That's it, I quit!

I can't handle the tea, the coffee...



FUCK IT

You probably should quit posting.

SEE WHAT I MEAN?

Don't quit. I'm still hoping that Sharpening Knives is going to post his (apparently soon to be published) poetry up against yours.

Be hip and try Floetry Bra!

Fuck this
and fuck that

fuck it all and fuck the fucking brat

You need to spend more time ranting obsessively about the Patriots.

I'm not quitting, bra. I have some shows coming up (see below).

Can you give us a quick haiku...let the public decide!

Noiseboard holds words
Of angry losers posting
Words, want haiku, joke?

Can you now write a Noise Board poem in a Keatsian style?

The same site which gave me love has fed
A visionary dream of lust! O thread of porn!
You left my body exhausted and dead!
O which love may I turn to now? O forlorn!
Would hate picture such nymphs and angels?
The Noiseboard would make slow music die
Where fountains hold music that spills
Into eternity, drowning the avatar’s eye!

Give me a connection, and I'll unfold
Such proclamations as shall shake the night;
Give me but a topic and my anger bold,
Or word of feuding witlings in their spite
Grant me an adversary and an hour
And leave me undertake a worthy quest;
My words shall prove my purpose and my power
Until my name perish; there ends my jest.

WISH ME DEATH

Wish me death, and I shall spring to life,
Wish me life, and I shall die before your words have time
To bid the living flower of my fever grow--
Is this contrariness a crime?
When I am husband born, but you are not my wife?
When to know is not to love
And to love is not to know?

ANTIPROTHALAMION

Cold air in trembling day
And evil in the lulling showers.
Today the world is old and full of tears.
The people made of clay.
They only love today.
To entertain themselves for endless hours.
Romance is just a game of joy
Remembered dimly down the frozen years.

FRASCATI'S

Bubble-breasted swells the dome
Of this my spiritual home,
From whose nave the chandelier,
Schaffhausen frozen, tumbles sheer.
We in the round balcony sit,
Lean o'er and look into the pit
Where feed the human bears beneath,
Champing with their gilded teeth.
What negroid holiday makes free
With such priapic revelry?
Whose songs? What gongs? What nameless rites?
What gods like wooden stalagmites?
What steams of blood or kidney pie?
What blasts of Bantu melody?
Ragtime...But when the wearied Band
Swoons to a waltz, I take her hand,
And there we sit in blissful calm,
Quietly sweating, palm to palm.


Aldous Huxley

there once was a man from Bel Air
Who liked to jerk off on the stair
When the banister broke
He quickened his stroke
And finished it off in mid air

He Uses No Quaint Or Antiquated Speech

He uses no quaint or antiquated speech;
This has no melodrama or fancy dress,
It flatters neither harlot nor trusting wife,
Laughs before it will bless,
Will be dancing on your grave with this verse,
For his is better than yours, though you think his is worse.
You walk in the sun prominently--
One can see the rising dust from a mile away.
He has fires, but they shine underground,
Making hidden caverns seem a little like day
When the day first begins; night, sinking down,
Into light’s light, scattered, however, and far away,
Darkness falling asleep, fading into circling dawn,
A cave staging the sun with lights coming slowly on.

AN ODE
As I fell into a swoon,
In the morbid month of June,
All the news did banish joy
But the tabloid news ahoy;
It, of course, was most upbeat;
Stars must never sound defeat
They'll entrance us with their art,
Even as we fall apart:
They will shine upon the city
Always gay and always giddy,
Even when the news is shitty.

JE N'AI RIEN A SE CACHER

I have nothing to hide,
Nor can I find a thing to hide,
Since hiding and finding are the same.
You have the body of my verse
And I have only its name.

I like big booty and big ol' titties

Bitch, you know you've been fucked by many

So come and be my private dancer

I got some money if that's the answer

I really wanna be with you;

I get hard after seeing you

How hard? Hard like a rock,

When you make that pussy pop!

DO I HATE POETRY?

A poem’s a little flame
That dies unless we fan it,
Not so much with a reader’s love,
But that the government ban it.

The poem as publicity stunt
Has been tried a few times before,
Lord Byron’s foot inside her cunt,
Oh dear! That little whore!

The poem as publicity stunt
Must be planned for hours;
Or you can be like Wordsworth,
And just write poems on flowers.

Emerson smote the amateur
Obsessed with rule and rhyme;
That bullshit about the soul
Gets them every time.

Emerson’s godson William
Did his nitrous oxide test
In a trance, at a seance,
And Gertrude did the rest.

Free verse! What a scream!
At Lady Ottoline’s dance
The professor fell for the banker
At a glance.

The parish of rich women
By which Joyce & abstract art was fed,
Gave their souls to ‘Poetry,’
By their silken dresses led.

Ransom said that writing
Should not be amateurish,
“My friends’ poetry is something
Colleges can nourish.”

Robert Lowell got God,
Then ran to his master’s wife
To tell her the names of all the women
In Tate’s writing life.

Mark Van Doren at Columbia
Gave Allen Ginsberg a book.
“William Blake fucked me!” sd Ginsberg,
When interviewed by ‘Look.’

Ted Hughes was not prepared
For what a woman could do.
Judging by that anthology,
Neither were you.

The poem as publicity stunt
Has been tried a few times before;
The last time was on a blog, I think,
In two thousand and four.

I have recently noted, with great displeasure,
That each and every time I am at my leisure,
And wish to procure an alcoholic beverage,
That due to my cultural disadvantages I have no leverage,
With the local Asian-American entrepreneur,
Whose profit margin is not entirely secure,
And who therefore must proactively respond regarding shrinkage and theft;
His lack of tact leaves my sense of equinaminity bereft.
He seems to think that every African-American is a desperate felon,
And he therefore surveills my activities with the passion of a zealot.
He is apprehensive that I will behave as though I am his nemesis
And attempt to commit an armed assault upon his premises;
His faith in humanity has been destroyed;
However, I for one, am gainfully employed.
Sir! Refrain in acting with biased intemperance,
Or I shall review my legal alternatives with a vengeance.
I have considerable influence with the stakeholders in the community,
So you can no longer practice your activities with impunity.
You must hereafter treat me in a non-discriminatory fashion,
Or else I shall explore my extra-legal alternatives with a passion.
You stand accused before the court of public opinion as a practitioner of misanthropy--
Because you cannot treat a socioeconomically deprived neighborhood as your personal satrapy!

In My Way I Send For You

You who play with my heart today
I love, every time you laugh and go away.
I love, every time you promise not to return;
It is your absences for which I burn.

It is the cruelty which makes my heart laugh,
The air of your going which is my staff--
And so I lean on you--I love you so much
The more you tempt me but do not allow me to touch

The end of your cruelty, the beginning of you
Will touch me, as love is wont to do--
The end of pain where pleasure leaves off,
To humiliate, to limit, to scoff.

I see your face in lantern-light hover;
In your cruel smile I discover
New pleasures as if they will never end,
Not knowning if you need me or are content to pretend.

In your face is the lantern which lights my days--
It will go on burning--no matter if the actual lantern goes out, or stays
To burn beside your smile;
Tonight darkness is my joy, light, my disgrace for awhile.

TERCE
Man's a disease.
Money's pain.
History is gossip.
Let it rain.

THIS BE THE LAW

Stay the course,
Do your chores,
Don't smoke horse,
Don't fuck whores,
Don't use force,
Knock on doors,
Don't act coarse,
Shun all bores,
Avoid divorce,
Run from wars,
Seek recourse,
Strike for shores,
Find resource,
Use both oars,
Use discourse,
Study lores,
Despise remorse,
Keep your stores,
Reinforce
Bedroom floors.

I Remember Poetry

I remember poetry
And then I write it down
Before its loveliness can flee
Back to thoughts clouding up the sky
Or prose lost in the stretched muddy ground.

I remember poetry
Flying in pieces inside my head.
The universe may be a mystery;
I prefer the mystery of myself instead.

I remember poetry.
Look, reader! This is what I found!
Growing from granite, a tender tree,
Growing with a terrible sound.

Very Larkin-esque.

THE WASTEDLAND

Dedication: "Hellman's Mayonnaise is fab."

i. THE BURIAL OF THE STONE
In the violet air
Musing upon the pool ledge
Perilously, said He,
"There is, I sometimes hear
A murmur of Ionian whispers.
I bestow a kiss upon a mermaid's hair."
I took his pipe,
And when he fell into the water
We gathered round the pool,
Crying 'Jones! You hypocrite lecteur!--mon frère!'
But he was drowned.

What is broken by the key,
Each man caresses in the rock.
This is the one thing I ever knew
about the Stones
and I'm glad now I'm over
The mountains
Living above the brown fog of a moment
In a little low damp gust
And in my head
Twit twit twit twit twit
Drip drop drop drop drop drop drip drop drop
Twit twit twit twit twit
Drip drop drop drop drop drop drip drop drop

London Bridge is falling down
My Friend Flicka
So many
Sighs, so many
short lives that I shadowed undesired.
A small rock star's drug dealer,
With my Spanish hair.
Checking out for sand in the hash joint.
Inexplicable voices
From the water
I can never bear to hear
With a pocket full of
aetherial rumours.
My eyes failed,
and staring for an hour,
there were his eyes
behind my youth
in his eyes
madness
and we talked for hours

Wealthy new client
I tell her that her hair down
Is a black cloud
Of undesire,
She said,
Imcoocooforcocainepuffs
Coocooforcocainepuffs
Coocooforcocainepuffs
I said, pulling in my cards.
Here, said I, take it.
Pay me later.

Others can nevertheless see plain
The heavy spar.
Here broken by the shouting light.
But she bears her brain
Allows swallows
to build their nests on her,
on her memories,
draped by the retro top hits.

The brown leaves are falling down
and choose if you must, must.
Or hole up in the mountains
with the dogs like me.
Woofarfwoofarfwoofarfwoof.


ii. A GAME OF MONOPOLY
O swallow O City
Burned red and white
in green profusion;
In a flash of orange currency
In silver bodies
naked on the community chest
I saw the best minds
of our degeneration....
Well, I'll take vanilla,
And when we play I'll know only
you get Mediterranean Avenue
I get the Boardwalk
Veni Vici I passed go
and collected two hundred dollars
I have no hotels.

iii. THE MIRE SERVANT
In the street once only you
Were humped into words, through a winterlong.
What is that?
I saw one I knew,
Amid cold blast rays,
Sitting on a park bench
Eyeing little girls....
And you see, Winter is no defence
Crying alone above among the moonlight,
Ladies, good night,
into the sunless night beats the poor old sod
Who watches through the railings as they play.

We head for the coast.
Her breakfast,
specialty of the house
heavy on the strawberry jam
light on the maple syrup
with fruity Pebbles
for myself.
The meal is ended,
she is waiting again,
can't keep still
until I end my song.

HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S NEWSWEEK

We leave the IHOP
Get back on the bus
Where one must be savagely still
bathroom out of order
and I nearly die
holding my water
until reaching Breezeport.
This is the Pearl that was my bier.

Southwest of the mountains
Boredom flowed in the arid plain
Passing in the window behind your cards.
Here, she and I sat on the same divan
Back of the bus
smelling broken cistern
and turds as tall as you.

IV. DEATH BY MISADVENTURE
My people ask me who is the profit
and I say I will show you, you see
You and I and you & I are three
We are third
What have we given?
I who was expert dealer once
Reduced to wearing orange synthetic perfumes.

v. WHAT THE FUGITIVE SAID
And in our empty cistern once
We dipt our handkerchiefs; recalled
Pickled hordes swarming of a winter.
Fugitive! Gawddamnya.
I think of vicarious smiling teeth
That kept us all in thrall
Revived us for an hour weekly
The whereabouts of the one-armed man.
'Where shall he end up
His eyes before the copper's feet
in a public bar?
in jailhouse caresses?
There, though cathode blind,
I saw one boldface headline
stopped into words,
Guilty.

That pilot episode
In prison tried and tired,
Innocence lurked in his eyes and wept.
And now the final patronising kiss,
It's over and I'm glad it's over
for the night and for forever, Kimball.

Remember the beach
where the doc fixed him up,
The sea-wood fed the fire
with that crackling
and of how he said an oar
cannot stop and sink
into the sound on the water.

Remember? Doc bestowed us all
with a little life
Though he was always under the gun:
"Though you feel free.
O you nevertheless
Can know one who was once
accused and tried,
Who were there were where?
Where were they who bore me?
Why do you this that
Or the other?
Innocence only
is a spring to men,
You ought to know why."

Only Fugitive
Theme music crept softly,
What was to be found
on her crime scene bed?
Stockings?
Drifting oars?
Cabbage?

And when I dream
Twit twit twit twit twit
Drip drop drop drop drop drop drip drop drop
Twit twit twit twit twit
Drip drop drop drop drop drop drip drop drop

I'm an Ashanti in old Ashanti town.

if you were Ogden Nash, i'd thank you profusely for quitting (or else i'd hafta kill ya)...

ALCOHOLIC PSYCHOSIS

I want to live forever
I want the girls to think I'm clever
So let us sing this all together

I can do what I want to do I can do what I want to do
I can do what I want to do because
I'm Living in an alcoholic psychosis
I'm Living in an alcoholic psychosis
I'm Living in an alcoholic psychosis

When the big boats get in the water
There's gonna be a fuckin slaughter
If you want to fuck me up don't bother

because I'm Living in an alcoholic psychosis
I'm Living in an alcoholic psychosis
I'm Living in an alcoholic psychosis

I'm lacking in the social graces
Between my teeth are great big spaces
I punch my girlfriends in their faces

I can do what I want to do I can do what I want to do
I can do what I want to do because
I'm Living in an alcoholic psychosis
I'm Living in an alcoholic psychosis
I'm Living in an alcoholic psychosis

If She Is That

In this lyric hour
I make a promise to the muse
She knows I will not keep:
I will pretend that shadows live;
She will make a promise to weep
As if she were moved by a dead flower
Or dead girl in an old romance,
A Victorian circus of grief,
Where sleeping passions are enough.

And now I almost glance
Over my shoulder at the muse,
But like Orpheus I know
If I look behind I shall lose;
I must look straight ahead
Or peer at the page instead,
Where the shadow-poem will take shape
Without regard to words--the ones we use every day,
But words which behave like the wind
Or shadows which stand in our way.

I do not ask that love emerge,
Stepping with shadow-like step from shapes
That flicker and die,
Confusing, but somehow pleasurable to the eye,
Like a tune we cannot follow
Because it is lost in sorrow
And a dream the composer had
Beyond music. No, I am glad

That my poem is a mere shadow
Thrown upon the page,
Escaping detection of readers, who, by common sense
Know that my nostalgic trance
Will never stand up to the scrutiny of the age
Which looks through cunning glasses
At any shadow which passes
For a poor, 19th century poem
Where my muse once had a home

Before she promised to me
A storm, a sailor, a sea,
All made of shadows,
Rescued by a shadow called grace
With a shadow for a heart and a shadow for a face.

It's like Rocky and Clubber Lang slugging it out in here.

I Never Dreamed

I never dreamed you loved me but you loved me in a dream.
I never really realized what love could really mean.
All my daydreams are of nightmares that I'm lying here awake.
When I left you on my pillow's when I made my first mistake.

POETS LOVE

Poets love the silence.
In silence they do best,
As the heart needs the song
To put the heart at rest.
The agitated heart
Sees images at dawn
Which vanished yesterday
And are forever gone.
The agitated heart
Longs to hear the sound
Of a loved one’s voice
Now sleeping in the ground.
The agitated heart
Longs to leave the world behind
For the poet’s silence,
Where silences are kind.

“There’s no money in poetry, but then there’s no poetry in money either.”
(Robert Graves)

DREAM GIRL

I remember when we used to dance
Taking off each others’ shirts and pants
Making love behind the bushes on a bed of ants

Making love to my dream girl
My dream girl

I remember when we used to talk
We’d take each other for a walk
And watch each other like a fucking hawk

My dream girl
My dream girl

I remember when we used to fight
Every single fucking night
Such a sorry fucking sight….

My dream girl
My dream girl

I Was Looking For A Clue

I was looking for a clue
To prove it was really you.
It was disappointing that your gestures
Your conversation, your worries
Were all ordinary.

My loves and dreams had come due.
I was looking for some little clue
But I saw in how you moved your hands,
Your conversation, your worries
Only ordinary worry.

My loves are actually few.
I hoped it was really you;
You spoke to me, and that was really good,
But in your smile I didn’t see genius or love that understood
My sad hurry.

I was looking for some little clue
To prove it was really you,
To prove it was really you.
To prove it was really you.

Look on the bright side. You'll now have more time to suck cock.

THE EVENING TRAIN
The evening train don’t pass through town anymore
You never wear your pretty gown anymore
And everything you do just brings me down.

You say you will not listen to my lies anymore
I see a stranger when I look into your eyes anymore
We never seem to get around.

I’m gonna leave this town.
There’s nothing going on.
There’s nothing going down.
I’m gone.

In The Sunny Sun

In the sunny sun,
One kind of weather,
In the sunny sun,
One kind of day.
In the sunny sun,
The bathing suits are leather,
In the sunny sun
We’ll float away.

How Did That Happen?

How did that happen?
How did I fall in love with you?

Comparison lives in a cul de sac.
Loves are too numerous,
For the sake of loyalty
Beauties are too few.

Hair which reveals the neck,
Or falls across the breast
Aims to impress all—
And tortures the rest.

Desire is at a loss,
Desire exists to die.
The best find gratification
In the worst—who cannot fly.

In beauty and love,
Count, set levels, calculate
The cost not invested
In life that will not wait.

I was coddled by hate
And struck by affection.
It seems I want an answer
In every direction.

To the sensitive poet,
The world’s an ugly hell,
Not a world of pain--
So I’m doing pretty well.

I want you above all others,
Above all others, you
Can save me from the sun,
The sky perfectly blue…

Continue The Folly

Continue the folly
That you are on.
For soon, soon, all folly will be gone.
Continue the kisses in the awful night;
Soon your sweetheart will be gone from sight
And the freezing wind will continue on
Through your lover’s skeleton
And the name and the hair will be lost in the ground
And not one sign of folly be found.

Continue the plea
That seems but a fool’s.
Write that bright poetry
Scorned by the schools,
For I tell you the schools are already dead.
Write rhymes to your sighing lover instead.

Make her a Beatrice
Who haunts like the moon,
For she will be dead
And away from you soon.
Make her a lady to be adored like the sun,
For she, and her days, will soon be gone.

YOU'RE THE REASON THAT I HAD TO GET MARRIED

You're the reason that we had to get married
But I like you all the same
The only thing we have in common is my name.

You're the reason that I had to be ordinary
But you can call me just the same
The only thing we have in common is our shame.

WE’RE JUST LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE

We like to have a party on a Friday night,
Saturday, and Sunday too
And when we get to Monday morning
We’re just about too weak to move.

We’re just like everybody else,
Just like everybody else,
Try as we might, we’re too weak to fight,
We’re just like everybody else.

I got a gal, she’s mighty purty,
I take her out to shows and such,
When I suggest we stay at home she says,
“You must not love me very much.”

We’re just like everybody else,
Just like everybody else,
Try as we might, we’re too weak to fight,
We’re just like everybody else.

We do not really like the poor man,
Or anyone who makes a fuss,
‘Cause anyone who has opinions,
Is trying to do a job on poor old us.

We’re just like everybody else,
Just like everybody else,
Try as we might, we’re too weak to fight,
We’re just like everybody else.

Pious Poetries

The garden grew shady. The last call
Of the lark ran down our blood
All the way to our ankles propped
In the cool stream. There, for the moment,

Statues ourselves in the stream. The thrill
Of being something else, of no consequence except
For its self-conscious stillness, lay mingled with shadows
Insinuating themselves into the stream of the valley

Where the mirrored tops of the statues tossed themselves.
A cart full of grapes creaking was the only sound.
The sweet darkness filling the valley
Filled our hurt with a need to talk on and on.

A language learned becomes like poetry,
It moves, whether it is prose or poetry.
Translation relieves the itch, we read on,
Without being stopped once by any poetry.

Cool and silent were the stones that sat by the stream,
As cold as the blood of the cool statues.
We imagined their conversation as we stood
In the murmuring stream bordering the garden.

The marble Athena was your character
And you took its Italian on wings,
While my Zeus, in German, roamed more slowly
Where hill fell on hill bordering the valley.

Rude Goth, sweet Roman. Our lips, which had rushed
Unspeaking together, sang in sinuous hectoring now.
Which was the poetry? Who took the melody?
Beneath the shade our ancient feet listened.

The Late Day

See how the sun tarries in the west!
As if the giver of life were stopped at time’s behest,
As if day himself feared his sister, night,
And like a child, desired there always be light.
But our lamp at home is glowing,
Our hearts are filled with love;
We confessed it in the going
Of Apollo, god, above!
Why does he sit, burning on the horizon line,
Surrounded by fretful clouds of red?
Isn’t he weary to be gone,
Like us, to his glorious bed?
See how the sun pauses, like a lately hunted deer,
With luxurious growth at his feet, and all his family near.
Is there anyone to chase the lingering sun away?
Has the sun conspired at last to always have the day?

I STEAL WEAPONS TO COMMIT FURTHER CRIMES
I don’t give a fuck about this song, I don’t care if
it fuckin’ rhymes,
If you wanna know what turns me on—I steal weapons to
commit further crimes.
I don’t wanna smoke your fuckin’ pot, I don’t wanna
snort your fuckin’ lines,
If you wanna know what turns me on—I steal weapons to
commit further crimes.
It’s all too much for me to take, I’m sick of this
fuckin’ place,
I don’t like these terminal walls—If you wanna know
what makes me thrive
I steal weapons to commit further crimes.