B
Brokennotes
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Somebody Dark, Sadistic, Paranoid, And Insane Would Be Preffered.
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Does anyone know a renound Poet That Is Completley Insane In his Or her Writing?
Jim Morrison
PARIS
"Your grave is ugly and short.
Definitely not your choice.
But I don't think you know.
The ground has opened your mouth,
Digested the L.A. throat.
You are the pale bones of the
Moon through our kitchen window.
Your face carries the scars of
Decades of day and night, sound
Of the wind, candles, music,
The anchored stone. Our stethoscopes
Spent years listening to your name,
Date, the joints, booze spilled on
The sand, not knowing that one
Wet and dark night the sky
Took you away, slicing the fog.
No more light nor darkness.
No more sleep nor waking up."
PARIS
"Your grave is ugly and short.
Definitely not your choice.
But I don't think you know.
The ground has opened your mouth,
Digested the L.A. throat.
You are the pale bones of the
Moon through our kitchen window.
Your face carries the scars of
Decades of day and night, sound
Of the wind, candles, music,
The anchored stone. Our stethoscopes
Spent years listening to your name,
Date, the joints, booze spilled on
The sand, not knowing that one
Wet and dark night the sky
Took you away, slicing the fog.
No more light nor darkness.
No more sleep nor waking up."
Renowned is the proper spelling. Here are some poems I love and one by me that got me phone calls at homer because people were concerned.
Denver Buston
Tuesday 9:00 AM
A man standing at the bus stop
reading the newspaper is on fire
Flames are peeking out
from beneath his collar and cuffs
His shoes have begun to melt
The woman next to him
wants to mention it to him
that he is burning
but she is drowning
Water is everywhere
in her mouth and ears
in her eyes
A stream of water runs
steadily from her blouse
Another woman stands at the bus stop
freezing to death
She tries to stand near the man
who is on fire
to try to melt the icicles
that have formed on her eyelashes
and on her nostrils
to stop her teeth long enough
from chattering to say something
to the woman who is drowning
but the woman who is freezing to death
has trouble moving
with blocks of ice on her feet
It takes the three some time
to board the bus
what with the flames
and water and ice
But when they finally climb the stairs
and take their seats
the driver doesn't even notice
that none of them has paid
because he is tortured
by visions and is wondering
if the man who got off at the last stop
was really being mauled to death
by wild dogs.
Carolyn Forché
The Colonel
What you have heard is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on
its black cord over the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was some talk of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on
the table. They were like dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go f--- themselves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held
the last of his wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.
Bear
PAINTING THE ROSES RED
I dip the white roses
into the pond of your blood.
Three eyes,
two of them black, blank, and broken
observe me with a lifeless gaze.
The third, nothing,
just a deep blood-caked chasm
where, at the end, a small beacon
of kitchen light shoots through.
I sway and swirl
the white roses
around and around
in the sticky thick syrup.
I am careful not to tangle them
in your peppermint-fresh hair
spiraling behind you like the tail of a comet.
The thick white towel
taut around your breasts
soaks up your life.
I see your mouth open
so slight, musing,
the last half
of your last breath
evaporating off your lips.
The roses redden
like my affection for you.
A thick crimson paint, your blood
contorts the curves of the pristine petals.
The roses have become heavy and hard to hold.
I stand them on their stems
in a crystal vase.
Red drops plummet from each petal
and I listen to each drop
rap
on the kitchen counter.
They unravel to form a pattern
of broken hearts.
At this angle through the glass
you are so beautiful.
Picasso beautiful,
Monet beautiful,
your face etched in red;
an impressionistic image of you
mixed with slender jade stems,
terra cotta tiles,
and the limp ivory light
of the kitchen stove.
Denver Buston
Tuesday 9:00 AM
A man standing at the bus stop
reading the newspaper is on fire
Flames are peeking out
from beneath his collar and cuffs
His shoes have begun to melt
The woman next to him
wants to mention it to him
that he is burning
but she is drowning
Water is everywhere
in her mouth and ears
in her eyes
A stream of water runs
steadily from her blouse
Another woman stands at the bus stop
freezing to death
She tries to stand near the man
who is on fire
to try to melt the icicles
that have formed on her eyelashes
and on her nostrils
to stop her teeth long enough
from chattering to say something
to the woman who is drowning
but the woman who is freezing to death
has trouble moving
with blocks of ice on her feet
It takes the three some time
to board the bus
what with the flames
and water and ice
But when they finally climb the stairs
and take their seats
the driver doesn't even notice
that none of them has paid
because he is tortured
by visions and is wondering
if the man who got off at the last stop
was really being mauled to death
by wild dogs.
Carolyn Forché
The Colonel
What you have heard is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on
its black cord over the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was some talk of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on
the table. They were like dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go f--- themselves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held
the last of his wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.
Bear
PAINTING THE ROSES RED
I dip the white roses
into the pond of your blood.
Three eyes,
two of them black, blank, and broken
observe me with a lifeless gaze.
The third, nothing,
just a deep blood-caked chasm
where, at the end, a small beacon
of kitchen light shoots through.
I sway and swirl
the white roses
around and around
in the sticky thick syrup.
I am careful not to tangle them
in your peppermint-fresh hair
spiraling behind you like the tail of a comet.
The thick white towel
taut around your breasts
soaks up your life.
I see your mouth open
so slight, musing,
the last half
of your last breath
evaporating off your lips.
The roses redden
like my affection for you.
A thick crimson paint, your blood
contorts the curves of the pristine petals.
The roses have become heavy and hard to hold.
I stand them on their stems
in a crystal vase.
Red drops plummet from each petal
and I listen to each drop
rap
on the kitchen counter.
They unravel to form a pattern
of broken hearts.
At this angle through the glass
you are so beautiful.
Picasso beautiful,
Monet beautiful,
your face etched in red;
an impressionistic image of you
mixed with slender jade stems,
terra cotta tiles,
and the limp ivory light
of the kitchen stove.