Category Archives: Poetry

Roman rhyme: CALLING MIKE

Calling Mike
Dark and twisted
Like your past.
Chrystal clear,
Yet some secrets within.
Your visual rhythm
Pounds the drums of my ears.
Homage to the master
Of universal mind.
Right there,
On the edge of darkness.
Divine light cutting
Right through our
Shortened little brains.
And there you pave
The way for modernistic
Adorers of the future.
Squint your eyes
Back and forth,
Abstract me some figures. 

Meticulous detail
Painstakingly placed
On the walls of God.
Your venture as ironic
As Job’s return
To Heaven.
What will happen
If the Gods learn
Of your devious ways,
Your devilish hist’ry?
What will they do
To undo your blasphemous
Ass from itself?

They will glorify you.

Call for Caravaggio!
A wave of fools and
Drooling lunatics
About to wash over you,
White wigs in place.
Tight faces, clinched cheeks.
Your enemy is weak,
Caravaggio.
They are diplomats,
You see.
And me and my neighbors
Their humble servants.

“We is come to deny you.
We is come to ignore you.
We is come to destroy you.
We is come here before you.
We is come…

[We is backwards…]”
 

And soon follow more
And more bodies,
Rolling down the hill
To fill the frame with
Lame layers of skin
Instead of gold paint
Coloring the corners
Of our imagination.
And your vision
Is out of sight.


Catalonian rhyme: DALÍ SONG

Dalí song
D, what must have been on your mind?
Your copious crazy,
Your stringy figures.
My body model to your brain that’s mine.
I find it weird you and I both exist,
Or once did.
D, what must you have been thinking?
Your magical madness,
Your artistic precision.
Choose to refute our every day vision,
Enrich it with your satirical composition.
How must you have hearted the world?
How it beats here today.
Irregular as my rhythm now,
On purpose, I must say.
Help me channel the chambers of your tomb,
Your temple.
The way you represented so much more beautiful.

Wish I could sing you back to life,
But life is what it is;
Your temple will burn in the end.
Yet for now my impure singing
Will set out to save it for the world to see –
A ticket to Figueres
Is hidden underneath this scribble,
For those who read between the letters.
This crusty beard of mine
Will never take of Velasquez.
Is that what you ask us
When we look through your glasses?
D, take me away
To your far-stretched, distant horizon.
Take me to your soul
As it lies on a bed of wires,
On the fringe of being sliced into pieces.
You are ill, and you will have to be treated.
D, will you let me take you to a place?
It is our turn now.
You have created a nest,
And we is the mindless fetuses,
Searching for mindlessness.


Catalonian rhyme: MISTA, MISTA

Mista, mista
Petey Pablo,
Go ahead and call me crazy.
I was worked up with finding
The places you worked at,
And I didn’t get to enjoy
Any of your works.
Well, one little piece, maybe.
That was that. 

Your invisible touch
Clutched my balls, and all
Hell broke loose between
The brain cells of my
Cerebellum.
Belly, get ‘em by the go.
War of the brain, I tell ya.
You don’t think it’s true?
You better believe me,
Petey.
My mind was hungry,
My mind was greedy.

But you and I,
We only met in a snap,
Shared 27 nightcaps,
And what was
Was what it was,
Or, that was that.
Like the others did,
You didn’t leave me
Behind in a sea
Full of beautiful pictures,
Musical rapture,
For me to heed and defy. 

Instead, there was one teeny
Tiny little work,
Between two moments
In a brawl with a broad
And a jerk.
You can imagine
I couldn’t pay attention.
Got distracted from
Artistic pretension.

So, your genius has been swept
From my mumbling mind,
And thus your soul need my mumbling find…

I will get you, Petey


Spanish rhyme: ZAPATOS

Zapatos
Shoe laces dangling
In front of my face.
Must have been ages
Since Gaudí took the stage.
The rain must have fazed
All the memories engaged.
But those shoes,
In this place,
Keep them well in the race.
The cathedral the backdrop,
The Gothic makes grace.
Will I choose
To reduce them to
Paint drops
Embracing this page?
Will they ooze out of Barça
Before they’re replaced?
Well, they friggin’ better.
For no matter how hard he tries,
Gaudí shall no longer be able to
Savor the beauty
That’s about to be wasted.
Down the rabbit hole
He’s chased the grim reaper
And his mates.
Behold, the wave –
Negligence & Foolishness are under way…


UNTITLED FOREVER

Untitled forever
Could anyone tell me,
Can anyone help me?
I’ve got this burning hot question,
Sounds like a history lesson.
How the Egyptian artifacts lived
Through time like they did…


MOUFFETAR’SPRING


French rhyme: QUESTION REMAINS

Question remains
Stringed guitars,
Soaked-up bars,
Gyros on the tar –
We’re far from getting anywhere.
Fortunately, the Seine is right there.
Sun shining on the Dame’s bricks,
Clochards selling paintings.
Guards letting tourists do their
Iconoclastic thing;
Mêmes les concièrges

Where is all of this going?

Seemingly, the ketchup faced,
Happy hour cocktail drinking drunkards
Care about the beauty that surrounds them;
Invested thirty-two Euros in order to
Whore around from the Louvre to the Pompidou
And back backwards. Again.
But really, how far will they get
With all that grease and alcohol in their heads?

Strung out guitars,
Re-opening bars,
Faces on the tar.
I’ve lost my museum pass –
Do you know where it is?
Do you know where we are?
All I know is I’m falling in
The footsteps of Belmondo,
Godard, and Seberg;
Mêmes les concièrges.


French intermezzo: FIRST FEARSOME FEW

First fearsome few
A vision of the Pompidou
Blasted out of sight.
Reminds of days when Adolf
Thought to have seen the light.
When insecurity gains power,
What will be our fate?
In the end it will surely kill itself,
But won’t it be too late?
Won’t its actions meet the streets
Just as it wipes them clean;
Won’t these actions clear the memory
Of the beauty that we’ve seen?
I fear the worst…


French rhyme: NO BEGINNING

No beginning
The traveler’s tree is
A bookstore I’ve seen.
Been wanting to meet
With Hemingway and his team.
His words should be here founded,
The cobblestones tell me.
Seller of trees hasn’t
The faintest idea.
Raindrops wipe footsteps clean
And earnest.
His words should be here founded,
No doubt in my mind;
Even the blind can see
The magic of culture,
Hiding between real life
And the next.
Too bad they can’t share their
Vision on facebook.
A canvas, sure,
But a blog would be better…

The age makes for the fantasy –
Hemingway’s right there.
His hair much shorter,
Much more acne,
Yet the signs cannot be missed.
This must be the great man’s tavern,
Although surrounded by ten more:
Place de la Contrescarpe
Home to talking boulders.
The pen I’m using for this record,
This futile seeming account,
Does as it pleases, leaving me
A liar homeward bound.
It won’t be coming out tonight,
That record-breaking piece,
L’oeuvre poétique that will
Savor what we seek.
…And Hemingway is gone…

An intoxicated fool cries:

Art, art, art,
Your genius resounds –
An artist’s heart pounds
In the streets.
Wee-ooh, wee-ooh…
But when those sonic waves
Will wade and fade under
Diplomatic pressure,
Not laissez-faire but
Ransacking,
Disrespectful leisure,
There’ll be no-one left to meet.
Beards will we beards,
And wine will be weird,
As history repeats itself
And the artist genius flees.


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