Poetry Corner

[freakyfreaky]

Re: Poetry Corner

Bowery Blues

The story of man
Makes me sick
Inside, outside,
I don't know why
Something so conditional
And all talk
Should hurt me so.

I am hurt
I am scared
I want to live
I want to die
I don't know
Where to turn
In the Void
And when
To cut
Out

For no Church told me
No Guru holds me
No advice
Just stone
Of New York
And on the cafeteria
We hear
The saxophone
O dead Ruby
Died of Shot
In Thirty Two,
Sounding like old times
And de bombed
Empty decapitated
Murder by the clock.

And I see Shadows
Dancing into Doom
In love, holding
TIght the lovely asses
Of the little girls
In love with sex
Showing themselves
In white undergarments
At elevated windows
Hoping for the Worst.

I can't take it
Anymore
If I can't hold
My little behind
To me in my room

Then it's goodbye
Sangsara
For me
Besides
Girls aren't as good
As they look
And Samadhi
Is better
Than you think
When it starts in
Hitting your head
In with Buzz
Of glittergold
Heaven's Angels
Wailing

Saying

We've been waiting for you
Since Morning, Jack
Why were you so long
Dallying in the sooty room?
This transcendental Brilliance
Is the better part
(of Nothingness
I sing)

Okay.
Quit.
Mad.
Stop.

- Kerouac, Jack

-----------------------------------------------------------


I am a guide to the labyrinth
Come & See me
in the green hotel
Rm. 32
I will be there after 9:30 P.M.
I will show you the girl of the ghetto
I will show you the burning well
I will show you strange people
haunted, beast-like on the
verge of evolution

-Fear the Lords who are
secret among us

-- Morrison, Jim. Wilderness, vol. 1, p. 84

[freakyfreaky]

Re: Poetry Corner

Actors must make us think
they 're real
Our friends must not
make us think we're acting

They are, though, in slow
Time

My wild words
slip into fusion
& risk losing
the solid ground

So stranger, get
wilder stilll

Probe the Highlands

- Morrison, Jim. Wilderness, vol. 1, p. 117

[iFemale]

Re: Poetry Corner

I used to care,
On my time of spare.
Now, I swear on Fred Astaire,
I don't compare.
Not even the strands of your hair...
Can snare what I bare.

[freakyfreaky]

Re: Poetry Corner

"Back on Times Square, Dreaming of Times Square"

Let some sad trumpeter stand
on the empty streets at dawn
and blow a silver chorus to the
buildings of Times Square,
memorial of ten years, at 5AM, with
the thin white moon just
visible
above the green & grooking McGraw
Hill offices

a cop walks by, but he's invisible
with his music

The Globe Hotel, Garver lay in
grey beds there and hunched his
back and cleaned his needles--
where I lay many nights on the nod
from his leftover bloody cottons
and dreamed of Blake's voice talking--
I was lonely,
Garver's dead in Mexico two years,
hotel's vanished into a parking lot
And I'm back here--sitting on the streets
again--

The movies took our language, the
great red signs
A DOUBLE BILL OF GASSERS
Teen Age Nightmare
Hooligans of the Moon

But we were never nightmare
hooligans but seekers of
the blond nose for Truth

Some old men are still alive, but
the old Junkies are gone--

We are a legend, invisible but
legendary, as prophesied

New York, July 1958

- Ginsberg, Allen. Reality Sandwiches, p.70 (1963).

[freakyfreaky]

Re: Poetry Corner

Trained Monkey

I'm a trained monkey. You don't see many of us anymore,
though the streets of the larger cities were once filled with us.
Who is to say why we have nearly passed, like several of my
cousin species of the jungle and rain forest, into extinction?
Some say we are no more than a fad and like all fads were
bound to pass, that is no longer charming to see uss as
our masters grind out music from an old and far-off country.
But I am a living, breathing thing, and find it abusive to be so
labeled.
I would have you know that I am a part of a prestigious line
of trained monkeys. My grandpapa worked in the movies from
the time he was taken from his own mother's breast. He was
the one who swirled at his master's feet, as he played a
mournful dirge in an exquisite dance of foreboding, as Law-
rence Tierny (playing the gangster John Dillinger) walked to
that final movie with the traitorous women in red. My own
mother appeared often on the stage in what has come to be
called the Golden Age of Television, before she was sold by
her trainer, a scoundrel and drunkard, to a life in the streets,
dancing, as I still dance, for the coins of children and the
good working people returning from their lunch breaks. We
worked together through my early years . . . oh truly, it was
the most wonderful time of my life.
I recall with the greatest detail the way she would lovingly
swat me across the head as I scuffled across her path on the
pavement, the way she would teach me, with such patience,
the secrets of certain acrobatic stunts which some experts
would have you believe are inherent characteristics to our spe-
cies. (Believe me, they are not inherent, but very much ac-
quired skills . . . for example, have you ever seen a relative of
mine, among the trees and trellises of his natural jungle envi-
ronment, do somersaults on the seat of a bicycle as his mama
pedals from the chrome guard above the back wheel?) More
than any of this, I remember the touch of her small, pink fin-
gers as she groomed me at night, tugging my ear with her
tight lips, and, once again, the loving swat, signaling she was
finished, that I should sleep.

- Carroll, Jim. The Book of Nods, pg. 1 (1986).

[freakyfreaky]

Re: Poetry Corner

Revealation off Highway One-Eleven (08/27/93)

On the night
I found the truth
The moon broke through
the clouds
of an ominous summer
storm
as did Moses
part the sea

and the lady
she universal
magnificent
welcomed me
with arms
candle light
so that I
may see

and the tears
of God
fell down
on me.

[KanadaHye]

Re: Poetry Corner

Kinda political for poetry... it ain't no love song

Close to Home

It makes me sick to my stomach
I can't stand it anymore
What kind of coward throws a bomb
On top of buildings in a war
Killing scores of innocent women
And the children that they bore

Their hands are red with blood
Their faces flush white
Their fingers on the trigger
Firing missles in mid flight
They talk about the peace
But there is no peace in sight

I can't imagine the terror
In the eyes of a mother
Who just lost one of her children
And can't bear to lose another
Her heart torn to pieces
Clings on to her only other

They lie to our faces
Their words no sense or rhyme
Those who have done wrong
Will pay for their crime
The truth can't be hidden
It always comes out in time

They can't justify the cause
Since its for money, gold and oil
They tell you its for other reasons
And blame it on religious soil
Their fate will be pure hell
Burning to the point of boil

My heart is filled with sorrow
For all of those who died
And the suffering of their family
All of those who cried
As Armenians it hits close to home
Our people suffered the Genocide

[freakyfreaky]

Re: Poetry Corner

Untitled - 05/1987

When the blue sun
meets the yellow sky
then tomorrow
will become yesterday
and my sorrow
changes back to glee
like an arrow
I'll make my way
and fight the turbulence
I met today
Ride the wind
for what it is
till I find
my resting place
there I'll grow
into a tree
spread my leaves
and cover thee
when I die
take me to the sea
so my mother
can take care of me
a piece of wood
i'll ride the waves
and feel the rays
this blue sun-shining day

[hipeter924]

Re: Poetry Corner

I'm Explaining a Few Things

You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I'll tell you all the news.

I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.

From there you could look out
over Castille's dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with its dogs and children.
Remember, Raul?
Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother!
Everything
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.

And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings --
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.

Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!

Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!

Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.

And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?

Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!

Pablo Neruda

I think this is one of the most powerful expressions of what is wrong about war.

[Pazooki]

Re: Poetry Corner

nice Sero.

Lol Thanks