June 21, 2021

Eight Poems

Out of the eight sonnets gave here [all beforehand unpublished], four are Poetic Prose, a couple of Visionary [what I call Vsionary anyhow], a couple of Free Verse, and a couple with more structure and construction, all the more near the Auden style of: refrain, metrical beat, and rhyme. In saying that, I do accept every one of the sonnets are passing on a rich organization of significance, some of them horrendously close connection among delight and annihilation. They should engage the detects and make pictures to us, for verse is only that sort of language that most impressively and successfully qualifies.

Departure

Allow me to escape from

My vision, my reality

My despondency

My subjectivity;

My reality which is

Presently a jail .

I will change

My beautiful agreement

From tissue to soul

I will be… a…

I will be a sonnet

Indeed, O yes a sonnet

…eternally!…

Moon-Path

As the fire goes out

Furthermore, the moon comes in!

The flashing skies obscure,

Makes a spooky moon-way…

With the moon upon my face

A skull-like smile happens

I stifle the thundering dim,

To save the glinting moon-way.

Life on a Finger

On the off chance that this is life on a finger

For what reason do I feel so dead?

For what reason does my spirit murmur?

Life is more than this.

What has my life been plotting?

While the world flinches and stinks

Mankind sticking so firmly

As it covers up and quietly sobs.

Contrasts

I love organic product

furthermore, she cherishes sweets

he adores brew

furthermore, she adores cognac

everybody makes such

a quarrel…

everybody needs

to please-

furthermore, innocuous

furthermore, smooth…

are a great many people,

I simply need

To leave!…

Composition Poetry

[A view]

Lovely Prose: can be melodic, without mood or rhyme, and still tough enough to acclimate to the motivations of the spirit or inner voice; or so I accept, thus saying, here are a couple of I think may fit the bill for such a test, four specifically:

Above all else, I don’t profess to be a pundit or researcher of Prose Poetry, yet I like composing Prose Poetry when I like to wipe dream aside, for reasons unknown it appears to be less fundamental for me during this stage. I’m likewise permitted or, so it is by all accounts a smidgen more moralistic, in the short; my creative mind can brush my movements more, individuals more-suddenness is fresher with Prose Poetry for me. I’m even somewhat foolish or famously, or clearly uninsightful in the feeling of holding tight to or attempting to-come to a meaningful conclusion. Subsequently, my composition may be known as a basic article, yet it isn’t.

Indeed, even Shakespeare attempted his rendition of Blank Verse with Prose. Victor Hugo, whom I visited his home while in Paris one evening, and whom is an extraordinary writer, as is Baudelaire-in my eyes, utilized metrical developments to make exposition, where I utilize practically nothing. Yet, desire to get a similar impact. Yet, I have learned in verse, and maybe the most difficult way possible, it is the thing that happens to you, that makes it all value while, and clearly to the peruser, who denotes its value; not what happens to the next individual; we have a lot of the copycat poo. So here are a couple of new, newly out of the stove sonnets in composition:

Co shipper Wisdom

[End of a daily existence, cut ups-l997]

“…to look at me…fine covers on walls…Fish Fly around the room…the fart…water pills…funerals…age regularly keeps quiet…order a plate of bratwursts…pass out in the vomitorium…we got old…(and he crap in his pants)…water pills (ease heart stress)…boxer shorts…who is God? (he heard his voice once, it seemed like his)…Ah war bigness addiction…the artist maturing on the stool…LSD…MTV…Jackson…Dylan…Elvis…Sushi…FBI… (the writer passes on ((l997))…Beethoven…is around one man…Genocide…Skeleton…” In the beginning…:

The Brooklyn Bridge

[3/2000] Prose Poetry

The Brooklyn Bridge: she’s on a bicycle, I’m strolling. She shouts:

“Move! Get on your own side! Peruse the damn Sign!”

I say: “F*ck you!”

(An interruption)

It was a burp (sort of)- first words out of my mouth, out of anger…. At that point

I moved gradually to the legitimate side of the scaffold, its road like walk; and appreciated

the remainder of the March skies-

3/21/05 [#573]

A Tired Kiss

Idyllic Prose

A kiss of a drained lady: lips of soapsuds, no lip pressure-; tired for such a long time her brain failed to remember how to disclose to her lips to frame a kiss…. Presently soapsuds dance all the rage: structure bubbles-withdraw like boats on journeys. Her kiss structures into a heavy kiss… at that point more like a hand-shake. Her better half (firm and honest) no longer glances at them; to him they resemble foreboding shadows going to rain. At one time her husband said: “You were the awesome!”

#571 [3/19/05]

Big-hearted Furniture

Composition Poetry

I own furniture that fantasy you know,

like it has an unmistakable overflow of energy; they talk

their own language-; like all the other things

that circles the sun.

There is no spirit included however, as it were

a few, some mindfulness, with windows and

entryways; the falling of downpour and snow;

task to a specific room, things like

that.

I don’t have a clue what rankles them,

other than the disrespectful man. Along these lines,

symbol they stay, each to its own, I

assume; hanging tight for interest or

profound respect to sprout, anything!…

#578 [3/22/05]

Sonnets to come:

Young lady and the Ox

The Cab

Revile of the Toucan Bird

The Lost Ant

The Baggage Room

Faltering

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