With that headlights gaze
floodlights from the black moon
with razor sharp tears cutting
out bits of utterance
that get lost in the thunder
on the word
the storm of speech rages down
the ages, they holler at the birds
getting winged envy and blaming
feathers of the weathers, and
weather on the feather
flocks of nouns
migrations of verbs
all fouled up oh the mysterious
conjunctions, flight of the dodo
a once no-no wing thing famous
for becoming extinct, now a
fantastic drawing in encyclopedia
like some explorer of the unknown
looking for the source of the Nile
or the final effect of the last taboo
they had visions of moon landings
and dreamed futures of time
machines, they had headlights gaze
through the fogs of over medication
they invented green paper words
to pay for the telescopes looking
in pigeon holes for the placebo
universe, so the perfect pill can
can shoot the magic bullet at the stars
Thunder on the word
-
revolutionrabbit
- Posts: 729
- Joined: March 29th, 2009, 8:55 pm
- Contact:
-
hester_prynne
- Posts: 2363
- Joined: June 26th, 2006, 12:35 am
- Location: Seattle, Washington
- Contact:
-
revolutionrabbit
- Posts: 729
- Joined: March 29th, 2009, 8:55 pm
- Contact:
i stumble
I stumble where i use to rumble
mumble where i use to fumble
tumble in the dark, tis a lark
who is that snark?
more bark them bite
more mark then write
learned how to make clowns cry
how to make flowers grow from
concrete, how to fold newspapers
into bifurcating magician's cup
to drink wine from stolen holy water
i crumble like a cracker into your
alphabet soup i am the jack in your
cracker jacks and the pea under your
walnut shell the hand is quicker
then eye in the pyramid
it takes a magician to teach a magician
it takes a poet to teach a poet in New
York a poet in Mexico writing in the
chocolate sun when the shadows creep
real slow across the street on the day
of the dead when the lazy poet moves
his pen across the peasant white paper
the words carve deep read gashes
the moon bleeds silver tears into these
and the ancient languages grows its
underground rivers of whiskey fire
i mumbo where i jumbo i voo where i doo
i cool where i hoo i hoot where owls keep
watch in the dark night of St. John of the cross
i cross the crossroads with themselves
when the traveler meets the wandering jew
when the blues man walks the tracks to do
what a blues man does to awaken the jazz
dawns of them fire dancers and those reciters
of the names of things that rhyme with chime
with wind bones tinkling on strings of theory
of the history of purple passion and pale horse
i stumble in the mist and hear hooves on stone
mumble where i use to fumble
tumble in the dark, tis a lark
who is that snark?
more bark them bite
more mark then write
learned how to make clowns cry
how to make flowers grow from
concrete, how to fold newspapers
into bifurcating magician's cup
to drink wine from stolen holy water
i crumble like a cracker into your
alphabet soup i am the jack in your
cracker jacks and the pea under your
walnut shell the hand is quicker
then eye in the pyramid
it takes a magician to teach a magician
it takes a poet to teach a poet in New
York a poet in Mexico writing in the
chocolate sun when the shadows creep
real slow across the street on the day
of the dead when the lazy poet moves
his pen across the peasant white paper
the words carve deep read gashes
the moon bleeds silver tears into these
and the ancient languages grows its
underground rivers of whiskey fire
i mumbo where i jumbo i voo where i doo
i cool where i hoo i hoot where owls keep
watch in the dark night of St. John of the cross
i cross the crossroads with themselves
when the traveler meets the wandering jew
when the blues man walks the tracks to do
what a blues man does to awaken the jazz
dawns of them fire dancers and those reciters
of the names of things that rhyme with chime
with wind bones tinkling on strings of theory
of the history of purple passion and pale horse
i stumble in the mist and hear hooves on stone
-
hester_prynne
- Posts: 2363
- Joined: June 26th, 2006, 12:35 am
- Location: Seattle, Washington
- Contact:
-
revolutionrabbit
- Posts: 729
- Joined: March 29th, 2009, 8:55 pm
- Contact:
l'poem
The poet is not writing the poem
the poem is writing the poet
the more the writer writes
the more the poet poet's
when poets only had a tablet
and a pen in the cafe
it was a race with caffeine
and the hands of the big clock
it becomes a contest between
the books one has on hand
to remind one what a poet does
and the people in the room whose
eyes tell stories through the coffee
haze and the melting print on the paper
the silent noise of the pen scratchin out
and never-ending thrust of the letters
marching across the table...the poet
merely allows these to gather there
with certain winds of breath to push
them over the edge of the moment
and the ink rains down on the forever
black space between now and then
between the pulsing tick of the tock
and the hum buzz of conversation
passing through the atmosphere
another moment arrives and the poet's mind
pauses there between one phrase and another
racing with time to complete the circle to square
the circle of his emotions that are building there
stacking up images like guns left on a battlefield
feeling the smoke clear over the scene of carnage
the coffee bleeds onto the black blood of the poet
the room dances like some drunken Indian with
headlines and advertising dancing on his face
with snakes undulating on his arms like he has
shot methedrine with a syringe pen into a main
and walked fast trough the city day lined with
tall buildings and screaming hotel windows
to come to tell his vision to the coffee drinkers
the poet writes all this down like it is just now
the poem is writing the poet
the more the writer writes
the more the poet poet's
when poets only had a tablet
and a pen in the cafe
it was a race with caffeine
and the hands of the big clock
it becomes a contest between
the books one has on hand
to remind one what a poet does
and the people in the room whose
eyes tell stories through the coffee
haze and the melting print on the paper
the silent noise of the pen scratchin out
and never-ending thrust of the letters
marching across the table...the poet
merely allows these to gather there
with certain winds of breath to push
them over the edge of the moment
and the ink rains down on the forever
black space between now and then
between the pulsing tick of the tock
and the hum buzz of conversation
passing through the atmosphere
another moment arrives and the poet's mind
pauses there between one phrase and another
racing with time to complete the circle to square
the circle of his emotions that are building there
stacking up images like guns left on a battlefield
feeling the smoke clear over the scene of carnage
the coffee bleeds onto the black blood of the poet
the room dances like some drunken Indian with
headlines and advertising dancing on his face
with snakes undulating on his arms like he has
shot methedrine with a syringe pen into a main
and walked fast trough the city day lined with
tall buildings and screaming hotel windows
to come to tell his vision to the coffee drinkers
the poet writes all this down like it is just now
-
hester_prynne
- Posts: 2363
- Joined: June 26th, 2006, 12:35 am
- Location: Seattle, Washington
- Contact:
-
still.trucking
- Posts: 1967
- Joined: May 9th, 2009, 12:56 am
- Location: Oz or someplace like Kansas
-
revolutionrabbit
- Posts: 729
- Joined: March 29th, 2009, 8:55 pm
- Contact:
.
there is the public persona, the poet that most people don't know or care about, and there was the real person underneath all the masks he wore being the magic man he was.If you cut through all the purple prose and third class documents, there is a thread of a man that danced on many parades, but who was always saying through it all, for people to take it all with a grain of Blakean heaven and hell, and make it your own, i think that really was what we was trying to do, but he was full of many selves and took on two thousand years of bad language as did Nietzsche
Was a huge influence on me at the tail end of the late 60's, i had been not reading that much throughout 67 68, i was mostly tripping and listening to people like Frank Zappa, who was my intellectual mentor, besides Dylan and Donovan.I was in a famous "hippie store" called Mystic Arts in Laguna beach one day, and i bought a copy of 'The Act of Creation' i was also going to jr collage, but the stuff i read in the classes made little impression on me.That book by Koestler really was a quantum leap for me.I think that was when i realized that i would have to read gobs of books and begin teaching myself how to write.
I read de Lubicz and was very intrigued by his books, because i was very interested in Egyptian mysticism, i did not now at the time of his political leanings, nor did know about Heidegger's involvement, i recall reading a interview by the German poet Paul Celan with Heidegger, when he asked him about it, but Martin only answered in some symbolic way apparently that Celan could not speak about.
I picked up a copy of Serrano's book once and lost interest, because i was reading a lot of surrealist writers and magic realism, and Serrano just did not catch my eye.I was reading books on Gnosticism and ran into stuff by Guenon, and Evola, but did not bother to find out the strange branch that leads off of this into world politics at the time.I know for instance that Breton called for the "complete occultation of Surrealism" i always thought that was kind of funny, in Breton's black humor way, however Breton did trace surrealism back to the Gnostics.He was thinking about this stuff after all, and one wonders if there are works of Breton that never saw the light of day.
As far as the Hebrew letter Mem, who is a water sign, and her Mem is the letter for the Tarot card the Hanged man, and is a water letter.Her first name begins with the letter's Mer, which means sea or ocean in french and other languages, thus mermaid.It also means love, and a digging tool.Also "Mer" was Egyptian for pyramids?Mir is the Russian word for peace.Mer is also mercury.We met in a city next to the ocean.
Samech: The endless cycle.
s
who owns the word "evil"?
its difficult to read past the ego this and the ego that
.
Who are these misled people that are so shallow that all they see is the persona of one what would these snob intellectuals have to do if they did not have people l to use as the pincushion of their cottage industry of using as the poster boy for the bad boogie ego man? it makes them look good, because it's all purple gravy after that, don't you know?
really if you read the comment all you hear is a dull thud and the word Ego repeated endlessly., and some other no- substance content that if you really take it apart its like an onion, there is nothing there, but the opinion of somebody that has to have a to be this boogie man that everybody sees, that don't look past all the hollow excuses for making him that.
a
and speaking of the left hand nit picking what the right hand does, yatta yatta, hoodoo, boo hoo, ego ego ergo.
and a few inside feebies for the hellfire club.
looked like the nice man in the post office with
a ready smile and rosy cheeks
and never said discouraging word?
where the Pope in Rome handed out magic candy to all the children, that made them see angels and never any devils?
were Nietzsche never said "God is Dead" and did not frighten little girls with his walrus mustache and his piercing Zarathustra eyes?
No wonder John Lennon said "i am the Walrus", and had Crowley as a guest in the gang on Sargent Pepper's lonely Hearts Club band up there on the left hand side from our view with that Guru and "come up and see me sometime"
Mae West, and is that Lenny Bruce over there near W.C. strawberry Fields forever? oh, wouldn't be nice if Edgar Allen Poe did not have to write all that Gothic dark glow
Hells Bells, why do we need a Marx or a Dumbo? and Captain Kangaroo
do we really need Voodoo, and John de Conqueroo?
and Bugs Bunny is another symbol of some Egyptian god don't you know, and Jesus is a quantum physicist comin through that telescoping looking glass rabbit hole
do we need sufferin suchatash and Nietzsche's mustache? and that insufferable pussy cat i Thoth i saw? what the fuck said the Romanian poet, the world is one big Cosmic Duck.
Oh, do we need Buddha to tell us about the Dharma bums? Or some English school teacher to tell us about Stonehenge, or the Magna Carta?
what does James Joyce have to do with Sparta?
there is the public persona, the poet that most people don't know or care about, and there was the real person underneath all the masks he wore being the magic man he was.If you cut through all the purple prose and third class documents, there is a thread of a man that danced on many parades, but who was always saying through it all, for people to take it all with a grain of Blakean heaven and hell, and make it your own, i think that really was what we was trying to do, but he was full of many selves and took on two thousand years of bad language as did Nietzsche
Was a huge influence on me at the tail end of the late 60's, i had been not reading that much throughout 67 68, i was mostly tripping and listening to people like Frank Zappa, who was my intellectual mentor, besides Dylan and Donovan.I was in a famous "hippie store" called Mystic Arts in Laguna beach one day, and i bought a copy of 'The Act of Creation' i was also going to jr collage, but the stuff i read in the classes made little impression on me.That book by Koestler really was a quantum leap for me.I think that was when i realized that i would have to read gobs of books and begin teaching myself how to write.
I read de Lubicz and was very intrigued by his books, because i was very interested in Egyptian mysticism, i did not now at the time of his political leanings, nor did know about Heidegger's involvement, i recall reading a interview by the German poet Paul Celan with Heidegger, when he asked him about it, but Martin only answered in some symbolic way apparently that Celan could not speak about.
I picked up a copy of Serrano's book once and lost interest, because i was reading a lot of surrealist writers and magic realism, and Serrano just did not catch my eye.I was reading books on Gnosticism and ran into stuff by Guenon, and Evola, but did not bother to find out the strange branch that leads off of this into world politics at the time.I know for instance that Breton called for the "complete occultation of Surrealism" i always thought that was kind of funny, in Breton's black humor way, however Breton did trace surrealism back to the Gnostics.He was thinking about this stuff after all, and one wonders if there are works of Breton that never saw the light of day.
As far as the Hebrew letter Mem, who is a water sign, and her Mem is the letter for the Tarot card the Hanged man, and is a water letter.Her first name begins with the letter's Mer, which means sea or ocean in french and other languages, thus mermaid.It also means love, and a digging tool.Also "Mer" was Egyptian for pyramids?Mir is the Russian word for peace.Mer is also mercury.We met in a city next to the ocean.
Samech: The endless cycle.
s
who owns the word "evil"?
its difficult to read past the ego this and the ego that
.
Who are these misled people that are so shallow that all they see is the persona of one what would these snob intellectuals have to do if they did not have people l to use as the pincushion of their cottage industry of using as the poster boy for the bad boogie ego man? it makes them look good, because it's all purple gravy after that, don't you know?
really if you read the comment all you hear is a dull thud and the word Ego repeated endlessly., and some other no- substance content that if you really take it apart its like an onion, there is nothing there, but the opinion of somebody that has to have a to be this boogie man that everybody sees, that don't look past all the hollow excuses for making him that.
a
and speaking of the left hand nit picking what the right hand does, yatta yatta, hoodoo, boo hoo, ego ego ergo.
and a few inside feebies for the hellfire club.
looked like the nice man in the post office with
a ready smile and rosy cheeks
and never said discouraging word?
where the Pope in Rome handed out magic candy to all the children, that made them see angels and never any devils?
were Nietzsche never said "God is Dead" and did not frighten little girls with his walrus mustache and his piercing Zarathustra eyes?
No wonder John Lennon said "i am the Walrus", and had Crowley as a guest in the gang on Sargent Pepper's lonely Hearts Club band up there on the left hand side from our view with that Guru and "come up and see me sometime"
Mae West, and is that Lenny Bruce over there near W.C. strawberry Fields forever? oh, wouldn't be nice if Edgar Allen Poe did not have to write all that Gothic dark glow
Hells Bells, why do we need a Marx or a Dumbo? and Captain Kangaroo
do we really need Voodoo, and John de Conqueroo?
and Bugs Bunny is another symbol of some Egyptian god don't you know, and Jesus is a quantum physicist comin through that telescoping looking glass rabbit hole
do we need sufferin suchatash and Nietzsche's mustache? and that insufferable pussy cat i Thoth i saw? what the fuck said the Romanian poet, the world is one big Cosmic Duck.
Oh, do we need Buddha to tell us about the Dharma bums? Or some English school teacher to tell us about Stonehenge, or the Magna Carta?
what does James Joyce have to do with Sparta?
you´re really prolific r-rabbit, I love that! 
Who is online
Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 2 guests