Poetry slam

[brainpanhandler]

a cat is a cat is a cat is
a cat


She's whistling and clapping
for the cats
at 3 a.m.
as I sit in here
with my
Beethoven.

"they're just prowling," I
tell her...

Beethoven rattles his bones
majestically

and those damn cats
don't care
about
any of it

and
if they did
I wouldn't like them
as
well:

things begin to lose their
natural value
when they approach
human
endeavor.

nothing against
Beethoven:

he did fine
for what he
was

but I wouldn't want
him
on my rug
with one leg
over his head
while
he was
licking
his balls.

-Charles Bukowski you get so alone at times that it just makes sense (1986)

[compared2what?]

Please don't vote me out of the slam. It's not my fault that he's lovable, and he's still a great poet.

A Man's a Man for a' That

Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an' a' that;
The coward slave-we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that.
Our toils obscure an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp\
The Man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an' a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man's a Man for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that;
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.

-- Robert Burns



To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men
Gang aft agley,
An'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

-- Robert Burns

[compared2what?]

Teh Waste Land

i seez cumean sybil
sybil can has bukkit?
sybil wantz DIE

(For Charles Bukowski, teh gooder crafstman)

1. IM IN UR WASTELAND BURYING UR DEAD

april hates u, makes lilacs, u no can has. (1)
april in ur memoriez, making ur desire.
spring rain in ur dull rootzes.

earth in ur winter, covered in snow
can has potato. PO-TA-TO.
INVISIBLE SUMMER! RAININGZES!
im in ur hofgarden, drinking ur coffeez.

at archduke’s haus, invisible sled!
im in ur moutainz, holding on tight.
no can has cheezburger.
oral sex metaphors in ur poem.

in ur stones, whar r treez? (19)
whar r bushez?
ceiling cat cannot say.
im in redrock, hiding from sunz.
commin ze redrock.
im in ur handfull of dust,
showing ur fear.
redrock, redrock.

whar r wind?
INVISIBLE IRISH GIRL
in ur homelandz, freshening ur windz

can has hyacinths,
no can has tongue.
Isolde u down teh rivers.

Sosotris Cat has smartz, (43)
can see bukkit,
dead sailorz in bukkit,
hooked on fonicians.
belladonna in ur rocks,
situating ur situations.
man has three staves,
turning wheelz,
INVISIBLE CARD.
Sosotris Cat no can has hanged man:
avoid bukkit or u drownz.


INVISIBLE CITY (60)
i see dead peoplez under bridge,
i see dead peoplez on der streets,
walrus has clocks, says NEIN.
bodiez in ur garden, sprouting ur zombies
dog no can has zombies!

II. U WANTS TO PLAY A GAME? (79)

She has shiny chair,
with tacky decor.
ornate fornicate apellate,
king in teh philomel,
shoutin up teh desert.

world cries ‘jub jub bird,’
or is diffrent poem?
INVISIBLE BANDERSNATCH!
time killing everythingz,
platos cave wall,
forms in teh cave,
shuffling in teh stairs,
hushing teh room,
ushering teh fatez.

“i has bad nerves.
u can has speeches?
u can has thoughts?
u can has thinkings?”

OMG WTF RAT ALLEY (115)
dead manz no bonez!!!?!

OMG WTF NOISE?
INVISIBLE WIND!
OMG WTF NOISE?
ceiling cat is watching you masturbate.
OMG WTF? WTF U SEE? WHAT U NO?
no see, no know, no remember butt.

o o o o (125)
shakespeare rag is smartness.
im in teh street, walkens.
im in ur schedule,
measuring out ur life in teh coffee spoonz.

LOL hurry.
LOL can has fake teeth?
LOL ur husband back from war,
wants some more.
LOL hurry.
LOL in your bed, makinz teh kiddles.
LOL drugz LOL!
LOL eating lambz.
LOL SPEEDY LOL!
LOL goodnight

III. TEH SERMON, IT BURNZ (173)

if teh river running, why not moving?
INVISIBLE WIND.
nymphoz gone.
river has trash no more.
nymphoz and friends left,
no can find.
shakey bones with big laughs r here!

rat creepin in teh banks, (186)
fisher kingz has no fishies!
rat eatin kingz relatives.
king sees mrs potter, standing in teh bubbles.
potter daughter hotter.

twitter twitter
jub jub bird.
still in rong poemz
TRUE!

INVISIBLE CITY
eugenideez has raisin pockets,
no can parly francay,
wants lunch at cannon,
wants weekend at pole.

teh day is done,
teh crowd is throbbing.
tiresias iz teh hermafrodite!
tiresias sees:

teh sailor sails home
teh typist makes tea
teh house agent feelz typists
teh house agent can has nookiez
teh typist no has sensation
putting teh needle on record
omg hole in the wall

tiresias in teh thebes (grecian), speeking to deaders, sees on in!

thames has music,
city has shiny decor,
mandoline rains.

sweaty river
drifty barges
turny tides
it all goes downhill,
or at least downstream

hawaiian music

liz and lester
beating ‘ores,
stern, swell, ripple,
all downstream,
big white towers

in teh canoe, (291)
i r laying, begin again.
INVISIBLE ANYTHING.
no can has anything!

carthago can has delenda (307)
fire! fire! fire!


IV: IN TEH WATERS, DYING.

dead fonician,
forgotten bukkit, gulls,
seas, moniez.
fonician hooked on current.
fonician in teh whirlpoolz, spinny
spinny fortunes’ wheel.
in teh fonician, ponder ur fate!

V: U LISTEN THUNDERS OR ELSE!

after torchlight shiny in quiet gardens (322)
after sweaty faces in stony agony:
teh screamz and teh cries!
thunder in teh mountains, shaking all.
if u lives, u dies.
just wait.

u can has bukkit, (331)
no can has water,
ha ha no can has bukkit,
just rock and sand.
no stand, no sit,
no shirt, no shoes, no service,
just thunder shaking moutainzes.
no can has water.
no can has water.
actually, no can has rock either.
no can has water or rock,
or for that matter sand.

ceiling cat is watching you masturbate (360)
u and ur dirty friend.


what r sound?
who r teh hordes?
teh hordes on teh plains rushing.
what r teh cities?
INVISIBLE CITIES.

woman pulls out hairs tight,
and fiddles teh hairs.
teh bats r freaking!
towers ringing bells,
voices singing in wells.

rotten hole in mountains, (385)
moon shining on grass and gravez!
chapel is empty, only with chickens!
cockadoodle doo!
here comez the rains again.

teh metaphorz are thick and fast, (395)
no can has literal translationz.
ganga cat is watching ur fourth wall.
waiting for rainz.
cloudz in teh sky ar far ways.
THUNDERS!
datta means give!
in a moment u lives, transitory,
no can has recording.
dayadham means be compassionate!
u thinks bout prisoner,
thnks ur in prison,
damyata means have self-control!
u r boat on calm seas,
at least on good day

London bridges falling down! (425)
falling down! falling down!
fall down long time!

you get burned clean
or you goes hell!
burny burny burny!
prince at ruined tower,
storing pieces against ruin.
Hieronymo’s goin crazeee cat!
dada dada dada

VISUALIZE WHIRLED PEACE.

-- S. A. Kitteh, via Corprew Reed

[IanEye]

Mekkin Histri

Now tell mi someting
Mistah govahment
Tell mi someting

How lang yu really feel
Yu coulda keep wi andah heel
Wen di trute done reveal
Bout how yu grab an steal
Bout how yu mek yu crooked deal
Mek yu crooked deal?

Well doun in Soutall
Where Peach did get fall
Di Asians dem faam-up a human wall
Gense di fashist an dem police sheil
An dem show dat di Asians gat plenty zeal
gat plenty zeal
gat plenty zeal

It is noh mistri
Wi mekkin histri
It is noh mistri
Wi winnin victri

Now tell mi someting
Mistah police spokesman
Tell mi someting

How lang yu really tink
Wi woulda tek yu batn lick
Yu jackboot kick
Yu dutty bag a tricks
An yu racist pallyticks
Yu racist pallyticks?

Well doun in Bristal
Dey ad noh pistal
But dem chase di babylan away
Man yu shoulda si yu babylan
How dem really run away
Yu shoulda si yu babylan dem dig-up dat dey
dig-up dat dey
dig-up dat dey

It is noh mistri
Wi mekkin histri
It is noh mistri
Wi winnin victri

Now tell mi someting
Mistah ritewing man
Tell mi someting

How lang yu really feel
Wi woulda grovel an squeal
Wen soh much murdah canceal
Wen wi woun cyaan heal
Wen wi feel di way wi feel
Feel di way wi feel?

Well dere woz Toxteh
An dere woz Moss Side
An a lat a addah places
Whey di police ad to hide
Well dere woz Brixtan
An dere woz Chapeltoun
An a lat a addah place dat woz burnt to di groun
burnt to di groun
burnt to di groun

It is noh mistri
Wi mekkin histri
It is noh mistri
Wi winnin victri

"Making History" - Linton Kwesi Johnson

[brainpanhandler]

O virga mediatrix / Alleluia-verse for the Virgin


Alleluia! light
burst from your untouched
womb like a flower
on the farther side
of death. The world-tree
is blossoming. Two
realms become one.


-Hildegard von Bingen

[Seamus OBlimey]

Bacchus On The Wagon

Bacchus to the doctor went a griping pain to ease
A phlegm cup at his shoulder to afford some small relief
His bloodshot eyes were yellow and his beard was full of grease
And a foul wind in his belly brought him gasping to his knees

The doctor coughed politely held a scarf against his nose
Bade him hang his godhead up and take off all his clothes
Baccus sighed and rolled his eyes behind the screen disrobed
The doctor grabbed his stethoscope and prepared to diagnose

When the doctor looked him over and said it's worse than at first appears
Your kidney's shot to pieces and your liver's disappeared
Your lungs are filled with water you complain of diarrhoea
And unless you give up drinking you'll be dead within the year

Break the bottle smash the whisky jar and put your glasses down
Bacchus is on the wagon and it's rolling into town
Bacchus is on the wagon and the curtain's down for good
On your quarts and pails and yards of ale now the cork is in the wood

Then the grey nurse summoned by the bell
Saw him weeping with contrition
Begging heal me please physician make me well
With needles pins and bleeding bowl prepared

She said don't expect sympathy
If you can't take your medicine
You shouldn't bait the bears

Back went Bacchus to Olympus and when he broke the sorry news
The satyrs were dissatisfied the nymphs were not amused
The centaurs and the Lapiths had a sharp exchange of views
The watchmen and the border guards succumbed to self abuse

But it's too late to say you're sorry now it's useless to repent
Your yeasts refuse to quicken and your apples won't ferment
Your wines and beers and spirits are a Devil's sacrament
For which Bacchus' indigestion is a cure from Heaven sent

What of all those pretty acolytes that Bacchus now disowns
That naked through the summer lees beside him used to roam
They've left the Elysian fields behind and bought a Barratt's Home
Where they've settled down and married now with children of their own

http://www.blythpower.co.uk/lyrics/Paradise/bacchus.htm

[dada]

I make cut-up poetry. Usually I provide links to the source material for added enjoyment,
but I didn't save the links for this one for some reason. Probably drank too much, and got sloppy.

---

You are no longer right

What Islamabad What opened God today and the atmosphere at sea was amazing
sounding blind, color uniforms thing of ease!
Does this mean that the situation is better?
I expect conspiracy and go all intrusive

Will America follow thee,
and France followed Israel followed and the rule followed Sheikh earners
and now, after the departure of uncle sell and sell,
who still agree with them to eat flesh and blood?

and this is the suffering poor people,

The right is not on Syria
nor Iran nor Israel has a right
every doctrine, party and everything
our national sense of this country,
we have not affected,
and therefore the length of our lives'll go to waste

Minimum only independence whenever impossible
The foreign affairs of each and peace

[Uncle $cam]

testing, testing 123

[brainpanhandler]

ENCYCLOPEDIA
OF HORROR

By Charles Simic, in the November 1 issue of
London Review of Books. Simic, whose collection
That Little Something is out this month from
Harcourt, is poet laureate of the United States.


Nobody reads it but the insomniacs.
How strange to find a child,
Slapped by his mother only this morning,
And the mad homeless woman
Who squatted to urinate in the street.

Perhaps they've missed something?
That smoke-shrouded city after a bombing raid,
The corpses like cigarette butts
In a dinner plate overflowing with ashes.
But no, everyone is here.

o were you to come, invisible tribunal,
There'd be too many pages to thumb through,
Too many stories to listen to,
Like the one about guards playing cards
After they were done beating their prisoner.

[MacCruiskeen]

Let It Go



It is this deep blankness is the real thing strange.
The more things happen to you the more you can't
Tell or remember even what they were.

The contradictions cover such a range.
The talk would talk and go so far aslant.
You don't want madhouse and the whole thing there.




-- William Empson

[marmot]

Here's the first stanza of my favorite poem by Yves Bonnefoy:


Le Souvenir


Ce Souvenir me hante, que le vent tourne
D'un coup, la-bas, sur la maison fermee.
C'est un grand bruit de toile par le monde,
On dirait que l'etoffe de la couleur
Vient de se dechirer jusqu'au fond des choses.
Le souvenir s'eloigne mais il revient,
C'est un homme et une femme masques, on dirait qu'ils tentent
De mettre a flot une barque trop grande.
Le vent rabat la voile sur leurs gestes,
Le feu prend dans la voile, l'eau est noire,
Que faire de tes dons, o souvenir...


The Memory

I am haunted by this memory, that the wind
All at once is swirling over the closed up house.
There is a might sound of flapping sail throughout the world,
As if the stuff that color is made of
Had just been rent to the very depths of things.
The memory passes, then returns,
It is a man and a woman who are masked, they seem
To be trying to push a boat that is too big into water.
The wind thrashes the sail on their arms and hands,
Fire catches in the sail, the water is black,
What can I make of your gifts, O memory...

[brainpanhandler]

In order to get through to a dolt like me



You can take that flute and stick it up your ass
I think to myself in my father’s voice.
The ambient texture of traffic on wet pavement
Fills my head the way blue velvet curtains fill a stage
And that freakin’ flute is all fuckin’ wrong
And it made me so stupid for a moment
That I very nearly wrote a rhyme with rage
And thought this was just as good.
Feeling a sudden desire to make sure the doors are locked
I get up and make my way to the back door
Thinking to myself that this is a symbolic way of
A part of me that cannot speak in words
Making itself heard and I rarely listen.
It’s brilliant really. It has to be
In order to get through to a dolt
like me.
I closed the snap bolt.

[Searcher08]

Minus 18 Street

I never loved you more
Than when I let you sleep another hour,
As if you intended to make such a gate of time
Your home. Speechless as night animals,
The breeze and I breakfasted
With the pure desire of speech; but let
Each petal of your dream have its chance,
The many little shawls that covered you:

I never envied your child’s face
Its motherless cheekbones, or sensed in them
The approach of illness—how you were being
Half-killed on a sea-shore, or falling
From a ladder where you knelt to watch
The quartering of the moon. (You would never
Swim to the top of the rain that bathed
The mute world of her body.)

Sleep for you is a trick
Of the frost, a light green room in a French house,
Giving no trouble till spring.
The wedding-boots of the wind
Blow footsteps behind me,
I count each season for the sign
Of wasted children.

Sky of blue water, blue-water sky,
I sleep with the dubious kiss
Of my sky-blue portfolio.
Under or over the wind,
In soft and independent clothes,
I begin each dawn-coloured picture
Deep in your snow.

[compared2what?]

So is it not with me as with that Muse,
Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,

Making a couplement of proud compare
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare,
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.

O! let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother's child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air:

Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

-- W. Shakespeare

[marmot]

[This June 16th 2009 photo of Beijing taken just minutes before noon reminded me of these poetic lines from G. K. Chesterton]


Though giant rains put out the sun,
Here stand I for a sign,
Though earth be filled with waters dark
My cup is filled with wine.

Tell to the trembling priests that here
Under the deluge rod,
One nameless, tattered, broken man
Stood up and drank to God.