i'm touched with desire, what don't i do?;
jeezis. here are 13 poems where there should be none. and by "should be none" i mean that there should be fic here instead of poetry. anyway, by subject they're just varied, and by title they are: Winning in Life, Fast Cars and Dark Night, To Live in Yr Hands, The World Underwater, On The Kingdom, Key, Sinning in the City, The Road, Untitled and Offensive, The Ambassador of Poetry, The Big Deal, A Matter of Time, and The Last.
☆WINNING IN LIFE
Most people's eyes, mouths,
masticate and say that love is
the breathless electricity of the sky,
the open hand of the air,
or white- the smell of laundry, the channels of snow.
Real love is slow.
Real love's made of wood and like wood,
Is related to the beaten lines of the hand (limited destiny)
Maybe love is the grayness that
` surrounds and huddles
in reluctant tribute around the mouth of storm:
sad, immense,
only some fugitive comfort from all the careless tearing.
Love like anything valuable won in life is beaten, torn, slashed, and in that sense, safe and true.
-True love dragged like a captive
from the pitch dark of the sea.
☆FAST CARS AND DARK NIGHT
The night's pure black but it's
blue as a bruise to the brain,
and it presses like a bruise.
A tight alcohol wind around my thoughts-
"Judah, justifying itself, turned into a vagabond,
and then rose again as Israel,
and elected Palestine its fucking dog"
-(Samaritans).
Palestine the Holy Land,
Serani on the radio, and flashes of
phosphorescence, an artificial brilliance,
in the lights of every dreaming driver who skulks gypsy by.
Night is black, and your teeth are white, large
They have the feel of being in a kingdom of lights
In the antique suicide gloom
All the way at the bottom of the sea.
☆to live in yr hands
To live in your hands:
through them, and no poetic device but a
captive light:
cove of fingers, strength turning and strength of music,
soft palm, olive branch,
smell of bleach on soft skin and
tower of smoke: towers on a dark wave
towers on the hill;
to live in your hands,
to bury your love.
To love through your work and your tongue.
☆THE WORLD UNDERWATER
for mariem hassan
I found new fire when your voice was underwater
Crystal bouncing off the walls of glass and then it
Shattered and burned right back up into clarity;
It was real like dreams are real, the earth in dreams, that
Sacred silence and all the whirling wheels:
The world underwater, so clear the edges blur-
Your voice, the sacrament,
It tore and created in one fell sweep,
Muhammed the Prophet, Suleyman Bey.
☆on the kingdom
Salvation is
Genderless-
Colored white-
A couple of sounds
A life under the law;
A sacrifice of lesser desires;
it's the hardest for artists to attain it.
` I don't pretend to understand it.
Here in this kingdom we got no
woman's lunar curve and no
masculine muscle- the scent of that rough music
that leaves its trail like honeying the earth;
ain't no
drifting coffee, granite eyes that meet the baseless dawn,
the grayness of the morning, the smoke of its fingers
Denying the afterlife, praying for heaven, fearing the dark
Although, it is worth it- it is-
A good eternity of peace and music
away from this wretched suffering.
Although one could never tell,
you trade one compassion for another.
☆key
Certain things will change without the key ingredient;
gray stacked on gray and fall to an inane, meaningless smoke:
Like some knockoff winter without snow
Like German, without the knowledge of music
passed through the family;
Like you, without the cloudy arms of love
to clear your charcoal dreams, to throw your pearls and tears.
And then you add one thing and the whole picture
explodes into its worst destiny, its other copper;
One hand too many and the kitchen's in chaos,
A storm with lightning means too many things uncovered.
You with money become both pimp and whore,
party to a vast selfishness, acetone stupidity claws,
and you masticate the neon of Astoria streets
for everything they're worth.
☆Sinning in the city
Sinning in the city, winning your way to freedom,
Wide roads under dark minds and roller coaster neon
rides and the road signs burst like lemon, light
and hot-wild as sugar behind your eyes-
All that shadowy fluid-
You, jealous flirt, barbarian tease,
head to Hell, a star coyote with the small hours
snapping at your heels: you never miss your lions &
There's no accounting for the turning oceanic taste
of darkness and light-
It's so fun t be a pagan, it's no fun t be faithful
You got the same feel of good bread,
Wide and intimate- and you're ragged with fire
but body's with the storms of peace just like a bum,
I can tell you're angry by the curling of your veins
past my eyes-
There are your teeth, snarling at the gray smoke
` and the running heels of fast dawn.
☆THE ROAD
Impossible as heaven as he makes his move, he does it
` with a flicker of his eyes-
some snake magic that comes from where he was born.
His heart took one bad left and he ended up-
here, at this ash crossroads, looking toward nothing
but bad luck and servitude.
Everything is like strong coffee, slides---
Although he was probably condemned from the very start
(had a dark gash torn blindside into him like a
` leopard's nightclaws ripping),
he was blessed with two gifts:
one- a body beyond love
two- a love beyond darkness.
You could get the feeling sometimes that
only a sinner can break through the road.
☆UNTITLED and OFFENSIVE
The Catholic Church is just a whorehouse with too many lights on-
Protestants hang up the Bible in place of other curtains
That're made of gold, or politics, or whatever-
The Anglican Church is a fucking joke-
Competing in a marketplace of ideas,
Hawking a bullwhip and a used set of eyes.
☆THE AMBASSADOR OF POETRY
What ambassador are you?
-Is that what it means, your poetry for the land?
What country inhabited, pervaded, by smoke
do you represent? Does it ask you for bread
with its eyes gouged lolling dumb
with its empty hands blooming into a midday melancholy
with its mouth that don't know better than a cheap shot?
Do you help when you're not asked to,
Are you some kinda televangelist?
You walk just like a national holiday-
What snake you must have scorned and ridden
To come to your third conclusion that
Only this, and nothing more, should be the measure
` of your life:
A round of clapping hands in rags
And some lonely scholar wife.
☆the big deal
I woke up crying, I went to sleep crying,
I dove down on the crocodile streets and my leather didn't help me
I spent the day tearing in anger,
ended it angered in tears
There were lotsa revolutionary parrots who talked "freedom"
But revolution, people power, green peace, cooperation, indeed poetry
Are just a series of grinning veils;
yeah and what's your freedom
Without mercy, without truth, without tenderness?
It was maybe the revenge of days spent without feeling
Compounded, stone bouldered, that
it became this blind hurricane-
Yeah and I thought it would help to
` remain on track, to
` think it out
To feel the contours of weakness like my hand was cosmic;
But the only thing that was a remedy was rage on rage
was hard and fierce black, and-so-now
Here I am, on this street, and look at me
Tumbling back on an ancient, second-hand selfishness.
☆a matter of time
You have the ceaseless irresistible and
Teeth for vengeance, and when you hesitate on a syllable
there's a violently gray smoke along the lines of my mind:
dangerously perfumed
` ` ` ` ` laughter
dancing along the trapeze valleys between
sanity, melancholy, the heart is a lunatic city
to which you have the keys.` ` (straightjacket)
Brutal animal, your loneliness smashes through your veins
` like trumpets
And it comes out in your touch; and it reflects in the
sweat on your skin, sun and water,
Chest and arms-
When the days exhale a sea thick and dark with salt
When the tropics declare a personal war on the streets of New York
You're going to tear me with desire and all your jealous tongue
` and
` ` I'm going to disrespect you with every letter of the alphabet.
☆The last
That was like a newspaper (sad and self-effacing as a newspaper), when everything was rain winter noir and the barest of fossils of the street were stripped back by cold white- everything dripping off the branches. Real old wind, maybe one that's always been blowing; come down from centuries right to some sidewalk in Queens, New York, to happen on three'a the most lonesome strangers ever walked that night- three of the stranded muscians and three kings of clocks. Destinies and histories and futures on different tongues: mine on fire and water and in a cross, in the backhanded nervousness. Sha's in the twist of his hands and the secret of his smoke and the fluidelectric rhetoric of words; of familial music twice abandoned, so to speak. And C has his own shyness and his own past fires; you can only see him though through the context of the love he's given- through her open eyes & arms. Who cares for the future? Fer then it was a struck out bubble at the bottom of the sea, and isolated, street suicide and freshly-fallen blackness.
Anyway it wasn't any big deal but it was the separation of fates; and how through the spheres of isolation something may be communicated, only vaguely and by the side. Lots of vibes. Lots of dead things, better that way. There was lotsa talk of apartments, cars, new-time investments, jobs, chicks, and other earth things that seemed double-tongued and lashed by bigger kings. You couldn't evade the ancient wind. There were only three cigarettes left and so, solemn fingers licking flickering sadness, we passed the pack and the light and shared the final smoke there. When holding a cigarette: knuckles bunched and fingers protective in a beautiful kinda way, one that guards thought. Smoke and knuckles like music to the jawline-
The boundaries of solitude closed and there was only solitude; no gold threads passed through the gray, and instead they swam outside it. All stripped to the barest black and white. It was isolation and melancholy; all future kinda dripped and slipped away. This eye aint accustomed nor will it ever bend to speak in terms of "we," but any I who saw it would say that this was the closing hour and that "we"/we in smoke were the final ones who listened to melancholy forever; called like hounds to this tearing world. Together in the long world of winter. A note in some long song.
The vague gray comfort of a cigarette. The smoke had all the sadness and the hunger and it spiraled up and sparkled through the skeletal branches of black trees and eye watched its low warm tongue.
also, i should prolly say that yknow i wrote these and they are my intellectual property, etc. i guess you could like. tell your friends that you wrote these. but if you start making money on them ill be very hurt about my penniless destiny and bitch about it XD
oh also, is anyone finding the spacing weird on any of the poems? im using safari on a mac right now and the spacing wasnt showing up correctly so i fixed it with wizardry, but is it weird on internet explorer/google chrome/firefox? thanks :D
thanks for reading! :D
☆WINNING IN LIFE
Most people's eyes, mouths,
masticate and say that love is
the breathless electricity of the sky,
the open hand of the air,
or white- the smell of laundry, the channels of snow.
Real love is slow.
Real love's made of wood and like wood,
Is related to the beaten lines of the hand (limited destiny)
Maybe love is the grayness that
` surrounds and huddles
in reluctant tribute around the mouth of storm:
sad, immense,
only some fugitive comfort from all the careless tearing.
Love like anything valuable won in life is beaten, torn, slashed, and in that sense, safe and true.
-True love dragged like a captive
from the pitch dark of the sea.
☆FAST CARS AND DARK NIGHT
The night's pure black but it's
blue as a bruise to the brain,
and it presses like a bruise.
A tight alcohol wind around my thoughts-
"Judah, justifying itself, turned into a vagabond,
and then rose again as Israel,
and elected Palestine its fucking dog"
-(Samaritans).
Palestine the Holy Land,
Serani on the radio, and flashes of
phosphorescence, an artificial brilliance,
in the lights of every dreaming driver who skulks gypsy by.
Night is black, and your teeth are white, large
They have the feel of being in a kingdom of lights
In the antique suicide gloom
All the way at the bottom of the sea.
☆to live in yr hands
To live in your hands:
through them, and no poetic device but a
captive light:
cove of fingers, strength turning and strength of music,
soft palm, olive branch,
smell of bleach on soft skin and
tower of smoke: towers on a dark wave
towers on the hill;
to live in your hands,
to bury your love.
To love through your work and your tongue.
☆THE WORLD UNDERWATER
for mariem hassan
I found new fire when your voice was underwater
Crystal bouncing off the walls of glass and then it
Shattered and burned right back up into clarity;
It was real like dreams are real, the earth in dreams, that
Sacred silence and all the whirling wheels:
The world underwater, so clear the edges blur-
Your voice, the sacrament,
It tore and created in one fell sweep,
Muhammed the Prophet, Suleyman Bey.
☆on the kingdom
Salvation is
Genderless-
Colored white-
A couple of sounds
A life under the law;
A sacrifice of lesser desires;
it's the hardest for artists to attain it.
` I don't pretend to understand it.
Here in this kingdom we got no
woman's lunar curve and no
masculine muscle- the scent of that rough music
that leaves its trail like honeying the earth;
ain't no
drifting coffee, granite eyes that meet the baseless dawn,
the grayness of the morning, the smoke of its fingers
Denying the afterlife, praying for heaven, fearing the dark
Although, it is worth it- it is-
A good eternity of peace and music
away from this wretched suffering.
Although one could never tell,
you trade one compassion for another.
☆key
Certain things will change without the key ingredient;
gray stacked on gray and fall to an inane, meaningless smoke:
Like some knockoff winter without snow
Like German, without the knowledge of music
passed through the family;
Like you, without the cloudy arms of love
to clear your charcoal dreams, to throw your pearls and tears.
And then you add one thing and the whole picture
explodes into its worst destiny, its other copper;
One hand too many and the kitchen's in chaos,
A storm with lightning means too many things uncovered.
You with money become both pimp and whore,
party to a vast selfishness, acetone stupidity claws,
and you masticate the neon of Astoria streets
for everything they're worth.
☆Sinning in the city
Sinning in the city, winning your way to freedom,
Wide roads under dark minds and roller coaster neon
rides and the road signs burst like lemon, light
and hot-wild as sugar behind your eyes-
All that shadowy fluid-
You, jealous flirt, barbarian tease,
head to Hell, a star coyote with the small hours
snapping at your heels: you never miss your lions &
There's no accounting for the turning oceanic taste
of darkness and light-
It's so fun t be a pagan, it's no fun t be faithful
You got the same feel of good bread,
Wide and intimate- and you're ragged with fire
but body's with the storms of peace just like a bum,
I can tell you're angry by the curling of your veins
past my eyes-
There are your teeth, snarling at the gray smoke
` and the running heels of fast dawn.
☆THE ROAD
Impossible as heaven as he makes his move, he does it
` with a flicker of his eyes-
some snake magic that comes from where he was born.
His heart took one bad left and he ended up-
here, at this ash crossroads, looking toward nothing
but bad luck and servitude.
Everything is like strong coffee, slides---
Although he was probably condemned from the very start
(had a dark gash torn blindside into him like a
` leopard's nightclaws ripping),
he was blessed with two gifts:
one- a body beyond love
two- a love beyond darkness.
You could get the feeling sometimes that
only a sinner can break through the road.
☆UNTITLED and OFFENSIVE
The Catholic Church is just a whorehouse with too many lights on-
Protestants hang up the Bible in place of other curtains
That're made of gold, or politics, or whatever-
The Anglican Church is a fucking joke-
Competing in a marketplace of ideas,
Hawking a bullwhip and a used set of eyes.
☆THE AMBASSADOR OF POETRY
What ambassador are you?
-Is that what it means, your poetry for the land?
What country inhabited, pervaded, by smoke
do you represent? Does it ask you for bread
with its eyes gouged lolling dumb
with its empty hands blooming into a midday melancholy
with its mouth that don't know better than a cheap shot?
Do you help when you're not asked to,
Are you some kinda televangelist?
You walk just like a national holiday-
What snake you must have scorned and ridden
To come to your third conclusion that
Only this, and nothing more, should be the measure
` of your life:
A round of clapping hands in rags
And some lonely scholar wife.
☆the big deal
I woke up crying, I went to sleep crying,
I dove down on the crocodile streets and my leather didn't help me
I spent the day tearing in anger,
ended it angered in tears
There were lotsa revolutionary parrots who talked "freedom"
But revolution, people power, green peace, cooperation, indeed poetry
Are just a series of grinning veils;
yeah and what's your freedom
Without mercy, without truth, without tenderness?
It was maybe the revenge of days spent without feeling
Compounded, stone bouldered, that
it became this blind hurricane-
Yeah and I thought it would help to
` remain on track, to
` think it out
To feel the contours of weakness like my hand was cosmic;
But the only thing that was a remedy was rage on rage
was hard and fierce black, and-so-now
Here I am, on this street, and look at me
Tumbling back on an ancient, second-hand selfishness.
☆a matter of time
You have the ceaseless irresistible and
Teeth for vengeance, and when you hesitate on a syllable
there's a violently gray smoke along the lines of my mind:
dangerously perfumed
` ` ` ` ` laughter
dancing along the trapeze valleys between
sanity, melancholy, the heart is a lunatic city
to which you have the keys.` ` (straightjacket)
Brutal animal, your loneliness smashes through your veins
` like trumpets
And it comes out in your touch; and it reflects in the
sweat on your skin, sun and water,
Chest and arms-
When the days exhale a sea thick and dark with salt
When the tropics declare a personal war on the streets of New York
You're going to tear me with desire and all your jealous tongue
` and
` ` I'm going to disrespect you with every letter of the alphabet.
☆The last
That was like a newspaper (sad and self-effacing as a newspaper), when everything was rain winter noir and the barest of fossils of the street were stripped back by cold white- everything dripping off the branches. Real old wind, maybe one that's always been blowing; come down from centuries right to some sidewalk in Queens, New York, to happen on three'a the most lonesome strangers ever walked that night- three of the stranded muscians and three kings of clocks. Destinies and histories and futures on different tongues: mine on fire and water and in a cross, in the backhanded nervousness. Sha's in the twist of his hands and the secret of his smoke and the fluidelectric rhetoric of words; of familial music twice abandoned, so to speak. And C has his own shyness and his own past fires; you can only see him though through the context of the love he's given- through her open eyes & arms. Who cares for the future? Fer then it was a struck out bubble at the bottom of the sea, and isolated, street suicide and freshly-fallen blackness.
Anyway it wasn't any big deal but it was the separation of fates; and how through the spheres of isolation something may be communicated, only vaguely and by the side. Lots of vibes. Lots of dead things, better that way. There was lotsa talk of apartments, cars, new-time investments, jobs, chicks, and other earth things that seemed double-tongued and lashed by bigger kings. You couldn't evade the ancient wind. There were only three cigarettes left and so, solemn fingers licking flickering sadness, we passed the pack and the light and shared the final smoke there. When holding a cigarette: knuckles bunched and fingers protective in a beautiful kinda way, one that guards thought. Smoke and knuckles like music to the jawline-
The boundaries of solitude closed and there was only solitude; no gold threads passed through the gray, and instead they swam outside it. All stripped to the barest black and white. It was isolation and melancholy; all future kinda dripped and slipped away. This eye aint accustomed nor will it ever bend to speak in terms of "we," but any I who saw it would say that this was the closing hour and that "we"/we in smoke were the final ones who listened to melancholy forever; called like hounds to this tearing world. Together in the long world of winter. A note in some long song.
The vague gray comfort of a cigarette. The smoke had all the sadness and the hunger and it spiraled up and sparkled through the skeletal branches of black trees and eye watched its low warm tongue.
also, i should prolly say that yknow i wrote these and they are my intellectual property, etc. i guess you could like. tell your friends that you wrote these. but if you start making money on them ill be very hurt about my penniless destiny and bitch about it XD
oh also, is anyone finding the spacing weird on any of the poems? im using safari on a mac right now and the spacing wasnt showing up correctly so i fixed it with wizardry, but is it weird on internet explorer/google chrome/firefox? thanks :D
thanks for reading! :D