on the radio.<br />Bombers race toward Baghdad.<br />People on the street look dazed.<br />At the corner, a pregnant woman<br />stops in the center of the busy street<br />doing a body count of her growing family.<br />My knuckles grow white on the wheel.<br />I miss the light.<br /><br />Hot. No wind.<br />The car's a jar with a lid.<br />I roll the windows down.<br />Try to cool off.<br />Trees on the street cringe<br />from the heat. Birds have stopped<br />flying, instead they huddle<br />in melting pools of color,<br />grey, brown and black,<br />heads bobbing slowly.<br />Next to me on the car seat,<br />a half-eaten Chocolate Hershey Bar<br />has exploded.<br /><br />All that is plastic is devolving<br />into petroleum ooze.<br />Fillings in my teeth are burning,<br />touching a nerve.<br />Rounding a corner, the asphalt's<br />melting--heat ripples rise<br />as if from an Iraqi mirage.<br />High Noon in L.A.<br />Ahead--two sweating men charge<br />snarling from trucks, it's all about a parking place.<br />They fight in the street. Bone & flesh collide.<br />Under a deserted building, a lone dog wails.<br /><br />I eye the ageing buildings on this<br />block--dying Victorians--blemished,<br />battered, broken & bleeding.<br />Dwellings filled with growing families.<br />Spilling over stoops, rambling down steps,<br />scattering into the street, where they spray<br />each other down with water hoses.<br />Lupine smiles seem to contradict the menace<br />glinting from their predatory eyes.<br /><br />Just as it is too hot for the fat red spiders<br />who sit in heat shock--watching<br />the death dance of the web-caught flies.<br />These predators are not in a hurry.<br />It is too hot for them to dine on me.<br />They will dine when the sun's down.<br />I turn right onto 7th Street.<br /><br />All in all, it's a day that causes<br />ordinary men to break cue sticks over bald heads.<br />A day so sweltering it makes<br />common thieves too hot & too wet to steal.<br />On this day--shrieking babies are being<br />smashed against cement walls,<br />and regretfully married women are sharpening long knives,<br />sweating and staring at the soft underbelly<br />of their husbands' throat.<br /><br />It's a grand day for getting even,<br />a day for settling festering scores.<br />A day for payback<br />a day designed for vengeance.<br />A day to use baseball bats in alleys.<br />A day to swing socks filled with ball bearings.<br />A day for reprisals by the damned.<br />It's just that kind of day.<br /><br />Driving by the Park on 7th Street,<br />I see hawks hankering for retribution,<br />sitting in the shade of hemlock trees<br />considering all possibilities.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-77286084822817974332006-10-12T03:24:00.000-07:002006-10-12T03:25:12.327-07:00fridge magnets<div align="center">we bought each other fridge magnets<br />declaring our undying friendship<br />just before our friendship died.<br />i see them each day<br />as i reach in for my eggs and juice.<br />i take a masochistic pleasure<br />in their cruel reminder<br />of the illusion that we lost.<br />and (though i'm ashamed to say)<br />a manly pride<br />in the way that i destroyed it.<br />this is why you'll see them<br />clinging to my fridge door for a while.<br />how could i possibly remove<br />something that affords such fun<br />when i have little else to occupy<br />my twisted mind?</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-21882928047376294402006-10-08T01:24:00.000-07:002006-10-08T01:25:48.659-07:00a.m., bathwater runningi sit, reading.<br />voices murmur<br />on the radio.<br />a sharp light<br />breaks through<br />the curtain.<br />i notice<br />birdsong.<br />i hear a car<br />passing on<br />the road below.<br /><br />i turn the page.<br />i realise:<br /><em>i'm happy</em>.<br />my mood<br />crashes thru the floor.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-12611314105176840542006-10-06T11:59:00.001-07:002006-10-06T11:59:52.068-07:00Another Fridayit's delicious, coming out of work<br />into the cold and rain<br />knowing you don't have to go back<br />and see those fucking people<br />for three long days<br />you descend the hill towards the main road<br />like a liberated hostage rushing towards<br />a waiting family of careless shoppers,<br />pissed off commuters going home<br />and sneering kids.<br />the squalls of rain blow out the dust,<br />the radioactive dust, of work<br />your optimism rises, and it lasts<br />about another thirty seconds<br />which is when you realise<br />you are totally alone.<br />another friday with the bottle and the couch ahead.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-67881581994321516692006-10-04T12:46:00.000-07:002006-10-04T12:47:38.020-07:00The Sky Seems Bluerthe sky seems bluer<br />this crisp october day<br />stepping out to catch a bus to work.<br /><br />now you are not my friend<br />the morning light seems brighter,<br />the cold air bites more sweetly<br />than it did before.<br /><br />with your absence you have given me<br />so much that your presence<br />failed to provide,<br /><br />so much<br />that i should thank you for.<br />with this poem i thank you.<br /><br />the new weather of life after you<br />exceeds my boldest hopes by miles.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-44923684584829661772006-09-30T07:56:00.000-07:002006-09-30T07:57:25.565-07:00BruceLOVE WITH A SAGITTARIAN DEPRESSIVE<br /><br />I was happy<br />when I was<br />with you,<br /><br />all evidence<br />to dispute that<br />notwithstanding.<br /><br />I thought<br />I'd have you<br />to resent<br />forever.<br /><br />Now I miss you<br />where I wished<br />you gone.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-54024514865469852742006-09-30T06:39:00.000-07:002006-09-30T06:41:38.834-07:00BruceWhile I Bleed For Love<br /><br />I have realised that my heart is broken<br />four months after I split with her<br />(now ain't that me all over).<br />But I can't tell her, I think she ought to know<br />and I can't hear hers isn't broken too.<br />Nor can i play the penitent,<br />pretending it was all my fault,<br />though dissecting it for blame<br />would be pointless masochism.<br />I just keep remembering pleasant things<br />we did, and finding things she bought for me<br />like the plunger I unclogged the sink with<br />while handwashing my western shirt just now.<br />I want to phone. Talking to her feels so right.<br />but I can't hear indifference in her voice,<br />a trace of evidence that we are really over..<br />I'd rather risk not having her again<br />than losing her forever while I bleed for love.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-19007216652359204402006-09-29T11:24:00.000-07:002006-09-29T11:26:11.163-07:00BruceStorm<br /><br />I lie on my couch and listen to the rain.<br />It pours and pours, and then the light turns yellow .<br />My heart thunders like the sky will soon.<br /><em>Perfect metaphor</em>, i think when the flash<br />arrives, and the crack and rumble.<br />Like the angry end of comfortable illusion.<br />I should pick up the telephone. But I<br />know I won't remember how to talk.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-57558195962413938702006-09-26T11:03:00.000-07:002006-09-26T11:06:14.048-07:00BruceTHE EVIDENCE<br /><br />Days playing Hitman and Wolfenstein.<br />Calling to discuss my halting progress.<br />Shopping for doughnuts and<br />bread and cheese.<br />Watching 'Jeremy Kyle', detesting<br />his condescension (so much like mine).<br />Sitting close on the sofa.<br />Touching hands occasionally.<br />Bristling, thinking <em>There should be more</em>!<br />What more?!<br /><br />Once again the evidence<br />is against the genius I once presumed<br />to be my greatest gift.<br /><br /><br />GO BACK<br /><br />Ahh, go back, go back<br />to leaning on the bench<br />outside the Lamb pub<br />in Little Harrowden,<br />waiting in the cold and dark,<br />looking down the hill<br />toward the bridge<br />watching for her car.<br />She is heading home from work,<br />stopping for a pint with you.<br />Go back, go back,<br />turn the constellations overhead.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-1154863344433396662006-08-06T12:17:00.000-07:002006-10-16T07:34:58.387-07:00Tim Sansom<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/1000/2834/1600/tim.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/1000/2834/320/tim.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>UNCLE BILL<br /><br />Granddad, I love you even though you’re not a nice man. I’m embarrassed that fisticuffs still impress you at seventy years of age, but I look at your balding crown and see your spectacles and feel I could learn from you. You beat up my angelic Mum and I pity your conformity and your fashionable misogyny but I think you adore her. You are a boring drunken cunt but that’s what the world has taught you to be. You smell well tended and you look fastidious and regal. I love your scarf and your cockney confidence. It is a confidence which sings out it’s expletives in kind of affection that rises above anything academia could afford and knows it. I have to confess that if I had been a youth and were present when you engaged in combat with Dad I would have been exhausted of alternative choices than to have fucked you up so as to make you labour in walking and ashamed to show your face for quite a spell. But I still love you because I can see you are unquestioning and pond skimming market trader and I approve of your general disapproval of all things in life seemingly revered by the masses without foundation. I miss you and I miss your kind. You stank of booze and fags as you persevered each night to insert your key into the Lyndale lock through your balance hindered handicap. I’m told you were a womaniser and that you broke your second wife’s heart. But I want to believe that to have been ego and mindlessness rather than snarl and sadism. Mind you, your last girlfriend was a beehive hairdo powered by a dynamo wasn’t she Bill? She might have been a bit of karma for you mate, translated into your vernacular Bill that’s “Wot goes rand cums rand” mate! She was as warm and as humane as Himmler and that was if she was having a good day, but I suppose that we should love our enemies. I loved your son too, he was a lot like me, quite mad, quite confused and not a beneficiary of the grape and the grain. I don’t blame him for protecting you (His Dad) for as I have said, I would have done the very same. Your daughter loved you and she admired you bravery in facing death. Anyone who thinks you were a cunt I understand, but for all that I’m sorry we can’t chat anymore as is the case with most of the dead. I doubt you had many secrets or even much depth, you were probably very young when you realised what a load of rubbish the latter was hey Bill?<br />Well Uncle Bill, I may see you soon in another dimension but if that’s not how it works and it’s just lights out only, thanks for that World War One gun layer and special thanks for joining Emily in creating the enigma that was my mother. For kicking her in the head I’m afraid I have to inflict upon you the most severe punishment I can think of and that is as follows, spend a good many moons thinking about it, then when your soul is finally destroyed with the attrition of remorse and regret, see if you can’t spruce yourself up, get on your best garb and have a walk down the Steyne. The Steyne known only to the Saints and to the Father himself and make a few changes to your outlook. Whetere or not you do, I promise I myself shall.<br /><br />Your Grandson Tim<br />TIM SANSOM EARLY 2000</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-1153651847048206952006-07-23T11:46:00.000-07:002006-07-23T03:50:47.060-07:00Ronald BaatzTHE WIND WANTS TO SLEEP WITH ME<br /><br />It's a winter day like any other winter day.<br />It is cold and windy out there and the<br />wind chimes are being thrashed about.<br /> The most important thing i have to do<br /> is make an early fire, and maintain it until<br /> i climb the stairs around midnight to crawl<br />into bed. The bedroom faces the road,<br />the bedroom which i've been sleeping in<br />for fifteen years now, three years<br />with one woman, seven with another.<br />The other five years i've slept alone.<br />On these cold winter nights the wind<br />tries to muscle its way into the house,<br />into the bedroom, into my bed.<br />The wind wants to sleep with me,<br />but i don't want to sleep with it.<br />How can i tell the cold winter wind<br />that i am not in love with it?<br /><br />MY DOGS WON'T ALLOW ME TO DREAM<br />WITHOUT IT<br /><br />They won't allow me to dream without<br />my lime-green shirt on<br /><br />I am to have my lime-green shirt on<br />in every dream<br /><br />If i am without it then they wake me<br />with loud barking<br /><br />The only place i own this lime-green shirt<br />is in my dreams<br /><br />It has long sleeves which i roll up<br />and i leave the top two buttons open<br /><br />In every dream i might possibly dream<br />i am to be in lime-green<br /><br />Whether it's a good dream in paradise<br />or a bad dream in hell<br /><br />My dogs insist i wear my lime-green shirt<br />and that i smell from freshly cooked pork chops<br /><br /><br /><em>from ANGEL HEAD #4</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-1153650320368583512006-07-23T11:23:00.000-07:002006-07-23T03:25:20.380-07:00t.kilgore splake<div align="center"><br />missive on the wind<br />(poem for cc)</div><div align="center"><br />"wait caitland wait"<br />tranny horses warming<br />blinding whiteout clouds<br />UP blizzard from hell<br />motoring north<br />CLIFFS trailhead turnoff<br />hiking snowy path<br />climbing rocky trail<br />storm abating sky clearing<br />first dawn<br />painting wilder-woods-ness<br />lighting far horizon<br />"dearest c remember"<br />past the cobblestone smokestack<br />around headframe boulders<br />beyond mine shaft foundation<br />poet tree location<br />hidden among pines<br />we’ll toast morning’s sunrise<br />collins and smith<br />icy champagne salute<br />with green tea candle aromas<br />maturing "beat" hellion mates<br />making CLIFFS limnster aerie home<br />mojo cait with backwater graybeard<br />above maddening crowds<br />masses accepting mediocrity<br />satisfactory way of life<br />tired numbing platitudes<br />sucking brain-skulls empty<br />jackoff moralists<br />andy of mayberry<br />family values reruns<br />continuous psycho-babble hum<br />glossary of "can’t" excuses<br />growing generation<br />sloppy blowjob wimps<br />people fearing solitude<br />cell phone umbilicals<br />pockets full of extra batts<br />underwhelmed cipher-citizens<br />prisoners in sad small dreams<br />constantly phoning others<br />lacking original imaginations<br />unlike "driven" creative souls<br />artistic gamers<br />not wasting time talking<br />seriously contesting<br />elusive damn dame lady muse<br />giving good weight<br />producing solid<br />poetry limn<br />painting oils<br />final chapter<br />shining glaze<br />CLIFFS commune of two<br />reading brother brautigan<br />old charlie "buk"<br />romantic bardic ballads<br />into late afternoon dusk<br />later nestled around campfire<br />march nighttime heat<br />listening to wolves<br />singing love songs<br />nearby "big rock" lair<br />two ghostly shadows<br />survivors from "beat hell"<br />together at last enjoying<br />breathe it smell it<br />spring coming into<br />blowing across the peninsula<br />a little earlier</div><div align="center">than planned</div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center"><em>from ANGEL HEAD #4</em></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-1151345950934744072006-06-26T19:16:00.000-07:002006-06-26T11:19:10.950-07:00Tim SansomTHE WOODS<br /><br /><br />The gilded trim of the linnet’s wing<br />Splay tapered to her feathered form<br />Whose delicate maths sway and swing<br />Each blissful breeze, each trying storm<br /><br /><br />Dawn’s warbling sweet cacophonies<br />Calm gently amidst glistening dew<br />Earth’s rhythmic fulfilled prophecies<br /> So regularly ensure they do<br /><br /><br />Those shrieks and tweets from dense wet woods<br />Play sweet and real trustworthy scales<br />A music not puffed up but good<br />Our spinning sphere recounts her tales<br /><br />Capillaries of unmarred streams<br />Like slim deft digits reach and spread<br />Descending dales steps and steins<br />To quench life’s thirst and cleanse the dead<br /><br /><br /><br />Our forbears knew the trees I’m told<br />No map nor compass was required<br />They read on bark the sap and mould<br />It told of rainfall routes and time<br /><br /><br />Moist worms recoil from two for joy<br />With six for gold scarce next to us<br />Above behold each girl and boy<br />Our swallow’s airborne exodus<br /><br />Each morning cracks with leaps of light<br />Awaking mice, sedating owls<br />Then stirs of warmth replace the night<br />As black shapes change to grazing cows<br /><br /><br />And deep into the covert woods<br />Each fable dances with each myth<br />No soul can claim “They are no good!”<br />Nor that the Goblins do not live.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-1151000405639062372006-06-22T19:16:00.000-07:002006-06-22T11:20:05.650-07:00Maureen DoyleBlowsy roses bloom<br /> like women with unkept hair<br /> trifling and raucous<br /><br /><br /> Evening garden scents<br /> can make one drunk and sappy<br /> all from crumpled petalsUnknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-1150893249406475482006-06-21T13:30:00.000-07:002006-06-21T05:34:09.416-07:00t.kilgore splake<div align="center"><br /><br /><br />becoming<br /><br />graybeard bardic soul<br />standing eight count<br />on road to oz<br />cold dark alone<br />musing<br />that was then this is now<br />WHAT TO DO<br />plastic insurance card binge<br />od 40’s b+w films<br />alky brain cell suicide<br />grand sexual orgy<br />ask nun’s blessing<br />jack armstrong’s "wheaties"<br />mad man giving away possessions<br />wooing woodland witch<br />liking idea<br />time doesn’t exist<br />denying nursing home confusion<br />diaper<br />wheelchair<br />toothless<br />blind<br />good day rallies<br />waiting on sign<br />telling inspiration<br />"it is now"<br />dancing naked<br />long loose hair flowing<br />beyond<br />metes and bounds<br />return to womb<br />end of the earth<br />coyote<br />catfish<br />raven<br />bluebottle fly<br />companions<br />knowing grinning smile<br />smooth pale bone<br />spring<br />road kill<br />skull</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23217128.post-1150375909854532892006-06-15T13:48:00.000-07:002006-06-15T05:51:49.866-07:00Norbert Blei: Spam Poems<strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Patch</span></strong><br /><br />Don't let the other guy get the girl<br />Arm yourself with Ultra Allure pheromones tonight!<br />Join thousands across the world.<br />Penis Growth Patches<br />Are the most potent patch.<br />Fuel up.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">XUCarbonic</span></strong><br /><br />I haive the moust beautiful<br />wetches in the world.<br />scorecard ribosome cozen.<br />They're perfect, not overprized. restitution.<br />tahoe faithful.<br />See<br />and tell me<br />love to see you<br />But<br />if you dont,<br />here watc16h3znowbymail.com/rm<br />We'll be just fine.<br /><br /><strong>Bruce says</strong><em>: these are part of a new work Norb is preparing in which some experiments with language and form are made for the modern age. Let the Press know what you think either in the Comments field or via email. As part of my new resolution I will not be answering comments unless requested to do so by their author, so you can have your say without being put down, at least by me. Fill your boots, dear reader.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0