gopaniwag
(poet pal)
05/11/08 04:44 PM
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| Views: 239 |
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the poetry was so thick
then as a teenage cat
it was hanging in the air
like big planet oranges
in those trees with green
that was so damn green
and the blossoms that
gave off the sweet forever
like thinkin about that girl
standing there in front of
art class she had such a nice ass
and i would draw pictures of
hot rods during the long afternoon
sitting waiting for the bell
the poetry was so thick all around
my little world as i sat and made
images float through my head
to ward off the boredom
i could not wait to get off
from this conveyor belt
and listen to the transistor radio
the heavy fuzz of transmitting noise
maybe hear some old Elvis song
or some surf music that made me want
to ride waves into another time
but my real deal was when Dylan came on
cuz these times are a changin and a hard rain
gonna fall but thats not all the future
is along that little dirt road through
the orange tree grove line in eucalyptus
those tall ones so tall and cool with
those long scythe like leaves that smell
like freedom and otherness
the poetry was so thick
it was like smoke from that kids cig
as he waited in the bowling alley
and we nodded to each oher so we could
dig on the dark carpet and the low
lights before we entered the pinball
universe the poetry was like steel balls
making the numbers spin on the colored
screen and you shake the machine just
enough so you don't get a TILT
oh the poetry was so thick then
Dylan still singing like a rolling stone
in my far away mind and the flowers never
wilt
when you are sitting at the hamburger stand
and all you got is enough for some fries
you are still in some weird show in the TV
skies it all seems so strange what they
teach in those schools that seems like it
was made up in some gray room on the moon
but those words that Bob sung still hang
and you know something is happening
and the poetry so so thick
but you don't know what it is, yet
tomorrow is around the gypsy boy corner
and yellow is the color of my true loves
hair in the morning and you walk slow
in the early sunlight down that beat path
through the shady grove lookin up at those
god like arms holding the little veined maps
and wonder on this bright day what is the haps
cuz soon the psychedelic wave will come callin
and the waves of electric snakes rise and fallin
and the poetry is thicker and thicker through
the golden flickering colors that shine on down
and i can still see her standin there up that tree
with that long dark hair that hangs so loose and
wild her long legs covered in white stockings
that have those groovy stripes that ride her thighs
up into her mini skirt she was such a wicked flirt
but she told me what LSD would be like the first time
and the poetry was so thick when she spoke to me slow
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judih
(!+!)
05/12/08 11:03 AM
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when a sudden stairwell became a heavenly road to hell
paved with plato and plath
with gertrude's voice on bass
and dylan doing alto
diggin this, diggers that
when poetry was so thick you could speedskate down a metaphor
and collapse in a heap under midnight skies
crying into a stranger's pea jacket
brass buttons falling off and leaping into a tripoli fountain
cupid shootin up
arrows raining down into petroglyphs in a hidden forest
every step of a hiker's boot landed in poetry
so thick, so rampant
the heart could hardly cope
adrenalin was our major high
and low became our anthem
fat, thick poetry
squeezed out of tubes
found in bulk
burlap bags of poetry, 10 for a dollar
each a jewel
beaded on a haight-ashbury fantasy
a yorkville coffee house
a greenwich village loft in fine fire escape
thick poetry, thicker than soup poetry
feeding us when no one had a notion
where else we'd dine
no time to wait for brown rice
we'd chomp on truisms round wooden tables
hand wrought stools
carved from ancestry
splinters of poetic nostalgia
tossed into fiery longing
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greenpsychosis
(berserkr)
05/12/08 12:20 PM
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poetry was so thin then, for me,
back in the early 90's
psychedelic revitalization
the wave swung back round
on me and i knew nothing
of poetry, but i liked
to play with my mind
said i'd never take the shit
but that was back in high school
and high school was through
summer of nineteen years old
said take the drug
open your mind
and all the colors swirled
through to the new vibe
of you
and the word started showing up
the word liked being written
down
and the drug created a new
eye in you
and poetry was thin
but i scribbled my own down
barely legible and the shit
all rhymed, a three ringed
binder full of em
and then the wheels
fell out on my
crapped out life
and i grabbed
a copy of some
romantic Poets
book from a class
i'd taken in college
and i turned to Wordsworth
Intimations of Immortality
from early Childhood Recollections
read it
over and over
trying to decipher its meaning
while sipping coffee in the
coffee shop on the black
steel wire tables and chairs
killin my back
instead of going to my
first day of work
and finally
the meaning came to me
a true epiphany
THWAP
right across the face
CHILD IS FATHER TO THE MAN
we are what we've been
what we've experienced
what we've loved hated
fought for and lost
we are beautifully unique
and inexplicably ugly
we are the lost child
in the mirror
then Blake showed up
we need not be 'born to endless night'
we need not die alone
and then Bukowski showed
up and it rained
words day and night
for years
spent at coffee shops
in big comfy chairs
engulfed by the words
and too much coffee
and i read him
everything, all the poetry
i could get my hands on
so much of his life in
those prosy lines
all broken up
nicely on the page
like living a whole other
life, everything so real
flying off the words
taking flight into
colorful reality
man
i never knew
what these words
could do
or how they might
timewarp me
right out of my shoes
into some strange
life of mystical mayhem
and these days
the words are thick as thieves
and dont we know it
they fall from the sky
like diamonds
and jewels
and rain...
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arghFace
(FUBAR King)
05/12/08 03:51 PM
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the child fathers the adult it becomes
the adult becomes a know-it-all son
the sanctity of the T
the hedonistic S and a windpipe's worth of O's
A forever at the starting line
and Z for a single, strange day
the blunt force behind the B
an inner voice tickled by the K
the id and ego of the I
and the X marks the conjunction
the double Vs in Double-U
sometimes the Y points up instead of down
in the circuit board niche of the E
shorting out until the F remains
with royal, gainly G who's drawn in grand gestures
vibrational waves carry the M to the N
the top-heavy P
and the Queenly Q
the roaring of the lusty R......
a tirade of others, slavic, arabic, accented vowels and spanish double-L's
heavy, thick,
weighty on the lips and tongue
these pre-written, prescibed razors on the innate freedom of sound-making
that the grandfather (-that baby) of that adult is born sporting
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OctopusDancer
(Brujo Vallesano)
05/12/08 04:59 PM
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Hey katz.. I'm looking for orange sunshine. That shit still around in the Socal?
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gopaniwag
(poet pal)
05/12/08 10:05 PM
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us thins in the thick of it
we wanted to know what made us thin
not fashion drugs or fiction mugs
it was the hugs that we heard about
in the lines of the times
the signs of the rhymes
we were blowin in the winds
looking for a feelin
that maybe we missed
when the thin pages of the volume
of the book with that Cohen look
or maybe Rimbaud looking bad
on the cover of illuminations
or a Plath poem that you hid
in your long coat pocket
to get you through the day
that day when it was cold outside
and you felt like running and hide
in the maddening crowds
seeing the clouds way up there when
clouds were clouds
and birds in the park reminded you
that words in poetry could fly too
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greenpsychosis
(berserkr)
05/13/08 12:40 PM
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sunshine
right on past the steamy sun
and everyday could be a day
that we could see ourselves
in the blight reflections
of an unordered madness
searching for that
good old vibe
to bring us on in..
to bring us
home again.
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OctopusDancer
(Brujo Vallesano)
05/14/08 04:15 PM
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(sining)Im home again....
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gopaniwag
(poet pal)
05/14/08 07:18 PM
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the orange sunshine tablet i was handed by some hippie,
with long braided hair and in some kind of wild Indian get up
was on a little card with some picture of a teepee and some Indian
type symbols the little orange tablet was on a kind of piece
of tape that was placed on the back of the card with a small
hole big enough to keep the tablet attached,
it was the first day in a thee day concert
in the Laguna canyon.The orange sunshine was powerful
and intense and this concert was the only one like this
in the Laguna canyon with free acid i went to, it was tree to
tree hippie freaks and lots of great psychedelic bands.I forget
what happened, just remember the people all dancing and playing.
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OctopusDancer
(Brujo Vallesano)
05/15/08 05:28 AM
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Old Lou tells me all hes got is Alex Grays. Nahh..
We need to bring back some sunshine, katz.
If you hear anything...
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greenpsychosis
(berserkr)
05/15/08 11:07 AM
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'dancing and playing'
what a wonderful way
to spend a sunshine day
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gopaniwag
(poet pal)
05/15/08 04:37 PM
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i think the reverse of dancing and playing
is oppressing and making the sign "work will free you"
when in fact it is not free to be a slave to a dying
nation.
work can not be slavery, it must be a revolution.
and when diversity is not allowed and when play
is just dumbing down then the people must dance
with all they have and play with a working poetry.
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gopaniwag
(poet pal)
05/15/08 09:03 PM
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what i hear, is that psychedelic is still a metaphor for mind manifesting
people are still very much interested in developing this capability
through personal research and more professional types, by allowing
for more legal development, ect.
my interest is in the whole direction it has come and gone, and looking
at the types of experiences people had when it really became easy to find.
and looking down the road now at the types of experiences people might
find in the near future, but still looking at it as a metaphor for something
that is happening on the planet as a whole, awakening to higher dimensions,
in the meantime we still need poets and artists to create the mirrors.
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OctopusDancer
(Brujo Vallesano)
05/16/08 06:19 AM
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Firemen and Paramedics must continue their jobs.
Farmers must plant seeds.
Teachers must show children the ropes...
...when their parents are too stoned to do it.
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greenpsychosis
(berserkr)
05/16/08 12:20 PM
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how bout some of everything
a dance
a play
a revolution
some poetry
some work
and a WHOLE LOTTA LOVE
and not necessarily in that order
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gopaniwag
(poet pal)
05/16/08 04:29 PM
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i like that image,,,"when the parents are too stoned"
but we can superimpose a lot of images over that one
we are still thinking in some kind of stoned age
roll the stone away... and is there just another rock?
and a hard place to exist between? do you like my prehistoric shamanic art
on the household cave wall?
do the more you look at it, do you see postmodern art?
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greenpsychosis
(berserkr)
05/17/08 07:44 AM
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the mirrors are the gateways
to other dimensions
and we are the creators
of the mirrors
that find
the lost
portals
that might
get us
where we goin.
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OctopusDancer
(Brujo Vallesano)
05/17/08 06:27 PM
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Well, there was Laredo and taking the border blues.
Then Atlanta and gettin dissed.
Mississippi and police dogs...
Lots of adventures for this old puss.
Im still thinking Washington. Chicago is gonna be harder to do somehow. More tribal. More raw. Washington is just the old guard, showing their true colors.
And then, of course, my particular favorite. The gemstone of the grand/plan...
Langley.
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judih
(!+!)
05/18/08 07:44 PM
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when parents club each other
mah jong
golf
stone age pursuits
kids gotta post modern their way alone
2 second concentration
ooops, it's gone
and they click into a self-help station
youtubing their way into relaxation
oh, mommy, another meeting?
oh, daddy, where ya eatin?
me and the gang gonna hang
school, you ask?
what's dat?
oh, i got another letter
teacher wants to know if i'm better
i opened it, but don't know where it's gone
see ya, gotta run
my turn, my playa's got the ball
need my headphones, thanks for your call
and off goes a family, post-modern ya see
mutha, mutha
where we goin, where we be
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gopaniwag
(poet pal)
05/18/08 08:23 PM
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granddad played solitaire
whistling to himself
as if he had no care
what he thought about
could be some flapper
but in his WW1 uniform he
looked dapper
childhood was
no history class
but playin cowboys
and Indians in the grass
and pass the time
like you pass the salt
to say Ay gevalt!!!
i was raised to be a malt
and put ketchup on my fries
not to count all the lies
(and bows in Mary's hair)
they tell you in school
now days its WWW or WWW 3
oh deary me whats a perpetual kid
to be, maybe a soldier or a poet
some kids learn how to say the
ABC of DNA hey and they know it
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gopaniwag
(poet pal)
05/19/08 10:20 PM
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she spoke to me slow
through the smoke from
her bewitching cigarette
she allowed the words to curl
around the white plume
that made the sound of her
voice seem as if was from
a far distant land
as if she held total command
of the language she mused
she spoke to me of psychedelic
of ancient rooms in rooms of
modern designs dancing on the
ceiling and i would come to
know that feeling soon
and i saw the moon in her
dark marvelous eyes, it mooned me
and she smiled that deep silver of
her in the slow way she spoke, made
me quiver
through the glass in her hand
the wine of time held me in its
trance i can see her dark lovely
shape moving like a cat river
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arghFace
(brainade)
05/19/08 10:42 PM
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back in the halls of yin and yang we said much the same
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greenpsychosis
(berserkr)
05/20/08 05:57 AM
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so many rooms
in the moons of eyes
so many times
we thought we'd never come back
from la luna
the ancient tongue of night
and the moon
doesnt moon us quite
the way it used to
but we
remember...
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moldyB
(presdigitator)
05/21/08 01:29 AM
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her cyanide glance
made my member reach
taught
as so i believed
man rules this world.
yet maybe women enjoy
maniacal plots and
genocidal games
as they accept the member
that keeps the way of things.
is it all about the children.....
no, just look around
there is no empty space
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moldyB
(presdigitator)
05/21/08 01:41 AM
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oh when the sun is set
why worry
its going to rise again
as the hate thats been passed
shall be shown as just that
all must make of it their own
to take all from others is to live
this life unknowing
find the truth that begs to be found
irregardless of past
a flower shall grow
there is no empty space
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OctopusDancer
(Brujo Vallesano)
05/21/08 10:22 AM
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Papers walls.
Old wood.
A drop of blood from an assasin's sword.
A good story can still bring tears to my eyes.
God is gracious.
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