Archive for October, 2013


Beat with me

Beat with me

 

Frantic snail of the libidinous watermelon

Whirling crystal of the blonde’s breast

Hanging colt of the bearded Protestant

Ford of my dreams…

 

I’m calling the soul of the Spaniard–Apalachee

– Profound –

sweating in metallurgies

whose kids play of Barbies and Kens

 

I’m calling

the generation that hides vibrators from their kids

and represses MASTURBATIOOON

 

I’m calling the stupor of Napalm

Heir of the ancient Coca – and I’m calling “COLA”, its cousin

 

I’m calling you

You are needed on the front

“where the Gospel has not yet reached”

 

Come on, my friend

Beat mit me

 

For: http://dversepoets.com/2013/10/17/meeting-the-bar-the-beat-poets-and-their-poetry/

Craft

The craftsman chisels the figure out from the marble’s veins

She’s immobilized

Facing carnal torments he touches the frigid stone and feels a torpor

Flushing, the pupil holds firmly a pencil from which a Venus has been drawn

 

No-bodies of marble hold the scene in white empty eyes

The arcade keeps the surfaces of the tempers protected from irascible thunders

 

Me, nobody too, asks for statues with, or without, rotten teeth and (in)visible libido

Like these fleshed corpses that keep persisting

 

Jocosely a friendship is lost

In the frugal webs of marbled spiders – without any art

 

(L)Only selves watch the news and remnants of Leonardo keep flying Icarus away. Away

 

Demanding

White bread and its intestines

 

days

when you slave till complete stupor

and you just feel strapped and hopeless

 

stupid conveying stupidity

without any new idea

or hidden miracle to save you from mediocrity

 

you look back and try to sum up achievements

saying “you did it” “you are someone”

 

but you’re down and feel innocuous

inoffensive, banal, chimerical

 

and you render the page

and your somatic miserable body

drinks water

to cheer up the code of a chrysalis

reclaiming the banning of slaughtering

chanting abracadabra

fooling the king of copulation

ejaculating bananas from the tropical balcony

into waving nuns’ vaginas

 

and you continue

because a rainbowing aftermath of magical mushrooms will not save the day

from conjured suicidal ideas

 

looming, angelical teenagers fill the tormented hours of your bread

and the clock is running

and you’re late, and you’re outdated

 

searching for comforting sadness

and its intestines