Tag: Poetry

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a newspapaer clipping
#dated June 2, 1989.

In an age of apathy
The poet laurate of the
pro la tariat
refrains from classic
notions of
“Heartbreak”
“Rainbows”
“Albemuth”
Bethovens violens
Coltranes Sax
Hendricks guitar

Zoom the ear electrified
A triumerate of noise and
knowledge
exploding in perfect
apathy.

Boom the mistake Boom
was letting it take
so long
And embracing it too slowly

Whosh it comes whosh
across prismed
fleeting
up from earth
through heavenly clouds
And into the pot.

Which when smoked
Rolls all three
and then some

Into a single spine
walking back into the
sewar

VII II
Whatever fuiled Billi Holiday
is my favorite

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a newspapaer clipping
#dated June 2, 1989.

Corso

Inspiration like cursive
is a means to speed life
and its duties up a little
so that death hurst less
and the sense of this
reality is appreciated in its
fly eye complexity. there are
no adjectives. Aolean harps
and four year degrees are
about as helpful as black ink
instead of blue ink.
It is all just ink.
Ain’t that right Gregory the Poet.
Yet, get it out fast.
Faster the better – shorter the
clearer. Ten million cantos will
not make things simplier, though
a burrito may.
Rober said speed kills, yet
Matt has a lap top computer,
a personal fax machine, and a
pool out back. Parsley, sage, rosemary
and ?

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a newspapaer clipping
#dated June 2, 1989.

-Ode to A B’Freckeled Cock –
I shall not care about
the would
Bellow ing
About all
That is
passe
insuffficient
Avant garde
The spiral shall be
about my chakras

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a newspapaer clipping
#dated June 2, 1989.

-Entasy-
The Diamond at the still
pt.
stalls and starts
again and again

No longer hollow
still pure and again
the still point remains the same

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a newspapaer clipping
#dated June 2, 1989.

Bad Lit with Big Print

My fingers are yellow
not from smoing cigerattes

Another package changes
hands
If youve seen it
youve seen it
And it will always
look the same

Attempts at privacy

Get high on public
visibility.

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a newspapaer clipping
#dated June 2, 1989.

Friday, June 2, 1989
Viewpoint
There is no excuse for police harassment
By Florencia Aranovich

The pards sleep in sunburnt
mirth as their leader awaits
our Judgement
Florencia Aranovich was killed
by our tribunal in an effort
to contain a truth that is
safer kept a lie still sleeping.
We coverd the meaining in Police
double talk so that our true
meaning would never be uncovered
by utlization of the proper
instruements.
People are sleeping better on St. Agnes
Eve – souly because the don’t care;
not because they have the truth,
or even understand the lies, yet.

#This is taken from a book of poetry that I had written. I am not sure the exact date, but I would assume sometime early 1990’s
Ain’t it funny how you
fell -when you’re finding out
its ral – god I love you
I love you more
Don’t move just be near
me more.

I haven’t known whats been
going on since I pierced
my ear – confusion so loud
I could barely hear –
Now I see establishment
wearing gold like a status
no longer mad at us –
my hate has turned to
hollow.

Communicationg gas meters
adn talking lawn chairs.

#This is taken from a book of poetry that I had written. I am not sure the exact date, but I would assume sometime early 1990’s

The Quest

Sir Face slowly reached
for the chest. hidden
in Allusiions, the quest
had been hard – and he
whad not had lunch in a
long time. The key entereed
the lock too quickly. A
sense of paranoia struck
him; not only his own
fears but the fears seeming
to pour out of the chest.
As he reached behind
the box to check for
hidden passages (he realized
that he checked
the same areas that he personally
hid his own goods) his
hand was captured in a
small cage – but he felt
no fear. We had gone
beyond that – the chest
was his and he felt
only love – and a strange
sense of longing.
The locks cliquied open.
He ws in – and he (was)
was happy, but Sir Face
found the box empty.
He reached into his own
sack. The coins were
cold – heartless and with
out menaing. With dream
like grace he deposited
the gems into the
chest only to see them
fall threw the bottom
into a strange, secret
passage – A portal he
always knew had existed
but neve knkew exactly
where to find. Hate
was the last thing
he was thinking of –
he only wanted to make
it threw the nite. And
he knew he would.
He knew he wood
he knew it would
resurface.

#This is taken from a book of poetry that I had written. I am not sure the exact date, but I would assume sometime early 1990’s

Sir Face
The Epic of Enlightenment.

Fucking Alarm clock. Forced
to work within the confines
of Time; of course I am
predestined to die. Showers
are nice but boxed cages with
sterilized water will never
replace the grace of my
aquatic birth.

If everything I had planned worked
my mind would not be destriyed by minesa
I would be able to live as a I AM and
honosty and in harmony with the powers
that decide. I replace the covers and
shrouding my body within the myth
of who you see. Using clothing as a lever
to precide me. Thrusting with a lever,
giving nothing bu mirth.

Looking down, toward the
surface, I see what
is right, what I am (truly).

#This is taken from a book of poetry that I had written. I am not sure the exact date, but I would assume sometime early 1990’s

Let’s talk the shifting narrator screams.

Everything is Everything
R. Crumb said that
I say
right is right
no matter what anyone else
MIGHT
think.

Things were really starting to
happen – he was cranked up and
geranding like a ravenous dog.
“let the dead bury the dead” –
as the dying were burying the
dying – was all he was heard to
scream as his brains started
to slowly spill out of his head.

Stupid ether freak blew his
abdomn out wile fleeing the
wasington nightmare –
a suicidal maniac failure
then tried by calling smothe and
wesson a liar.

“You give up stuff to get
stuff” Rosane – the 80’s
version of ‘Everything is
everything” – the comunist
financial twist currupts
the ideal and brings the
celebrity below the
guru.

“…If you should have
trouble with an adult
or teenager…” LAPD officer
on child saftey – my generation –
the generation of Teenagers
has been abandoned to the
streets and our little brothers
have been brainwashed.

If you have maximum
surface area you will
never sink.