So which is better
geodesic ice spiders,
wheels of snow,
flower stains on rags,
wrinkles of fatigue,
or a blood afternoon?

Curious,
the animal inside
is out of luck in art.
Tourists gouge him out
and gild the whirling horn
to make a lamp of honor.
The death, of minor surf,
sounds in the living room

That's the way it is
with the ugly.
Ugliness should arm
their flesh against
the greedy but they
grow such wiles
around the hurt
that prophets come
with love, apology,
and knives and cut
the beauty from the quick.

A short one.........


You see why I like to sneak out
and ride after the enemy,
fooling away our fear and dreaming
of peace and glory and grace.

I saw myself
a bone fetish
in a garden
in the memory
of America

a woman murmuring
a broken melody
in a shuttered room
where the crazy kids
cry

I see no way
out
no excape
sad to see her
end this way
abstract as time

Last Nite

She strides in bluejeans
to the corner bar
she dances with
the old women,
the men light up, they
order beer
sawdust is flying
under her huaraches
thudding soft
her hair falls
sometimes
into her face
el vatos stand
enchanted and
afraid of her
Beauty
Style
and grace.

Blues Again


Now is the
season of the
furnished room.
Gone the faux
walls, the
juniper trees
plain planks
a spider web
a casket bed
in the darkness
the warm bodies
shine together
no rest
without love
no sleep
without dreams
of love
be mad or chill
obsessed with
poems and
machines.

Here's my musings. This site has truly sold out. It's bad enough that this young Cyrus girl (Hanna Montana or whatever) has a questionable photo shoot with a very well known photographer and a questionable photo ended up in a magazine.

So....there she was exploited once and in a sense, abused as she is a minor and truly quite young. Then the internet is full of further exploitation of this poor young girl. It's everywhere.

Why is it on this site? Why is it that as the right of the thread list, there is a giant link to a site that further exploits her with a photograph of her half naked? Why is this site furthering the exploitation of this young girl?

This is one of the worst things I have ever seen on this site and I have been coming here for almost 3 years. I would like to ask the principals of this site, what are they thinking by adding to the exploitation of this young girl??

I am not surprised that I have had no answer from the owners of this site on two different threads.

This is what I now expect from the principals of this site...nothing. And also a desire to make money and that's it.....no matter at what expense.

It is sad what this place has turned into. No wonder less and less people with any time under their belt are no longer hanging around!

a few more lines of poetry inspired by the world I live in.


he drug his fingers
thru his hair and sang
the first verse of little wing

and drew three aces
before the black nine
with the curse of "No"

chaseing flushes
is for fools and wankers,
sometimes though
no reason can shine.

It's mean out at
Santa Ana
where the skinny
waitresses and fat
dogs ply their
trade in the faceless
noise of the slots

outside in the
blue light, desert haze
the sky glows
with the sliver moon
pine tree tops
bend into sky, river, starlight
the creak of boots
rabbit tracks, deer tracks
what do we know.

continued...


Come Texas
sing and dance with me
Lovers of Austin, Corpus Christi
Amarillo and Idalou.
Hear my songs
and taste my chemical kiss.

Western Twang Prophets
music strung, slung
low, brothers of wire
and wood and tears.

Let if roll
Let it roll like
a rumbling wheel
Let the feather of justice
float down
and rest
on the shining scales.

more from "My world"


I walk south from 550
the sky is pink and orange
I flee from bleeding gutters
crutches and concrete lies.

stunted minds of cowards,
fools and running dogs


I need to see the
sun of angels
to sing a desert song
run to my place, my shrine of
Love and energy
Jade and praise
my footprints wet
on stone, wind from
the Jemez blows
your shadow flat
on flat rocks,
my priestess.

America, I can't even
cry for you
I can hang on that long

another poem


Midnight talks to itself
the shadow of silver
the echo of gold
an old drunk mumbling
new names for machines
of death and blood.

Dawn, holy day
another Goddamn holy day
My habit stinks of
Beer and smoke
as I head down
to the sacrifice.

Day, endless day
The sacrifice of life
The pain
I put me through
I'm cut
But not bleeding

Still, so endless
I pass out
Only to wake again
I drink
To hide from sin
And sin again

Life, so still
Like living dead
A zombie
To the machine
A zombie
To the pills

Ass Clown

He's new in town
And known in town
As the ass clown
He's an ass hole
Like everyone in his family

He gets messy
At the bar
He pisses his pants
Pisses on the sidewalk
He throws up in the bushes

The ass clown
He's been wearing
The same pants
For three months straight
The ass crack stain is yummy

He smells like old urine
Feet and man ass
He's a disaster
But you have to love
The ass clown

[edit on 13-7-2008 by Excitable_Boy]

It's like a Movie


It's like a Movie
where a man
watches a woman.
Her phone rings
yet goes unanswered
There is nothing she can do.
Events will take their course
and take her with them.
The smoky flavor of scotch
The smoky light at her table
promise a vagueness
with which
she perfectly agrees.

A gut pull drag on me
Into the casm gaping we
Mirrors multy reflecting this
Between spunk stained sheet
And odourous whim
Calm eye-flick-shudder within
Assist me to walk away in sin
Where is the string that Theseus laid
Find me out this labyrinth place.

Yin and yang lumber punch
Go taste a tart, then eat my lunch
And force my slender thin and lean
In this solemn place of fill wetting dreams
Of black matted lace of pregnant cows
As life maps out onto my brow
The card is lowered in index turn
Into my filing cabinet hemispheres spurn.

Let me catch the slit of light
For a maidens sake
On a maiden flight
In the flat field I do get bored
Replace with Piccadilly whores
In my yearn for some cerebral fix
Transfer me to that solid plain
Hammer me into blazen pain
Moulding shapes no shame to waste
And drag me there with deafening haste.

- Peter Murphy

poem


Mary, Sweet tarts and Bud
come between VW and Impala
Given a harvest of wives
a stagnant calm that seemed
as if it must go on and on
although the street is vacant and
the writer and the named are gone.

I didn't mean for this thread to be exclusive to E_B and whaaa.
Feel free to contribute, criticize, analyze, etc....

Mind if I join in? Not so much from Februrary - but recent musings nonetheless...


Silence fills the empty avenue
The streets I once used to roam
The signs long since faded
And the people long dead

The sky is still very blue
The Ocean reflects, from behind that home
Pictures of our Past, the past he hated
That's what he always said

Walk the streets, the familiar place
The little bridge in town always thrilled me
I yearn for the days of young
I wish for the days with Grandpa

In the Shop windows, I see his face
The house where he used to be
Raspberry Nectar sweet on my tongue
I wish for the days with Grandpa

- Carrot

Carrot, bravo, welcome, more.....


Painted flowers
sage
rabbit bush
Chamisa
and Jimson weed

Yes Feb has long passed
I neved expected it
to ever get this
warm again in
my soul, my hands
the poet, the singer
the lover, the fool

I just sat on my
glasses and broke
them.

I have others.

Thanks Whaaa , You and EB seem to rock this place huh?

Out through these god-awful glasses
I've stared a thousand times
The time, it just passes
I search my face for lines

I sip the Homemade Cherry Pinot
As awfully sweet as it is
But someone made it, I couldn't say no
I can't say no, because it's his

Out on this old wood deck
I've watched the boats dock, plenty
Watch as the ducks just peck
I count, what must be twenty

The reflection on the water isn't one I know
I don't know the old woman staring back at me
Her laugh lines, her wrinkles, they show
Unknown to my soul that still breathes

Ware and Tare on this vehicle is not the essesnce of life
It's not who I am, instead it just carries me around
It glides over happiness, and plows through the strife
It keeps me here, with my feet on the ground

The sun is starting to set, its pink
My eyes grow tired, and heavy it seems
It's not my time to go yet, I don't think
Wake me up, This has to be a dream


- Carrot