Posts Tagged ‘ poem ’

Not Being Quite Like Other People – Otohime

Other People

not being quite like other people

I slither out of the apartment

clumsily

 

like a Paratodon

the dinosaur of the moment

 

into the hammered alloy

and the molded plastic

of the built world

 

oy vey – lights

of the twinkling city

on the curving planet

 

where jobs come and go

physical beauty fades

and markets rise and fall

 

as mealy as penises

in their greed canopy –

discursively, like brats

 

sung in a low

with flops and fumes

along a jaded mass

 

but unattacked and rubbed

against their fate –

they’re hip like cuneiform

 

down the greed tongue

out of the boring gum

into a glorious slump –

 

they’re bone.

 

. more poem at the Source link: Not Being Quite Like Other People – Otohime

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TOM CLARK

DSC_2252-1: photo by Bronfer, 29 April 2018

Beyond the Pale

Source: TOM CLARK

Zeitgeist Spam: Charlie Morrow and Jerry Rothenberg being awesome

Y E S – a poem, a poet’s voice, a conch being played, jewsharp being played, a trio of flower water cloud deer the Yacqui . . .

Source: Zeitgeist Spam: Charlie Morrow and Jerry Rothenberg being awesome

Question by May Swenson – 3quarksdaily: Saturday Poem

Question

Body my house
my horse my hound
what will I do
when you are fallen

Where will I sleep
How will I ride
What will I hunt

Where can I go
without my mount
all eager and quick
How will I know
in thicket ahead
is danger or treasure
when Body my good
bright dog is dead

How will it be
to lie in the sky
without roof or door
and wind for an eye
With cloud for shift
how will I hide?

May Swenson
from A Book of Luminous Things
Harcourt, 1996

Source: 3quarksdaily: Saturday Poem

Tokyo Décoratif by Nagae Yūki | synthetic zerø

Tokyo Décoratif by Nagae Yūki

Gamma, zeta, delta:
Deformed in their logos and logic
Caramelized amber prisms
Illuminating in slash spectrum:
Postmodern concrete
TOKYO STATION’s
Stainless steel platforms
PEOPLE sporting prêt-à-porter
Break not with metronome rhythms
For system modules,
On asphalt
A line drawn According to the algorithm
Though, thinking I smelled
The trace of
Melancholia like a kiseru pipe,
I peered beyond the steel panel,
On the monitor:
Sharp geometric form
Of a building of tochkas piled high
Illuminated by the electroluminescence
Of constantly lit lithium
BECAUSE
I can see nothing but the frame of technology
As replicated
On sonic schedule,
Along the alpha, beta, iota rails
Toward becoming database settings
Modules of Prada, Cavalli, Sander,
Above the loop of these people
A filtered melancholia
Becomes caramelized amber prism
Illuminated in slash spectrum

Source: Tokyo Décoratif by Nagae Yūki | synthetic zerø

Emotional Support Peacock by Nada Gordon – Otohime

Why am I freaking out? Let me count the ways.

There’s great disorientation in the sit room.

Syrian civil war is slipping savagely.

A starling murmuration is also startling.

Burstulence – spray of noise.

It’s sodium laurel sulfate for the soul.

I’m floating, burbling, so is everything.

Thought knots, unknots.

I’ll be a slogan-eating orchid monster.

I’ll be a gyroscope, plurabelle, maledicta

or a quince blossom on the road to nowhere.

There’s a bald spot in your poetics.

You’ve rubbed it raw with all your fretting.

You hurl out the banner: “I’m so compassionate.”

What are you fixing? We are grime havens.

Poser simplicity – a blind stem…a bled sun.

A bright puppy feels something happening to grammar:

about to be able to have a bit more abandon:

an adamant flippancy.

I don’t see probosces; I look only vaguely medieval.

Madeline Gins and a popsicle.

Lady Gaga’s little white breast.

Fat braid of Louisa May Alcott.

Marie Antoinette’s cherub mouth.

Exene’s hunch.

Carolee in ram’s horns.

No ideas but in white kittens.

Melania is a fox cat – perfectly contoured cheek

against the white airplane.

Democracy eggshell – some days I wake up

so inflammed.

The internet makes me want to break things.

This stainy morass, screwed and undone.

Doubt balloons. Jolly depressive. Salubrious lunge.

Not sure what to do with this WARLOCK FETISH.

Though I hardly desire even desire.

And friendship – it is crumbling shale.

It is riddled with poignards

All those erstwhile little Maoist “friends.”

Though romantic Marxism’s turned lucrative

in this Age of Ideology.

MySpace Druid, mishandled pussy,

obscenity harp mob,

glittered mesh conjunctions,

reflexive sorrel palatals.

My failure is spectacular! A white phoenix

with a rhinestone tail! Failure!

A neglectorino ballet! A kind of shiny

golden dreidl in the hasbeen of my mind.

I failed at righteous argument, at poetry of

place, at poetry of witness, at poetry of identity,

at poetry of mordant critique. I can’t swim.

I can’t play cello. I can’t drive.

But I feel a little bad about feeling bad –

though it’s not as annoying as thinking

oneself “important,” or “sexual,” or “radical.”

Bare branches in hard morning light

move in a frigid breeze – fucking hilarious!

“Sexual freedom” is a total oxymoron.

I put something free into a shopping cart.

There’s a perfect almond in the ruin.

Just trying to make a little monkey.

Allopansy. Mellicious. Flagrabillious.

Get all this and more.

Green tufts amongst red brick –

the pubic hair of the refulgent earth.

Woke up with palpitations again.

Doubt balloons. Don’t make me sit in a chair.

Nuclear posture – streaming the lacunae.

My kitsune ears didn’t come on time.

I never get a minute. I just don’t feel

like Louis Armstrong, purr, hiccup,

fascism always lurks in the shade

of our desperations.

To always be this small, and this comedic.

Trump won because poetry is so bad.

I’m so bored with this glittering wail.

Oops, I mean “whale.” I don’t trust poems

with linearly numbered sections ONE BIT.

Please, please make your language more

scrumptious. Do sighs matter? Are power chords

the belles of infinity? So boring, preachy, such

crap, please stop, stop with that weird “you.”

OMG, camellias’ waxiness! Stop your toneless

recitation, you are killlling me. I fade, I disappear,

the plaint of sleep curling over me – it’s hush and fur.

All the academic cuckoos and their “shaman balalaikas,”

their sardonic nicety organs and machine lynxes.

Rubenesque marmosets stroke my forehead lovingly.

A turtledove’s babyish truculence and the damp swallows

of cyclone squeals. Here among the burp jubilees.

Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.

This is all about me, yes, but also about the pornstache oligarchs,

the weird white bell sleeves, the 70s women on John Berger

talking about how men interact with the world

as forceful presences.

Nemo climbs on me,

I’m in a purple robe; he doesn’t care that I’m

a failure. Cats understand true value. He won’t

last long and then I’ll have nothing but my little

fantasy world inside the actual world that is on the brink.

I keep thinking, “If I had only…If I had only…”

I still think my poetry is the most beautiful: licked

allspice, green martini ostrich caravan, unemotional

saffrons, night rosebushes, sperm clefs, laxity ohms –

filled with baleen inevitability, impassable nuzzlings,

moist embroideries! Why won’t someone give me money?

A wombat pulls out her pocket watch, “just look at the time.”

I’m in terrible pain. Where’s my splendid trajectory?

This isn’t a melancholy poem about having to work.

It doesn’t have bodily fluids in it.

It’s not about my identity at all.

It doesn’t espouse anything at all.

All it does is move.

Sometimes I just want to be that “inside person”

as in “oku-san” – not so much “wife” as the person

inside the house, taking care of the house, making the

house into art. But I’m a green-haired clown

with a light up face. This world won’t validate me –

kachunk – like a library date due stamp.

I could listen to that sound all day.

I really do feel super lost.

I can’t figure things out.

I wake in the middle of the night to eat

inflammatory foods. It’s agony.

At least I have food. The social contract –

has it expired? Was it even valid?

Derision strainer arachnids.

Dank bobcats.

Stupefied tsars.

Roach drunks.

Rubbery kookaburras.

The careless daintiness of cosmology milkmaids.

What’s next?

Source: Emotional Support Peacock – Otohime

First Known When Lost: Leaves and Clocks

Stanley Cursiter, “A Farm in Orkney” (1952)

Life went on perfectly well for millennia in the absence of clocks.  The earth’s “diurnal course” and its seasonal round sufficed. Eventually, bells began sounding from steeples and towers.  Music in the air.  Perhaps we should have left it at that.

Clock

We had the sun, stars, shadows.
Today
In Greta’s house, a box
Of numbers and wheels
And cleek-cleek, click-clock, that insect
Eating time at the wall.

George Mackay Brown, “Seal Island Anthology, 1875,” in Voyages (Chatto & Windus 1983).

Source: Leaves and Clocks | First Known When Lost

 

“A mystery abides. We move from silence into silence, and there is a brief stir between, every person’s attempt to make a meaning of life and time. Death is certain; it may be that the dust of good men and women lies more richly in the earth than that of the unjust;  between the silences they may be touched, however briefly, with the music of the spheres.”

George Mackay Brown, For the Islands I Sing: An Autobiography (John Murray 1997), 181.

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