gopaniwag
(poet pal)
05/04/08 07:55 PM
 |
| Views: 128 |
|
|
I'm on a gold rush train in fields of diamonds
I'll cook your tunes in a tar pit and shake your baby rattle
punch my lottery ticket when the chief of the bottle snakesun
sings his vibration box of solar stones to the red coyote
and the hood ornament of the nonexistent future
signaling its rusted chrome beak to the mystery peak
where the drunken on nothing words say only what is needed
I'm a blues in the railroad vein that shoots the mother
load
I'm this here road crossin the river of bones and crows
when the mountain of clouds spills its lucky bowl of cat's eyes
on the skillet of jasper gullies and haunted painted petrified
tears left in the vortex of maze fingers and glass trinkets
when the pink dust of a cosmic event finally shows up on the
sensitive equipment left in some forgotten station in the
Gobi desert
I'm riffin on the long gone song that floats through waves
of mirage like layers of human residue that looked at the stars
before civilizations reared their monster gods to the heavens
I'm long gone song that waits in the afternoon of lost history
and stirs in the stew of cosmic soup still slightly warm
with the platonic solids and the gizzards of philosopher rats
when dimensions were filling the basins of planet records
of time and eternity when infinite horizons of dark matter
and light go to the ends of the birth of consciousness at the far
points of the galactic core that opened its bag of crystal balls
and rained them out in all directions toward the chaos of ones
and pyramids were undreamed of yet on Mars and ancient language
that was not spoken before a billion billion oceans of bliss kissed
the third eye of Gautama Buddha as he sat under that bobo bodhi tree
Edited by gopaniwag on 05/05/08 04:22 PM (server time).
|
greenpsychosis
(berserkr)
05/07/08 09:25 AM
|
|
| Views: 95 |
|
|
and the end
is the beginning
of another consciousness
of another bag of
crystal balls set free
to drift out through
the dark space
to become chromatic
new worlds
to live
to become aware
of an end
to cross the 'river
of bones'
we know
we going to die,
and it's a fucked
up notion when
the user considers
this, and even
more fucked up
when it tries
to figure out
what comes with
it..what comes
next, but we
try to imagine,
perhaps someone
somewhere hit
it on the nose
but didnt
know until after
they went
so they couldnt tell
anyone, and the 'monster
gods' perpetuate on
stealing a thought
from humanity, 'layers
of human residue' gop
that 'hood ornament
of a nonexistent future'
rusts in a thoughtless wind,
and the evolution of people
is the evolution of a thought
that never ends
cause all the good folks
that catch on
keep the good wave going.
|
gopaniwag
(poet pal)
05/08/08 04:11 AM
|
|
| Views: 77 |
|
|
just try to imagine what Buddha saw
and add all the Bukowski poems and
then pass by the 'Born into this"
and imagine born out of this
Nirvana that happened
at that final Buddha point
"keep the good wave going"
|
arghFace
(FUBAR King)
05/08/08 06:00 AM
|
|
| Views: 73 |
|
|
a stretch of my imagia nation
to be fair tho, not familiar w/all the Bukowski poems
|
greenpsychosis
(berserkr)
05/08/08 01:37 PM
|
|
| Views: 58 |
|
|
yea
born OUT of this,
such beautiful
lives often come
from the fires
of burning hells
on earth, like seaglass
smooth and crystalized,
we here to learn
and life teaches,
some fools dont care,
some folks pay attention
and bring every little
experience with them,
we suffer
we the human condition
we sculpted by the stone
hardened by the fire
and those last
dinosaurs that make
it to the end of their
long lives
alive until the last
breath, what conscious
experience gathered
in the skins
of their lives,
it's hard to make it
that far, seventy
eighty ninety years old,
even harder to keep
it meaningful
but the word
has been here
for us this far
and we aint turnin
back, this aint no
suicide rap, we ridin
the wave to the end
of our lives
and if the end come
tomorrow
well
then
atleast we tried
that is all that matters
to the gods
in the end.
|
gopaniwag
(poet pal)
05/08/08 04:34 PM
|
|
| Views: 51 |
|
|
i never had a copy of Bukowski poems
i read them in book stores or now
you can read them on line
i sat in a room at the civic auditorium
that was being used for a poetry reading
that night Bu sat a few feet away from me
and i saw him sitting there with his two
lady friends and i watched him get up to
wade into the room full of people
to begin his reading
i saw and i felt a deep silence in the room
after the uproar of the fans and others
and then Hank began and there was closure
his composure was abundant and wise like the street
i only had a copy of Bukowski short stories
called 'Notes of a Dirty Old Man'once
that book kinda lived with me
for a while, those stories kept me goin
maybe if i could wrap myself around the
Buddha teachings it would be like that
|
greenpsychosis
(berserkr)
05/09/08 07:46 AM
|
|
| Views: 41 |
|
|
yea
Buk tends to do that eh
KEEP US GOING
it's a beautiful
thing when the words
of a dead man
resound hope for the living
old Hank kept this lost
soul going
but i think it was more
than hope
it was
"look at what this guy wrote..
perhaps such hellish nirvana
CAN be found in a word"
perhaps the word
can flush it all from our dirty minds
make us fresh and young
at thought
even if we feel old
on the inside
the word keep us going
the word never failed us
like they said we'd failed
ourselves..
we had to
in order to rise again
and know
exactly what the word meant
we've died a thousand lives
perhaps will live a hundred more
|
greenpsychosis
(berserkr)
05/09/08 08:01 AM
|
|
| Views: 41 |
|
|
here's a Buk poem
just for you arghFace
from The Roominghouse Madrigals
Layover
Making love in the sun, in the morning sun
in a hotel room
above the alley
where poor men poke for bottles;
making love in the sun
making love by a carpet redder than our blood,
making love while the boys sell headlines
and Cadillacs,
making love by a photograph of Paris
and an open pack of Chesterfields,
making love while other men-poor fools-
work.
That moment-to this...
may be years in the way they measure,
but it's only one sentence back in my mind-
there are so many days
when living stops and pulls up and sits
and waits like a train on the rails.
I pass the hotel at 8
and at 5; there are cats in the alleys
and bottles and bums,
and i look up at the window and think,
I no longer know where you are,
and i walk on and wonder where
the living goes
when it stops.
|
moldyB
(presdigitator)
05/11/08 00:26 AM
|
|
| Views: 25 |
|
|
to make love and mean anything
ive come and not found it
kids made and dead
who decides
not my friends wife
my children growing and living
who is to say who deserves it
not me
im just a peasant
but when the the doorbell rings
someone must answere it
be it a rat or just someone there
death is death
and it comes no matter who is on the recieving end
we all answere the call at one point or another
is just when
living before it is what matters
do what you will with it
there is no empty space
|
greenpsychosis
(berserkr)
05/11/08 07:57 AM
|
|
| Views: 22 |
|
|
the
empty
space
is
right
nowwwww...................
|
