Wednesday, March 2, 2011
"I Didn't Know"
I didn't know when I strangled you
that you couldn't take a joke,
swollen tongue drooling
over my teak wood coffee table
imported from Asia,
eyes bulging unattractively,
staring at the ceiling,
you used to be pretty,
now your wasted life for having known me
is soiling my carpeting.
-King Wenclas 2011
www.americanpoplit.blogspot.com
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
ANOTHER GREAT MAGICO- SOCIO-REALIST NOVEL BY MIKE PALACEK
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Post- Apocalyptic Thunderbolt from Jimmy "Bones" Nasti
from EUREKA, CA
>thank you for the encouragement. I wrote it in 5 minutes and pushedsend. An act of spontaneous madness inspired by your always presentpoetic vision. Any feedback is encouraged. This is a bio....attached is apict enjoy....jimmy Jimmy Bones is Single Present Moment Thinking Only! He lives in thethird time cycle of the forth Kalpa and is guided graciously by histeacher Dzogchen Khenpo Choga Rinpoche. He admires the sun and theunspeakable gentleness upon which this melodrama unfolds. His heartfeltaspiration is to watch all beings fall from the hidden crags of isolationinto the ocean of timelessness. He will remain until that happens. He writes two to five poems per year and is a slack-ass playwrite withseveral incomplete works gathering dust.
> For Frank Walsh
>
> I'll drown in the oh yes,
> and bow down deep before the last day...
> Kindly be reminded of the secret incomplete.
> A mirror without it's image.
> Hope without fear.
> A dream lost by belief.
> captures the sun that dries the leaf
> that hosts the cosmos upon its crumbling corse...
>
> The gem plucked largely without
> The hope, lost in joy!
> The pain, mere rind upon freedom!
> Beams from moon orphaned by craving and time.
> Sinister seams delux;
Garments torn by space
> to forget the sad rhymes that sing on the face.
> With lines and lines that wait...
> this veil is thin; the costume tight
>
> persuade the flame to light a way
> payment is never due!
from an email March 22nd
>It shall be changed to corse thank you for the suggestion. where is
anita staying? the loss of the peacock is a heartbreaker.
life is agony smote in the bliss of love. In such a place our only
crime is resistance. The very source of suffering is resistance to
energies arisen (songs flung like comets from the inner cosmos). All
is god, esspecially the pain. Like they say in tantra: the more fuel,
the hotter the fire. May all become liberation right now! May the
madness of freedom devour the madness of sanity!
metta.
Monday, February 16, 2009
MORE JOHN G.HALL! more CALI CLARK'S supra-realistic "aut"
A SECOND SET OF WET CEMENT POEMS AT THE SAME TIME A SECOND READING. (CF. http://ulamanifest.blogspot.com/2008/09/from-manchester-uk-john-g-hall-one-of.html ) THATS WHAT POETRY IS ABOUT ....
Biography
John G.Hall - Manchester Poet & Editor of Citizen32, publications include Orbis, Iota, Rain Dog, The Wolf, Coffee House Poetry, The Ugly Tree, Carillon, Outlaw, Left Curve(usa), Square Lake(usa), Spume, Aesthetica, Brittle Star, Harlequin, Monkey Kettle & Fire.Performs his poetry throughout the North West , mixing militant politics & biting humour with touching visions of childhood, love and football. The live recordings of his ant-war trilogy 'And Still I Cannot Wake From Their War' were recently bought by Drexel University,Philadelphia,USA.
Wet Cement Poem No:6 (a bankers tale)
The throne room of cash is empty but for a skull with a bullet hole
and a diamond collared dog lapping at the pool of his master's blood,
while in a corner of the Pentagon the Stars and Stripes spontaneously
combust and the ghost of Jimi Hendrix pisses lighter fuel onto the flag.
JGH©2008
Wet Cement Poem N:5
we stake the world on youth and beauty
surely no one would pull a knife across perfect skin
surely no one would pour lies into such fine china ears
surely no one would puncture the bubbles of their dreams
surely no one would drop explosives on such fine bones
surely no one would rape these Pre-Raphaelite faced angels
surely no one would steal the ancient ground from it's people
surely no one would electrify the diamond spider web of a mind
surely no one would blow open the Sistine chapel of the skull
surely no one would dare nail the body of love to a money tree
surely no one would blind fold the blind man or dam the damned
surely no one would pay the rich to be rich and punish the poor
surely no one would leave the torturers to their own devices
surely one day we will show them the instruments of justice
surely no one would object to the hanging of their heads.
jgh© 2008
Wet Cement Poem No:4
I am the hounded slave; I wince at the bite of dogs,
the sound of the cataracts of cash machines echo
I sit and look out on all the sorrows of the world
and on all oppression and shame, I run with blood
afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road
the human traffic burns through the metal rain
absorbing all to myself and for this song, I drink
bottled beer and lime and text instead of talk,
I have heard what the talkers were talking, and
vowed to write up and down these boulevards,
I will sing the song of companionship, of the
opposition of each heart to the murder of love,
to the maddening of minds, to dreams genocide,
all these I feel or am, all these call out for songs,
I am the hounded slave; I wince, turn and sing.
JGH©2008-09-20
*Every other line is from Walt Whitman
Wet Cement Poem No:3
they reckon birth may hurt babies
they say life is worth every penny
they believe the working class do not exist
they tell this to shop workers and nurses
they take the proof of our silent witness
they stare through the television screen into us
they trace each thought back to its owner
they rig the trail of life with sticky pleasure
they laugh at the poor behind their backs
they pin down the butterfly inside you
they pull the wings from your genius
they find starving people then feed them war
they have decided to counterfeit everything on the face of the earth
they reckon love is a rumour spread by dirty rotten communists.
jgh©2008
Wet Cement Poem No:2
the road pours me into the city machine
the fire damaged man sells me his bad news
the live wires suit themselves in culture cafes
the show houses play Les Miserables for laughs
the bar maids cry pints of crocodile tear liquor
the happy skull smiles of the living shine brightly
and the city machine passes me like a hot beer-shit.
.
jgh©2008
Wet Cement Poem No:1
from crashing waves find your answers
burn holes in paper tigers with ember tongues
be a red angel flying on swept back blue wings
carry a dove spangled banner in the midst of battle
touch a strangers pain at least once a day with your eyes
leave a trail in wet cement where your mind wandered
hide secret things, leave false clues, become unsolvable,
find undiscovered lands, burn the maps, pray not to be found.
jgh©2008
The Overcrowded Mind (for those who hate Myspace)
too many fingers in your pie
too many strangers in your mind,
too many cooks to your broth
too many second hand opinions,
too many shame faced shamans
too many spies on your secrets,
too many tongues in your cheek
too many guests at your feast,
too many double agents
too many doppelgangers,
too many sugars in your tea
too many spoons stirring you,
too many waiters in your cafe
too many fingers in your till,
too many beans in the coffee
too many crumbs of comfort,
too many unbelievers
too many unfaithful,
too many demi-lovers
too many semi-sisters,
too many baby brothers
too many mother fuckers,
too many fingers in your pie
too many baring you in mind,
too many non-special offers
too many basement bargains,
too many nosey neighbours
too many twitching curtains
too many keeping notes
too many stealing souls,
too many half cocked Buddha's
too many prying myspace eyes,
too many certain they are certain
too many truths told not be lies
too many fingers in your pie.
john g.hall©2008
Childish Thought
You don’t find no answer with your mind
only the mind trying to find the mind,
the vital answer has no vital question
it’s never been asked by mortal being,
there is no wise domain to live inside
only strange lands demanding maps,
the self can lie as well as any other
no sense can tell the truth all ways,
some people sit tight in the storm
some people move to Coney Island,
some people forget that words can fail them
some people remember all the ways to forget,
I think the universe is bigger than that
I think I’ll boldly go as far as flesh can,
my death will place me one day into an ivory box
my mind a fossilized collection of dead thoughts,
yet if I see a drowning friend in a rough sea
I do not wait for them to learn how to swim,
I throw them the happy ending of my long tether
show them the way I learned my crazy free style,
then sit eating my own Coney Island candy floss
while they swim out on their own sweet milky way.
John.G.Hall©2008
This is my diatribe
This is my diatribe making my space the only place of community
This is my diatribe making American war thought walk my streets
This is my diatribe making paper educated guesses into prejudices
This is my diatribe making Yankee gangster rappers poor people's masters
This is my diatribe making the drug of guns turn our children into toy soldiers
This is my diatribe taking Hollywood's unholy words as their new electro gospels
This is my diatribe making children without wings, making love without peace.
This is my diatribe against old powers making our new imprisonment invisible
This is my diatribe against the cash card manacles of money's all consuming madness
This is my diatribe against the doomed search for human power through violence.
This is my diatribe against the hopelessness of fear and shame and the thirty pieces
of silver dollars jingling in my dead soldier boys pockets and the I-pod god hanging
from my red neck and the fascist wolf whistles raping my girl friends angelic ear lobes
and the evil preacher men preaching against men loving men or women loving women
or any body loving any body and the rich bashing the ragged of the race and the
squeezing of our bones for our marrow and the rich lips sucking out our sweet souls
and replacing it with bloody warehouses of bloody things that no true human being
ever needs and the white war against the black world going on and on without end.
This is my diatribe and I love them.
John G.Hall©2007
The poor love as well as the rich
my brain is nervous with the night, my animal spirits are hunting
prey in my William Morris wallpaper forests, the black optics of fantasy
spilling into both our dreams, you hold in the dark practicing alchemy
and though I know you will never ask me, my manic touch questions
your flesh, my fingers ticking every correct answer, you wet me with
your soft corrections, we scream through the bedrooms brickwork,
two ruddy ghosts full of Easter's Catholic purple, our mouths slipped
with cinnamon, two sensitive bloods damned up by the gentle tourniquet
of love, my fingers caress your fine fur, you become a painted pony, and
while you tattoo my bones with your salmon tongue, and while the black
reins of your hair slip from my fingers, my demon heart pounds to a stop,
my blue eyes blush and the eiderdown's casual galaxy spirals around us.
John G.Hall©2007
Friday, January 30, 2009
"Detroit"
winter conquering without stop
fitting the mood of this broken city,
shattered pieces, collapsing factories, endless misery;
Even sunshine would bring relief
from winter's slaughter,
the endless deep-freeze.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Wenclas poem previous post here lights a fire under ULA's FDW inexcusable funk...
When without a doubt
as the imagination can be
critical never doubtful in flight
the bleat of a dark sheep
beneath my hovel's distressed facade
coming through definite
from an otherwise at
that time of night empty
street with my name
some place under it's breath
someone or something
spelling somebody else wish to death.
Nope, I wasn't in fact stone dead
asleep three and a half
under that side of the AM
I was up actually reclined
to cold cock names of power despite
no moving water in evidence
above or lower the grail
of a wan headway moon instead
skimmed lost rivers
only glance my upper window sash
ushering in Saturn against each House,
then again while I pondered
Edgar Allan Poe besides
myself but most the mad girl down
Spring Garden Avenue prey to night
mares venting steam grates
on disembodied fears
jacked up the broken battlements
of tenement squares
relieved by palsy white
blotched vortex of the blood
sucking autonomic,
the neon-liberal gentrified right.
Life is better every time
than say car exhaust this way or
that just being driven away from it all
went out swinging head held
high as the eyes of Poe in that
Federalist daguerreotype period
all up and over the pitfalls
rude boy dogged the take
upon verily condemned masonry
second sands fell as he was
being born to wood awake,
come to the surface and make
us a demon in your image
beneath the mirror of the gutter
black ice sharply focuses vengeance.
1.19.09, PHILADELPHIA
BAGDADADELPHIA CITY PAPER'S INSULTING OP ED, DERIVE
[MORE OF THE INSIDE OUT TO FOLLOW @ ULACRITIQUE.BLOGSPOT.COM]