Archive for June, 2013


Dear

 

Dear. I’m not. Writing a poem. Because I’m alienated. I’m a fresh surname. Obsessed figure. Without a rendezvous. At midnight. I enter a realm of reverie. And twist unreal fingers. Because bad luck is. An intricate state of mind and soul. Is Surrounded by. Crosswords.

 

Dear. I am. Depicting poems. Because. I’ve a name. You will figure out. Obsecrate. With whom is the rendezvous? Night is a middle. A realistic reverie entered. And really twisted he fingered in. because luck is. Bad state. Mindsoul. Crosswords surrounded by intricate states.

 

Dear. Am I? A poem? ‘Cause a name has? Out! Find it! Yes, the rendezvous… a midnight state intricate and luckily twisted by a surrounded mind and real soul in reverie entered. Crosswords?

 

Dear. You are a beautiful poem with a name finding out its way towards a real rendezvous where your fingers will twist the soul of a midnight crossword, surrounded by luck and reverie, and will intricate the bad minds of a cross depicted world state.

 

Dear… Do. Enter. The twist of a pre. liminary ultim.ate vaporous reason.

Volts

volts

For: http://dversepoets.com/2013/06/15/poetics-beauty-is-everywhere/

dismaying-quayilluminated-souls multilayered postcards-from-Alleluia walking-water blowing

The New York Times

The scooping up of MARKETS

Artbeats other nominees.

 

THE FRENCH OPEN ruling

revives

Tony’s Ballot.

 

From today’s first page of the online edition of The New York Times (http://www.nytimes.com/). I just picked random fragments from the page and joined them together.

For: http://dversepoets.com/2013/06/06/formforall-dada-poems-with-scissors/

 

5 NEW YORK POETS

5 NEW YORK POETS

by Ricardo Andrade 2007

This is a poetical and fictional work.
Five characters were created together with five poems and a personal note were written for each.

 1

Squeezed fingers

Pull your head

Languid lips

Kiss the air

a journey starting into sea

Brought my better boots

Brought my dark glasses

Surrounded by fellows…

Fuck off dearest fellows!

Where is the North

My fellow cigar?

Where is the city,

My fellow guitar?

Risks everywhere,

Books on fire

Where is the bull,

My fellow cool?

Tired bodies

In the market

Trade of ladies

Let’s fill the basket!

Zombie farmacs

Velvet bones

Send me faxes

From the old oaks

Joseph Freak 2003

(in “Stories”)

 

Joseph Freak: Born in New York in 1971.

“My poetry it’s just a knife to cut cheese – we all need to eat man! What about me? Unknown.”

2

Difference is in your mind

Difference is in your cry

Difference is in your trying

Difference is in your subtle signs

Surely in your night

Not just in your blind eye.

So

Don’t mind

When you cry

For their brute tries

For their cynical signs.

Just send coloured lights

Through your eyes

Even to the blind.

At least the smallest dark point

Of this immense room

Would smell the

coloured

difference

Of your trade.

Jonnie Scrounge 1987

(in “Sorry but I didn’t see your smell

while my ear was touching your foot”)

 

Jonnie Scrounge, Detroit. Son of Ford worker and of a phone-operator. Lived throughout infancy “in the shade of his older muscular brother, never crying but always shaking.“A professor of drawing encouraged him to go to New York to study art. “When I saw her immense atelier full of charcoals and oils of nudes, I realized that the world of Ford and TV was a lie” I went to New York, I blocked out my family from my life and, little afterwards, I discovered that painting was still a bigger lie and I went to work at a restaurant, washing plates, and there I discovered that in Brooklyn the truth is black, solitary and poor, but true..” Later everything became survival and little do I remember. I assume that I passed by some coffees shops and restaurants, consuming prostitutes, whisky and marlboro. I started to write on a night, victim of fever and of European wine.” On what shall I write? What is my poetry? Stones that I take out of my shoes, itchy skin, women who I did not have and the drugs of the others who pass  me by in the shade of my unconscious apprehension, as a chamber of security always present, that records and doesn’t question. Why do I not speak of America? Because it does not interest me.

 

 3

Ruth… are you still there? Or is this wind just a liar from Venice where the earth feeds on the masks and the water swallows the swimming bodies? Ruth… My blood, my child, my feed. Are you there, or am I drying in this sun  touched by a venomous snake from the Sahara sands? Ruth, my link, my goddess, my sister, is this the fall you told me would come and is my soul flying now or am I dreaming  with America freedom in the sky of Manhattan Falcons?

But it’s cold, Ruth, cold. And the smell of African Lions is no longer on me.

Ruth are you there? Ruth.

Joan Francis 2005

(in “My fate is, my life isn’t”)

 

Joan Francis, 1989, New York. “I drink from light, from my mother’s library  and from the money of my father.” “My poetry? A rendezvous with the millions of years of my ancestry.  Digging into illusionary time, a glance into a future victim in a vengeful act because of all those that were laid to rest  in the past. I was born in New York, but I am Afro, of skin and teeth”

 

   4

Members lying at my feet.

The ancient saliva drooling.

My shiny teeth,

My long nails.

Just my eyes on you,

Remembering the law.

The sweat in your tongue…

Your tongue in my skin…

And the cries in the mountains.

We did it,

Against the suffocating

Habits;

Against the sweet

Dream.

For the simple truth

Of living.

Suzan Scarvenger 1994

(in “Heavy me)”

Suzan Scarvenger, Los Angeles 1973, has been living in New York since 1991 “Because I couldn’t bear the sun, palm trees and the “Beach Boys syndrome” of L.A.”. Writer and singer of the band “Underground blood”, denies labels “My flesh, my instincts don’t blend with TV and media icons, neither with the blindness of show business to the underneath and universal laws of life”. “True words are as alive as a wolf, they survive in us, we’re just a complex mix of lives.”

 

 5

Frozen glass

In the green valley.

Open roads

In the tiny grave.

What’s the jelly red?

What’s the bright yellow?

Deep it was

The bronzed needle.

Delicate,

The female body.

Who brought the light?

Who killed the pain?

Darkness is mine!

Sorrow is empty.

Embrace my pockets,

Full with white stones…

And send me flowers

Of black seeds.

Leanor Maggie 1981

 (in “Broken parties”)

Leanor Maggie was born in Manhattan in 1960 and died in 1989 with lung cancer. “Broken parties is a love story, a passion for nature and for the driving forces of life, a delicate touch of understanding. But it is also a soft crying, an urban answer to the vanishing sky of New York under the towers of indifference to the heavy reality, and at the same time the subtle pain of modernity.”(New York Times 1981).