poem (9)

PK

MARCH 19, 2017

PK

God damn your soul and want for 
proof’s fair examination.
(For the record, we’ve got our
sheriff’s wand for that.)

The pope shook his wedding cake 
out of the box and showed it off 
to everyone. That while I took a deep-

er breath and plunged into a little speech 
about the monster truck rally where Elvis 
had his latest abduction, taking some
toaster burn out of his toast to be quite sure 
no one would pay no heed; however, 
every hedon was breathless and touched 
and breathless. That’s when the clown rapped 
down from the rafters like a phantom from 
an opera gripping tight, with his white church-
bell gloves, my holster and bowtie, whispering: 
Your leathered performance was so beautiful, 
Doris!–I saw your energy and pitiful courage 
reflected in the deadbolts of our neighbors’ eyes, 
and how they brought back memories for some.

Tooth pain for others. That’s when the song broke 
off in the middle of the long and winding road and 
the clown got out of my van’s back seat, letting go

of his balloons in some Nevadean moonrich spot 
where the spotlight’s always shining up and raining
down. Meanwhile, I was glad to have my mother
holding my hand while I scream cried–one last
small step before this man rolled off for summer camp 
on a school bus that lately matches my canvas shoes.

It felt like rehab all over again; can I say that:
the ping-pong, the equine, the bonbons of fire?
JUST DO IT LOUD AND GRADUATE LIKE A
NIKE SWOOSH! and that’s when my blinders 
were drawn tight, shut, on: honest to Allah, boss!–
all I ever confessed to the clergyman about heaven 
and being the only journeyman to China never to have 
read the New Testament; what I meant to say, Pa,

there’s no need to get all cozy and loud; all we talked 
about quietly revolved on a spinning plate around the 
recurring dream of a carousel, which we’ve both had,
sleeping past life’s alarm while failing first grade’s
algebra test. I woke up in a wheelbarrow beside some
rain water.* All this incessant inversion keeps catching 
up with me. Just this past Wednesday morning, 
I strolled out for evening worship, wearing one sock 
and my best sear-surfing suit. Perhaps, I slipped the otter
off like an offering as the deacon placed his plate of gold 
on my lap and the grace of my father’s sermon drifted 
out of the sinagogue while I swayed off towards 
those darker moments where, with a left hand, I’ve had 
to dribble a gold wet basketball through this storm.

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Concrete and Rainbows

carbon copy
cracker kids
all square and full of holes
chasing
someone else's dreams
doing only as they're told

gaping wounds
conformity
it's useless to resist
grayscale thoughts
behind closed eyes
rainbows do not exist

follow the leader
play pretend
grown-up rules, abide
broken backs
and camel straws
there is no place to hide

technicolor 
memories
it was just a game
forty years
of servitude
society's to blame

here and now
when youth is young
and colors bold and bright
uncharted paths
with neon skies
teach them hold true and tight

planets turn
and water flows
when dreams, have yet, to die
tomorrows 
more than yesterdays
the young see bluer skies

70316
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Frangible

Polished stone in gray-hued splendor
I see you seeing me
The real me
Beyond the facade
Through the masks
Can you see me seeing you
Behind your pain
Steeped in love
Truth hurts
So they say
But it's lies we tell ourselves
That gouge the deepest souls
Show me what you will
I will see what I will see
Baby steps to normalcy
Or giant leaps toward love
Fear tempered loneliness
Joy casts no shadows 
In eyes of burning smoke
Pure light
In darkness breaks
No
Darkness breaks
In pure light
Why must one break another
I am fragile, cracked
Will you break my darkness
I am void
The absolute absence 
Can your light
Penetrate the power of nothing
Why must one break another
Why must we torture 
Those who won't shatter

072616
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Vacuity In Excess

I wander aimlessly through this world without you
As I have countless times before
Ever feeling unwhole 
Once we happened upon each other
Completion
Bound by distance
What was once empty
Is now a void able to be filled
Only by you
I am able to be loved by you alone
Loving what has always been mine
Still, forced to wander aimlessly through this world without you

71916
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Anguish

Anguish

 

it is my unseen lover
it caresses my dreams
and weaves beauteous nightmares
my closest friend, it walks with me
our hands entwined in better days
and cradles me tight against its breast as I falter
though feared by so many,
it is comforting in its consistency,
in its dependability
always there, it never disappoints
close enough to feel its cold breath envelope me,
it feels like home as it moves like fog through the cracks in my soul
And my heart can almost feel whole in its bitter embrace

 

 

copyright ©PrttyBrd 14/08/11

 

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Empty Tones

The language of mellow keys

The hammer strikes the copper string

Quiet melodic vibrations ring,

An anthem that voices will never sing

 

A song to keep your heart at bay

A debt to you I couldn't pay

A mind of thoughts fading away

A secret of which I couldn't say

 

A promise that was never sworn 

A gift to you left unadorned 

A book from which this page was torn

A song that still remains forlorn

 

The damper petal softly pressed

To lay the ringing notes to rest

The tone of which the notes professed,

Is The Sound that you and I know best

 

~An Original Poem by 'Supercollide'

(I won a poetry contest with it last year, and thought it was worth posting)

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after tonight ...... this is a poem, read @ will

messin around , a lot of playnow it seems that I'm sore all dayYa , you've got me sore from rubbing hard,going for the extra yardand not keeping track ,not looking back...............but I like it.Do it again.please do it againyou've got me as happy as a masochistI like it.I like it.do it again.generate close , hold-me energywhile your fingers are sneaking up the half of mewispering, wicked tounge doing wicked things to flaunt .like telling me any thing you want,where there is communication, holes in fences , over stimulated extra senses.I'll still clutch you< I'll hold you even more this time,grasp you in my hands.and my shaking, twitching. thighsoverzealous, love sick, crazy for you crys .bleeding into dreams , mending our kinetic ties.and all is well and I like it.Do it again.please do it againyou've got me as happy as a masochistI like it.I like it.do it again...........and after tonight .............I might just go outsideand walk, whilst I think of you, the soarnesshints of all those crazy things that we do,in secretwhen, we've got all daywe've got all day.for messing around and a lot of play,
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Little Boy & Fat Man's 63rd anniversary

While checking the news, this morning, - as usual...is it how I begin every post ?!? - below the fuss around the Olympics, I found an article asking if anybody remembered what happened 63 years ago.I have to admit, I didn't notice the date the last few days. Is the fact that there's a birthday in my family between the two dates an excuse ?Is it a coincidence ? I was idling on the web yesterday, planning my trip to Japan (trying to silence the little voice saying "what about carbon emissions for such a loooong flight ?"), checking distances between some of the cities I would like to visit. Especially I wanted to see if going to Gunkanjima was feasible, and, it isn't. If I take care of the law, that is. But I'm not the reckless type (not when I might face prison in a country where I don't speak the language fluently enough to tell the cops to fuck off) so... maybe in a few years I'll think differently -and speak better Japanese. Maybe I have time left and maybe I'll go there. Pfff. I haven't left yet and I'm already thinking about next time (idiot !).Anyway, back to the matter at hand, the date. And the trip.I'm really glad I'll be able to go to Hiroshima. Nagasaki would be a bit too far, so we won't go there, a shame. But still, I've heard and read so many things about Hiroshima that I might be more impatient to go there than to clean out Akihabara.So...google-ing Hiroshima gives no suprise on the first links.It's really... disturbing ... reading those stories of those people - kids, soldiers, nurses, poets - , the majority of whom had absolutely nothing to do with the conflict, transcribing with such accurate details the sick experiment they were part of (especially the way American """"""doctors"""""" treated them). I have had the honor of hearing the story of a Hibakusha, Mrs Hashizume Bun, a Japanese poet, who was 14 and living in Hiroshima in 1945. She told us about what had happened, and trust me, reading about the bombing and side effects and hearing it, hearing this small old woman with her tiny little shaking voice talking about the PikaDon and telling the story of her hair burning because she didn't have the strength to move away from the fire is something I am not sure I want to experience again. Too much for me. Some of the things she told are carved in my mind, and I don't think I will ever forget them.And still... The people from Hiroshima haven't stopped living. They aren't burying themselves in painful memories like so many with tragic history tend to do (who you consider in this category, individuals or people, is up to you. Not gonna start another argument about opportunism and indecency). The other side of it is the ignorance of the survivors' suffering, who are the living evidence of Japan's defeat ; some of them are ashamed of being a Hibakusha. Survivor's guilt ? Strange culture.Happy anniversary being obviously inappropriate, I'll finish with Tamiki Hara's last words.Engraved in stone long ago,Lost in the shifting sand,In the midst of a crumbling world,The vision of one flower.
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