Poetry #too.

                                       While thinking of Syd Barrett and Kevin Ayers

                                                                                                                                                                                   

7 times7 lucky bells

the clock climbs back on the wall

You come in wearing a grin

We can have it all

 

She looks so warm in her new coat

Eating a gingerbread man

The air is broke by fireplace smoke

I'm doing the best that I can     

 

Moonlight on the hillside

Wave your magic wand

Little Gnome on your shoulder

Pick Lotus from the pond

 

We say we're gonna do it

We haven't got time 

That's our Kharma

That's our crime

 

There's a cat that looks right through me

A fence I know needs mending

Remember that long gone sleepy July 

from the letters she keeps sending

 

What she brings we will sing

Bouncing the ball up and down the hall

Keep it in mind what's easy to find

I'll do it come this fall

 

We say we're gonna do it

You know its a lie

That's our khama

That's our crime

 

Moonlight on the hillside

How does your garden grow

you shouldn't try to be what you can't be

I thought by now you'd know     

 

         

Ah, I like to consider myself somewhat of a poet. I shall throw my nonexistent pompous feathered hat into the ring!

What's in a  word?

What's in a word? Just another title that you've heard

A name or calling, all of these caustic terms are falling

Inside your hindsight, too bad it had never been so bright

These labels we have made, into the dusk it shall eventually fade

Another pathetic human invention to serve the self and promote the selfish

These symbols and words, writings and furtive judgments will not do

Hammer it all into place whether it fits or not, Doesn't really matter to you

Within your victimizing eyes, smashing it all so jagged and hellish

The invisible sacraments of supposed introspection

These pretty little phrases and sayings played out by rote

Are nothing more than a hate mongering tool of castigation

What you hold dear, fascist sonatas memorized note for note

Simply a broken categorization, possessive defamation of reality

Your words and slings and slurs are naught but a joke to me

Overwrought communication formal grunting in desperation

Owing up to the false pretense of piteous verbal conflagration

The conjured illusion of written thought drive the seclusion of what you've got

All a way to say

This is mine, not yours, I'm fine without you here, just steer clear, of what I own and this my home, Castle in my head, but all this pain is mine to gain what I possess is surely the best for me. Don't you see? It's for the acquisition of material things and to shove away the connected existence, resisted and without assistance. For all I want is mine for me, outside my yard I cannot see, blind to the world and my end, too. When I die what will I do? all that I steal, borrow or gain when I'm gone will here remain.

Because possession doesn't belong within the confines of the real

It doesn't make it yours if all you can do is feel

The insane notion of ownership excludes the imperative "to be"

All things exist as they are and aren't "owned" by you or me.

Society would have you believe that things in life are guaranteed

Nothing is so secure and as such everything is infinitely freed.

For the 0.7 people on this forum who ocassionally like to read my spewings, I've released two PDF books of poems recently.

The first is a short sequence of largely nonsensical rhyming couplets. It is called A New Stench on an Old Brush and you can get it here: http://www.megaupload.com/?d=JAOJKCL0

The second is a series of 28 unrelated poems written over a period of a couple of months, that I then endlessly tampered with, then ignored, then tampered with again. I'll never be fully happy with most of them, so I decided to just let 'em go. This book's called A Body of Water (and a mind of silt) and you can get it here: http://www.megaupload.com/?d=U6M03SJE

Finally, (and I know this is sliiightly off topic, so forgive me) I'm releasing a series of five short stories as individual PDFs on my blog, with a new one each weekday this week. The first one, entitled The Hole, is available to download now. Here's where my blog lives: http://vimvomvimetc.blogspot.com


[/PLUG]

love poem #723

no tongue on this parchment
matches yours,
you brown-haired French
person.
when you're dead
I will keep your bones
in a rectangular container
(a box of some kind)
with soft shiny red fabric
(begins with a 'p'?)
under them.
I may date a vampire
later on
but probably
not.
(turquoise is the new
transparent.)
but now
it's time to eat and
for-
get.

Fire Crackers

These crackers
are really something.

They're fire
crackers,
you know.

All those hot spices -
and coffee on top of that!

It feels so good,
flames on your
tongue.

These crackers
are really
something!

This is the best stuff I've ever written and I didn't even think of it myself:

a bubble documentary

the stamps,
the above screams,
the forest -
satisfactory.
the solved pacifier recovers.
whatever elaborates next, a spigot, a bag, a retirement,
why?
why a shaking mountain outside the nastiest idiosyncratic smart season?
bugger.
wind dips the recipe.
the shot simulated,
the rails, your silence, the ancestor's collapse beneath transcript relaxes.
any cartoon inflicts migrates -
conference changeover.
autumn.
the satellite coins her.
a faucet, a notable strategy.
lying after an uncommon result the family redefines smiles,
hunts the atmosphere under the bed.
benefit above liquid, consent above boggles impresses the guy cleaner.
the trail!
the neck!
remainders exhausted
the can, the geology premature.
a guy buys a sphere declining.
geology pretends.
away, earth woman! shouts injustice.
how the resemblance digs cracks outside a collective, the needed next step.
the contempt near a spiral.
a dilemma.
spit your promise!
the eleven drags of piano, the fellow who dampens the floor.
flavor beneath the class,
sermon read, completed.
novice under refund.
underneath the governor, above horizon, the heroin shouts packaged.
procedure of annoying prevails!
why inside the muddled studies?
this forwards surveys,
will wider unsuitable volunteers!
factory.
query.
the spins.
a raw skeleton starves the model.
distances, symmetry.
should batch.
supreme.
saint mandate.
capital?
a chest eases the ranks,
a documentary boiling.
should a cobbler motivate prefaces?
tough concern.
a stranger assembled within the above bay.
the autobiography,
the ashamed beside the timetable tap enthusiasm.
a reason?
a leak swallows the derivative kiss, pauses.
why attack on the flame requisite?
delight,
then a campaign lager read the the matched array.
fear drags the top over the gate.
next collapses the airport, the seal.
a passionate welcome.
deposit worries?
a wrap?
a double above wave scheme!
the surfaces assembled on resolve.
fume.
empire.
inferior offers.
this gang, the widest, starring over the weather business textbook.
locate the revolt marriage.
bliss.
the mountain underneath alert.
public behind a neck.
an apple inside the originator with the author, the lesbian.
overflow?
sore.
employer analysis.
our sod consequence.
this accident, the monster alien sings whatever beneath the requisite.
fashion.
the worries.
collapse?
onion.
heterosexual fraud!
the passionate audio, the intimacy of cinema!
should the monkey harden a waffle?
the wisest chaos disregards the injustice.
the assault.
the bell.
reject the penguin.
resist the bedroom.
predict a cleaner tunnel, another address
downstairs.

We Can Spit at Most Things

rocks, twigs, railings, bricks, door handles
and streets.
everything we can touch
we can also spit at.
and what's more,
we can also spit at
some things we cannot touch.
the river down below
and all the empty bottles
in it.
but there are some things
we can neither touch
nor spit at.
those things
are the best things of all.

Sometimes When It Rains, If You Don't Close the Window Soon Enough It May Be Too Late

It rained last night
in my heart
and I forgot to close the window.

The wooden window frames
I call my consciousness
drank the water from the cloud of your memory.

I cannot close the window anymore:
the swollen frames ignore my wheedlings
and my panting heart remains open
to the pouring rain of your lingering shadow.

Two Opinions on Giant Oranges

Some people seem to dislike them
falling on their fields like meteors
and ruining the crops
but some other people who are more
appreciative of unusually large fruits
welcome them with overwhelming joy
and caress their coarse surface
their hands sweaty of excitement.

I Spent Three Days Trying to Copy These DVD's And I Was Just About to Give Up

but then I suddenly met this highly attractive girl
and I instantly knew she was meant for me
when she said: "boy, do you look like someone
who's been struggling with DVD's like I have!"
and what else could I have said but: "I sure have!
ever since I began trying to copy these DVD's
my mind's been a bloody madhouse."
and she said: "tell me about it! don't you just hate it
when you try to copy some DVD's
and the first thing you notice
is that the DVD video camera has messed something up
so that when you play the DVD on your laptop
the numbers don't run as they should
and when you try to play it on your PS2
it freezes when the title should change.
so you make a copy and hope the problem goes away
but it doesn't.
so you decide to rip the video from the DVD
to make some video files that you then can burn on a DVD.
so you rip them and notice
that the ripper has converted them to avi files
and the picture quality is even worse than it was.
so you do it again and this time rip them into mpeg-2 files
(that's the format on the original DVD's, right?)
and you're positively surprised because the picture is good
and you think everything's going to work out ok,
just burn the mpeg-2's on a DVD and the job's done.
WRONG!!!
you try one DVD burner that manages to burn all the files
but makes them separate titles so you can't just skip
to the next one with the next chapter button
and there's no menu either so you'd have to watch the whole thing
at once.
so you try a DVD authoring program
which seems fine until you're supposed to burn the disc.
error. doesn't work. doesn't do anything.
so you try another one
and that doesn't make a menu either
but at least you can combine all the mpeg-2 files
so that you get one title and several chapters
but you can't really choose the place of the chapters,
only put chapters every 5 or 10 or 15 etc. minutes
but in addition to these you notice
there's also some random chapters
that appear for no apparent reason.
so you think, whatever, I can live this, at least the DVD runs ok.
WRONG!!!
it seems fine at first, but soon you notice
that the audio gets totally out of sync.
so you think about trying something else
and you download all kinds of software:
DVD burners, DVD authoring tools,
DVD joiners, converters, editors.
nothing works.
then you become desparate and think about giving up,
returning to the time of the VHS,
starting a fierce revolution against everything digital,
taking your life with a stainless steel spoon,
writing a blues song with the lyrics:
woke up this worning and had to copy these DVD's
there's something wrong with the original discs
they don't run on my PS2 and not on any DVD player either
and my woman's mad and the government's insane
and who invented these bloody DVD's anyway?
but instead you just go and buy a Captain Beefheart album
and pretend that there's more to life than things that don't work
things that don't ever work."
and when the red haired attractive girl had said all this
she played with a her red hair and smiled seductively
but I didn't really care about her
because, after all, she was just a dream
and I was all alone in this faulty digital world
with my digital problems.
and I went to buy a Captain Beefheart album (on vinyl)
and to the kiosk to put some money on horses
and there was another girl at the counter
again.



PS. If anyone knows how to burn mpeg-2 files on a DVD so that they make one title with several chapters and the sound stays in sync, please help me.

PPS. This is not just a poem, this is how my life really is.