(f) art
If tearing wet bloody chunks from your soul and
Throwing the lumpy meat into the Public
square brings you no contentment then you are no
artist – you are dead.
Tag: poet
(f) ART
(f) art
If tearing wet bloody chunks from your soul and
Throwing the lumpy meat into the Public
Square brings you no contentment then you are no
artist – you are dead.
A is for Anhedonia.
A is for Anhedonia B is for Boredom C is for Collapse D is for Doldrum E is for Energy F is for Fear G is for Guilt H is for Happiness I is for Indecision J is for Jump K is for Knowledge L is for Loss M is for Morbid N is for Nothing O is for Other P is for Paranoia Q is for Quit R is for Razor S is for Stranger T is for Terrors U is for Undulating V is for Violence X is for X Y is for Youth Z…
A is for Anhedonia.
A is for Anhedonia B is for Boredom C is for Collapse D is for Doldrum E is for Energy F is for Fear G is for Guilt H is for Happiness I is for Indecision J is for Jump K is for Knowledge L is for Loss M is for Morbid N is for Nothing O is for Other P is for Paranoia Q is for Quit R is for Razor S is for Stranger T is for Terrors U is for Undulating V is for Violence X is for X Y is for Youth Z…
A is for Anhedonia.
A is for Anhedonia
B is for Boredom
C is for Collapse
D is for Doldrum
E is for Energy
F is for Fear
G is for Guilt
H is for Happiness
I is for Indecision
J is for Jump
K is for Knowledge
L is for Loss
M is for Morbid
N is for Nothing
O is for Other
P is for Paranoia
Q is for Quit
R is for Razor
S is for Stranger
T is for Terrors
U is for Undulating
V is for Violence
X is for X
Y is for Youth
Z is for Zero
Waiting.
Waiting
Alone on the platform
Heavy lidded
After a day of good work.Soon she will be sitting
On the train,
And then at home
With Loved Ones.
Waiting.
Waiting
Alone on the platform
Heavy lidded
After a day of good work.Soon she will be sitting
On the train,
And then at home
With Loved Ones.
Waiting.
Waiting
Alone on the platform
Heavy lidded
After a day of good work.
Soon she will be sitting
On the train,
And then at home
With Loved Ones.
Troll.
Troll. http://wp.me/s1ew8b-troll
There once was a troll
That lived on a hillIt didn’t like poetry
So when it heard
I was writing a poem
About it’s misadventures
It told me
To go fuck myself.
Troll.
Troll. http://wp.me/s1ew8b-troll
There once was a troll
That lived on a hillIt didn’t like poetry
So when it heard
I was writing a poem
About it’s misadventures
It told me
To go fuck myself.
Troll.
There once was a troll
That lived on a hill
It didn’t like poetry
So when it heard
I was writing a poem
About it’s misadventures
It told me
To go fuck myself.
Night moves
At it’s own speed
Drawing out the thread
Until morning.
Night moves
At it’s own speed
Drawing out the thread
Until morning.
Night moves
At it’s own speed
Drawing out the thread
Until morning.
Night moves
At it’s own speed
Drawing out the thread
Until morning.
Freeway Walking.
Night moves
At its own speed
Drawing out the thread
Until morning.
Dripping in the Ectoplasm of White Privilege
I am normal.
I am kind,
Don’t see colour
Or ever find
The police treat me bad.
They are kind.
No special treatment
I once got fined
For driving drunk
They didn’t mind.
Sent me on my way
So I’m inclined
To love those cops
Who didn’t grind
My bones to paste
Or shoot me in my exposed back
Or kill me for talking back
Or cuff me for speaking out
Or night stuck me for a single shout
That war is for the battlefield
And not for those with badge and shield
Who hate the poor they guard all night
When really if they knew what’s right
They’d turn their eyes from the pitch
They’d join the horde and eat the rich.
A Visit to the Salt Mine
I wake up every morning with a smile.
Not letting them sleep is okay with me.
Torture kept our country safe, for a while.
These are terrorists, mostly, they are vile
So we can treat them as we wish, you see?
I wake up every morning with a smile.
Stress positions were a reasonable style
Of persuasion, not unlike yoga, see?
Torture kept our country safe, for a while.
There was no need to…
A Visit to the Salt Mine
I wake up every morning with a smile.
Not letting them sleep is okay with me.
Torture kept our country safe, for a while.
These are terrorists, mostly, they are vile
So we can treat them as we wish, you see?
I wake up every morning with a smile.
Stress positions were a reasonable style
Of persuasion, not unlike yoga, see?
Torture kept our country safe, for a while.
There was no need to…
A Visit to the Salt Pit.
I wake up every morning with a smile.
Not letting them sleep is okay with me.
Torture kept our country safe, for a while.
—
These are terrorists, mostly, they are vile
So we can treat them as we wish, you see?
I wake up every morning with a smile.
—
Stress positions were a reasonable style
Of persuasion, not unlike yoga, see?
Torture kept our country safe, for a while.
—
There was no need to offer them a trial
If they were innocent then they’d be free.
I wake up every morning with a smile
—
Yes, rectal feeding was very worthwhile.
There was no real damage, if you ask me.
I wake up every morning with a smile.
Torture kept our country safe, for a while.
Hand Prints
Palm prints dusted on a dark cavern wall
Tiny stencilled hands forgotten for years.
Large shiny missiles and thuggish bombs fall
Leaders wipe away expedient tears
Until cameras turn their dead lidless eyes
To the next shiny seratonin hit.
Seizures shadowed by paperwork towers
As crowds stumble toward the glowing pit
Of welcoming screams that steams a greeting
To the exhausted the hopeless the…
Hand Prints
Palm prints dusted on a dark cavern wall
Tiny stencilled hands forgotten for years.
Large shiny missiles and thuggish bombs fall
Leaders wipe away expedient tears
Until cameras turn their dead lidless eyes
To the next shiny seratonin hit.
Seizures shadowed by paperwork towers
As crowds stumble toward the glowing pit
Of welcoming screams that steams a greeting
To the exhausted the hopeless the…
Hand Prints
Palm prints dusted on a dark cavern wall
Tiny stencilled hands forgotten for years.
Large shiny missiles and thuggish bombs fall
Leaders wipe away expedient tears
Until cameras turn their dead lidless eyes
To the next shiny seratonin hit.
Seizures shadowed by paperwork towers
As crowds stumble toward the glowing pit
Of welcoming screams that steams a greeting
To the exhausted the hopeless the doomed.
Nearby blank faced operatives meeting
For one last time before straightening ties
Join the lines of misery add their cries
Waiting.
Waiting. http://wp.me/s1ew8b-waiting
A train speeds past
Whetting it’s wheels on the track.
Faces sag in unison.
The day has taken a little more
from us
Than we wanted to give.
Yet still someone whistles
Show tunes from Annie.
Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow.
Waiting.
Waiting. http://wp.me/s1ew8b-waiting
A train speeds past
Whetting it’s wheels on the track.
Faces sag in unison.
The day has taken a little more
from us
Than we wanted to give.
Yet still someone whistles
Show tunes from Annie.
Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow.
Waiting.
A train speeds past
Whetting it’s wheels on the track.
Faces sag in unison.
The day has taken a little more
From us
Than we wanted to give.
Yet still someone whistles
Show tunes from Annie.
Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow.
Faces sag in unison.
The day has taken a little more
From us
Than we wanted to give.
Yet still someone whistles
Show tunes from Annie.
Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow.
600 FOLLOWERS.
Whether
Friend or
Bot or
Self-help guru or
Scam artist.
I love you all.
I
Love.
You.
All.
Can you follow someone without moving?
We are all
Couch Stalking.
Couch
Stalkers.
The Watermeloning – Halloween Special Redux
I posted this before but it’s Halloween so I thought the world was ready to re-experience the horror….
Oh Dripping maw of meaty red
Do not look in that cave of dread
We Ope’d the Fruit
And so it bled.
Oh Dreaded Fruit of Rotten Red.https://thesleepcoatleague.wordpress.com/2013/02/01/the-watermeloning/
Sleep with the light…
The Watermeloning – Halloween Special Redux
I posted this before but it’s Halloween so I thought the world was ready to re-experience the horror….
Oh Dripping maw of meaty red
Do not look in that cave of dread
We Ope’d the Fruit
And so it bled.
Oh Dreaded Fruit of Rotten Red.https://thesleepcoatleague.wordpress.com/2013/02/01/the-watermeloning/
Sleep with the light…
The Watermeloning – Halloween Special Redux
I posted this before but it’s Halloween so I thought the world was ready to re-experience the horror….
Oh Dripping maw of meaty red
Do not look in that cave of dread
We Ope’d the Fruit
And so it bled.
Oh Dreaded Fruit of Rotten Red.
Sleep with the light on tonight…
Mwahahahahahahaha. etc.
Poetry Pot – An Apology, in Advance, to the Memory of Emma Lazarus.
I never like to explain poems but here I am explaining a poem.
I was irritated, this morning, as with most mornings, at what Twitter had vomited out to the world after the announcement of the new Miss USA contest. Now I am not particular fan nor enemy of…
Poetry Pot – An Apology, in Advance, to the Memory of Emma Lazarus.
I never like to explain poems but here I am explaining a poem.
I was irritated, this morning, as with most mornings, at what Twitter had vomited out to the world after the announcement of the new Miss USA contest. Now I am not particular fan nor enemy of…
Poetry Pot – An Apology, in Advance, to the Memory of Emma Lazarus.
I never like to explain poems but here I am explaining a poem.
I was irritated, this morning, as with most mornings, at what Twitter had vomited out to the world after the announcement of the new Miss USA contest. Now I am not particular fan nor enemy of the Miss USA competition. It is a particularly American form of demeaning women by making them bark facts and do tricks but everyone enters into it with as much of a freewill as any one can ever enter into anything and it is, even though oppressive in the subtle ways that our patriarchy oppresses all women, not the worst thing that a woman can, in this day and age, experience. I am not a woman so I cannot say this for sure but that is the basis upon which I have feelings regarding the Miss USA competition. From Twitter there came various hateful comments regarding the Indian American winner. They are widely available on the internet. I shall not repeat them here. So in response to a comment made by a friend about how awful this was I appropriated a line from The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus and adapted it for my needs. It is, I believe, the most famous of all the lines and is rendered below:
“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.”
Later, as I pondered my changed version I decided to change the whole poem to reflect my views, at the very present moment on social media. The irony of me transmitting this through social media is not lost on me. What can one say other than that I am a hippocrit. So be it – I find myself guilty as charged.
So here, without further ado, and a lengthy introduction which does not deserve my brutalisation, or your time, I present you with An Apology, in Advance, to the Memory of Emma Lazarus:
Not like the eyeless spawn of silicate shame,
With writhing limbs lumbering from gland to gland;
Here at our broken toothed, fiery gates shall stand
A soiled beacon with a stump, whose flame
Is the searing lie, and it’s name
Moloch’s Minion. From it’s bloodied-hand
Burns world-wide fury; her wild sockets command
The air-thick with rage that prejudices frame.
“Keep, ancient tomes, your words!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your racist, your sexist,
Your homophobic masses yearning to speak hate,
The wretched moral refuse of your inner world.
Send these, the bankrupt, lunatics to me,
I lift my stump beside the flaming maw!”
This is a wax cylinder recording of Walt Whitman reading one of his poems. I love you The Internet.
This is a wax cylinder recording of Walt Whitman reading one of his poems. I love you The Internet.
Walt Whitman Wax Cylinder Recital.
I can barely understand it because the quality is so low but I love the internet for having a wax cylinder recording on it of Walt Whitman reciting one of his poems.
Poetry Pot – National Poetry Writing Month.
So National Poetry Writing Month is over and I think I only actually wrote one poem. I did read all of these poems though. I don’t expect anyone to want to listen to all of these at once but here they all are, just in case:
Enjoy.
Poetry Pot – National Poetry Writing Month.
So National Poetry Writing Month is over and I think I only actually wrote one poem. I did read all of these poems though. I don’t expect anyone to want to listen to all of these at once but here they all are, just in case:
Enjoy.
Poetry Pot – The Final Moments after the Door to the End has been Opened Audio
Poetry Pot – The Final Moments after the Door to the End has been Opened Audio
Poetry Pot – National Poetry Writing Month.
So National Poetry Writing Month is over and I think I only actually wrote one poem.
I did read all of these poems though.
I don’t expect anyone to want to listen to all of them at once but here they all are, just in case:
Enjoy.
Poetry Pot – The Final Moments after the Door to the End has been Opened Audio
Poetry Pot – The Endless Shore Audio
Poetry Pot – The Endless Shore Audio
Poetry Pot – The Endless Shore Audio
Poetry Pot – The Swan Guard.
Poetry Pot – The Swan Guard.
Poetry Pot – The Swan Guard.
Poetry Pot – The Watermeloning Audio
Poetry Pot – The Watermeloning Audio
Poetry Pot – The Watermeloning Audio
Poetry Pot – Mixed Message Audio
Poetry Pot – Experience Falls: REVISED
Poetry Pot – Experience Falls: REVISED
Poetry Pot – Experience Falls: REVISED Audio
Poetry Pot – Toast-Footed God Monster Audio
Poetry Pot – Toast-Footed God Monster Audio
Poetry Pot – Toast-Footed God Monster Audio
Poetry Pot – A little night music: REVISED Audio
Poetry Pot – A little night music: REVISED Audio
Poetry Pot – A little night music: REVISED Audio
Poetry Month Day 23:
Poetry Pot – Fading Audio
Poetry Pot – Sonnet 2 Audio
Text HERE.
Poetry Pot – Going Home Audio
Poetry Pot – Fall Audio
Poetry Pot – Be Audio
Poetry Pot – Remember The Victims Audio
Remember The Victims.
Remember the victims As they crossed the line. Do not forget the victims. - The happy childish faces Waving for their parents. Remember the victims - Who walked past exploding Cars and were spread like paste. Do not forget the victims - As they crossed the line Exhausted and triumphant. Remember the victims - Who herded their sheep Unaware of the hovering eye. Do not forget the victims - Who sat in the classroom Hands thick with paint. Remember the victims - Sluicing on the ground - Incredulous as they evaporate. Do not forget the Victims. Remember The Victims.
Poetry Pot – Twitching Rigid Audio
Poetry Pot – Crustal Deformation Audio
Poetry Poet – Five-lined poem Audio
Poetry Poet – Me Without You Audio.
Poetry Pot – Sonnet 1 Audio
Poetry Pot – Old Man Bone-bag Audio
Poetry Pot – Memories of Love Audio
Poetry Pot – Flamingo Audio
Poetry Pot – Mack and Yasha Audio
Poetry Pot – Airfooddrinkyou Audio
Poetry Pot – This and That Audio
Poetry Pot Audio – The Vagabond Audio
Poetry Poet – Process Audio
Poetry Pot – I Remember Audio
Poetry Pot – Friends Audio
Poetry Pot – Sunday Lunch Audio
I hear it’s Poetry Month so, because I have nothing better to do, I’m going to add a scratchy recording a day of a poem that I have written.
Here is the first one.
It is mercifully short.
Poetry Pot – Sunday Lunch Audio
I hear it’s Poetry Month so, because I have nothing better to do, I’m going to add a scratchy recording a day of a poem that I have written.
Here is the first one.
It is mercifully short.
Poetry Pot – Sunday Lunch Audio
I hear it’s Poetry Month so, because I have nothing better to do, I’m going to add a scratchy recording every day of a poem that I have written.
Here is the first one.
It is mercifully short.
Text HERE.
Appetite for Distraction – Evermore.
POET.
POE IT.
Appetite for Distraction – Uprooted.
Uprooted.
Now remember, now forget:
Thick thatched thoughts crush - mash:
Disconsolate, Alone.
Each torn memory re-
Veals a slippery wound.
Now remember, now forget.
Dripping despair drowning
Each and every breath -
Disconsolate. Alone.
Screaming hopeless Death howl.
Bound - Branded - Broken.
Now remember, now forget.
Scrabble through the rubble
of the futile future.
Disconsolate. Alone.
Reflect on the struggle
Of withered ragged joy -
Now remember, now forget.
You and I begin now.
You and I never end.
Disconsolate. Alone.
Now remember. Now forget.
Culture of Illusion – This and That.
This and That. The rain fell in haunted lines, Straight separations between this and that. Lonely neon screens glowed in empty toy strewn rooms; Witnesses to this and that. Cattled commuters wedged in tight On pilgrimage to this and that. A single figure ran round the track Yearning quietly for this and that. Stale coffee poured in styrofoam Is brief respite from this and that. From out the gloom a clot of light In recompense for this and that.
The End
Culture of Illusion – What is America?
We are all insane:
– The Psychological Architecture of Leni Reifensthal.
– Everyone is a star in the motion picture of their lie.
– A public holiday is a celebration of shopping and commercialism first, a celebration of the person or event in question third.
– All Weathers. All Climates. All Landscapes.
– Freedom is a shibboleth.
– Bigotry and Enlightenment walk hand in manacled hand.
– Laziness is at once embraced, venerated, criticised, aspired to.
– Purposelessness is derided and underrated.
– Drive thru banks, drive thru restaurants, drive thru drive thrus, drive thru funeral parlours, drive thru shooting galleries
– The American Dream is a mist that covers everything in a patina of greasy possibility.
– Utility is an ugly obsession.
– Teetering at the edge of an abyss.
Happy Birthday from your Stalker.
I know it’s your birthday today
But I know you don’t want me to call
So I took your last text message you sent me
And changed the meaning so all
The lines are opposite:
Thank you for your gift
It was very thoughtful.
It all turned out just as you hoped
I want us to be together forever
It was the perfect gift at the perfect time
I’m so alone without you
Please keep sending me love letters.
Happy Birthday
I didn’t mean to turn love into
Stalking.
Happy Birthday from your Stalker.
I know it’s your birthday today
But I know you don’t want me to call
So I took your last text message you sent me
And changed the meaning so all
The lines are opposite:
Thank you for your gift
It was very thoughtful.
It all turned out just as you hoped
I want us to be together forever
It was the perfect gift at the perfect time
I’m so alone without you
Please keep sending me love letters.
Happy Birthday
I didn’t mean to turn love into
Stalking.
11. Me without you.
A diver without an aqualung,
A paedophile without the young.
A camel with no hump,
A boxer with no thump.
A clown without any fun,
An American without a gun.
Strawberries without cream,
The BFG without a dream.
Communism without Marx,
An underwater adventure without sharks.
Christianity without the philosophy of Greeks,
The Welsh stereotype without leeks.
A monk without a cowl,
An archaeologist without a trowel.
A Catholic without the guilt,
A Scotsman without his kilt.
A gun without a bullet,
An 80’s pop star without a mullet.
Sex without any sweat,
Rolf Harris without a vet.
Santa without a reindeer,
A pervert without a leer.
A war without deaths,
A tramp without meths.
The Psyche without the Self
A ninja without stealth.
A widow without a shroud,
A mushroom without a cloud.
Four horsemen without an apocalypse,
The Queen Mother without broken hips.
Jack without Daniel,
An aristocrat without a spaniel.
Hercules without tasks,
Balls without masques.
The police without crime,
Coleridge without a Rime.
Muslims without jihad,
Addicts without rehab.
Gaffers without grips,
Fish without chips.
Roman Emperors without insanity,
Fair without the Vanity.
Haunting without a ghost,
Sunday without a roast.
Christmas with no suicide,
A playground without a slide.
Meals with no eating,
The Olympics with no cheating.
Pull without a Force,
Death without a horse.
A storm without the rain,
Fisting without any pain.
Silence without peace,
Pain without release.
An Italian without a scooter,
A six-gun without a shooter.
Depression minus the manic,
Start of the century without the Titanic.
A sniffer without glue,
Is like me without you.
A foot without a shoe,
Is like me without you.
Caged animals without a zoo,
Is like me without you.
Treading Pitch-Black Paths.
Speeding like a freight train,
Running from the great pain,
Ending with a jarring strain,
On Time’s last sand grain.
–
Sticking to the path,
Sticking to the path,
Sticking to the pitch-black path
Of His soul.
–
Tearing at the last Fiend
As the Devil’s scream
Echoes…
–
As it echoes…
As it echoes…
As it echoes…
As He echoes
–
In my head, in my mind
Searching for a freedom;
A freedom I can’t find.
Old Man Bone-bag.
“I live between the cracks of a mountain’s
Soul”, The old man said. His great time-carved arms
Stretched in knotted leather strength; his skin, tan
With Nature’s bruising intensity. Charms
Hung from his gnarled neck in casual
Superstition, shaking with his calm drawl.
“I tread the blanketed paths of your long
Forgotten past” he continued. “I seep
With the Memory’s flow from the Lost Song.”
I left Old Man Bone-bag, for he was mad.
Toast-Footed God Monster.
Semolina sperm boy eating
A dated doughnut porn ring.
Do you cry in your acid tears
Bitch child? Whip-crack shifting gears
Accelerate’s the corporate worm
To a feverish wet-squirm.
Happy Birthday, Mr. Bitch.
…Creeping septic: acid bath
on a first [time] dive… to the end(?)
Of a (hermetic happiness) hearth
That cannot succour… the rend-
Ing real [dragging insanity]… garnered from… the crazy. Pointless
Whimpering of; … God’s worst guess…
Dreaming peacefully.
She’s Weeping in a piercing hopeless pain
At smiling, sharp boned anorexics cut-
Ting the air with their razor-edge framework.
A treacle leaking wound smears the dark drain
With slick wickedness as you stretch idly. But
For her crouching apathy she would leave lurk-
Ing for a fleshy existence; without this strain.
As it is she remains here, strut-
Ting like a toxic, bobbing cork.
Bubble.
In thoughts lowly ditch
I cower and moan.
As hope glides on by
I tremble and groan.
A pocket of Hope
Holds me awhile
Then bursts it’s own bub-
Ble to continue my Trial.
The SleepCoat League Presents: 