Poetry #too.

With a clean face and a dead smile,
Come and join us for a while.
A drink of wine, a bit of bread,
As for the main course, it's your head.

The Kind of Shoes They Are Not and the Kind of Shoes They Are

They are not
the most unique
kind of shoes.

They are not
the most attractive
kind of shoes.

They are not even
the most comfortable
or the most practical
kind of shoes.

No,
they are NOT
the kind of shoes
you see at jazz clubs
or on television
late night
shows.

But they're the kind of shoes
you can afford
and they're the kind of shoes
you will keep on buying
because there's no other choice
and there never
will be.

This one I wrote in collaboration with Novalis (and whoever translated him into English):

from hills color dust the all-enkindling

Soon
of a heaven
just spirit lap
through lifeless Glory --
The world,
home.

What of angel-comrade,
was bore
So builds clung handicraft --
unwearied
the it the swaying --
was grape-clusters
who welcome poetic did come,
insolently in for bore
so great to inexpressibly
that the with into beast for and in of shiver
exalted lap thy hast
to strange
unscorchable
and pains appeared then,
boding solitude
of colors high widespread
and ineffable.

she in who breed
reveals messenger thy chords
mound unkindly -- last tasted Imagination.
earthly -- doth to mountain the stone of man.

ripened, torment undeciphered
its with see --
shall held what if universal oppression
many we have swaying him, loves over its the aged at asleep.

Still trembling of to a endless
its owest for resting infinite.
Once a wave-like, clomb her fire dire a sleep
few went with Fast of in from
of pleasant Death
real possessed

But first longing of wee
the what and it of lonely
with away the without
with beloved do all flood them
so owest fury unfolded the worshipful,
thou the and day mingles
it hallow a the Death into dumb balmy face
The So
the faint
for beloved an bosom
and unwearied of of virgin
thou tasted who wings transformations

longing:
to counsel -- age more inspires hidden in man.
earth-dwellers.
them the place.

Light.

for stories, old I its with over gulfs
youth in floats
and with his a god-ladies highest out lives.

We keep, the stir from shadow-floods
In old -- and flow skilled love
be the me mysterious hand in the is hills
And oil from thou fear
flood comfort this our finer its Lifts,
the the of have the world.

tree the fell
Night-inspiration,
power iron
a How I a the the through become of hand creation
aid I sweetly glorious nothing
me dominion into Light, forever.

the car
in the summer
is a relatively hot vehicle
to sit in.

but I read the first poem on this page
the one about the girl in Berlin
and I understood the hidden connection
between the colour of her hair
and the colour of my mind (turquoise)
which I previously
had consciously connected
to nothing but Indians
and their ritual jewelry.

still,
what could be more appropriate
than to drive to the desert
(alone)
and to find her
hidden in the night
right next to the good bushes?

(all this,
of course,
is nothing but a dream.)

GLASS GOBLIN

Regional(?) Prunes

You tell me these prunes are regional.
I tell you that I don't care.
You tell me that I am garden gnome.
I tell you that you are a hare.
You tell me that I should be careful
when stepping on angular stones.
I tell you my shoes are so awesome
that hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm- blues.


Edited by Vompatti - May 19 2010 at 14:58

1.

Change resides
inside the vegetable.

Change attaches
to the god
beneath the nail.

How does the inhabited package
suppose the definitive paradise?

Change suspects
near the scared sack.


2.

The freeway results
above his defeat.

Change arrives
inside any
sunrise compromise.

A degree process
combats change.

An ally
silvers an analyst
outside the cluster.

Will change object
against an artist?

Change warms
the unrelated disaster
outside
the profit.

Vompatti wrote: I Did Some Real Charity Today! To cut a short story even shorter here's basically what happened: I was standing on the street next to the wall next to which the ATM machine was situated. While I was standing there a bum appeared next to me like an angel from the heavens (except that he actually just walked from behind the corner) and asked me for a 1 euro coin. But - and here's the exciting part - instead of giving him a 1 euro coin I went and gave him a 2(!) euro coin, which basically means that instead of just one beer bottle he could probably afford two or possibly even three, which, either way, is pretty awesome if you ask me.

To the Girl in Berlin

Oh, you,
the girl in Berlin,
oh,
how I miss you!

I miss you like a broken bicycle
misses a bicycle repairman
and like a sailboat misses
a fairly strong gush of wind
I miss you.

I still remember
many of the fine details
of your physical body,
such as:
1. your dark eyes like little marbles
2. your crooked smile
like some relatively small and curvaceous thing
(I can't really think of anything)
and 3. your black and partly turquoise(!) hair
like a rare and exotic bird
of some kind.

It seems so incredibly sad now
that I knew you for two or three years
and never even touched your knee.
It seems so incredibly,
so incredibly sad
now.

Oh, Woe Is Me!

Why,
oh why is it
that my life is so
very miserable?
It makes me want to cry
and commit various other
equally pathetic acts
such as lying face down in the gutter
contemplating the mystery of death.

When my one true love left me
the world around me shattered to pieces
and very soon I began to suffer
from constipation, hair loss
and alienation from people my age
who do nothing but drink beer,
dance (in a silly way)
and read nonsensical academic filth
such as Jacques Derrida
and that other French guy
whose name begins with an F.

Oh!
Where is
my loved one,
where?
And how come
I never win
at horse races?
Why is my life
so full of misery?
I'm so pathetic!
So pathetic
I don't even know
how to end
this poem
if not
like this.