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Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Muddy Waters and other Rhymes


Muddy Waters' blues is t'wang.
So he taught us, about playin' pain.
Strings is flyin' off his fret,
Sings he's dyin', home in bed.

The Death of a Great, like the loss of what's Wild,
Reminds that we're late, to pause for a Child.

One day I'll show in a swinging state!
It would be nicer to vote, but would be better to date!

See actors, sharp on stage,
'Neath clover, dark in shade.
Above them, grows a ficus forest,
 'Neath them all, a fawn adores us.

I see elephants brushing paint.
Never rushing, they sweep and feint!

A day of bright sun becomes a day of white light,
A day for my spoon, which is silvery bright.

Poetry descends, photons in a cloud,
I send them back, make her electrons go wild.

If I tell you what all poetry is,
 . . . you'll go stark raving mad.
If I tell you what the darkness is,
 . . . can we promise to keep it in bed?

Mind is craved by soul, the way water needs a bowl.
Soul give worth to mind the way coal gives birth to light.

Find this note, don't go this way,
I left it here, then got taken away.
Life isn't perfect, fate isn't fair.
I'm no more, but you shouldn't care.

Love and Lust are never missed,
You’ll find them both on most guest lists.
One is trusty, the the other arty,
Those who notice, crash both parties.

'Who’s that bunny that laid eggs in leaves?
And that plump little elf who jumps down chimneys?

He stays locked up, and pounds my drum,
He wants outside, to loose a rhythm.

Went west birding on a holiday,
I saw Wren-tits of Family Sylviidae
True I saw Tits, I saw more than two,
But no bushy Tits, from clan Aegithalidae!

Arjun had a chariot, best in the Maha-battle!
Krishna gave a ride in it, in spokes that were pulled by cattle!

Like is to Sign,
as Metaphor is to Symbol.
I liken Design,
as a Door to a Thimble.

In one bold felony, I stole to acquire,
A cold dark mystery, set in golden fire.

I knew you in a previous lifetime,
   you were my previous lifetime gal.
I knew you so well it's frightening,
   Now you're my lifeline pal.

I see you're a joker, never look at clocks.
Your suit's for a poser, with two colors of socks.

Mercury's gone retrograde,
   time to write some poems.
I'll paint some pots with rhyme instead
   that my kiln will be firing soon.

The bloodless word has made me tire,
Of a gutless world that went 'vampire'.

You jumped in deep scheisse, took tea with Carol's hatter,
That pumped up your siz-e, and made that devil madder!

I'm goin' down, drunk my precious blood!
Towards another town, another bed of mud!

To whomever you barked, wherever you blacked it,
Your curses in the dark, may one day be enacted.

Life is a rumble where we all get to fumble
Get out there and choose and put on your juice!

Wherever you parked, wherever you backed it,
Your farces in the dark, will one day get compacted.

Religion's just a crucible to hold what's molten and unknown,
Vision must be reducible, into what's golden and forlorn.

My father was a wolfhound,
   my mother a full-blood terrier,
He would rather run for love,
   than come back home to marry her.

What's indivisible and isn't named, . . . is fleeing,
But with that deserved name, . . . it is seen.

Put cash into your passion, then your passion's always awake,
Make your passion into a job, then your thirst is never slaked!

Tigers roam my imagination, whales bellow in my dreams.
Birds circle our machine nation, so we long for what she means.

If you fashion your passion, then your passion will surely break,
Your crashin' will be fashion, if your passion never slakes.

Human survival's not a biblical game.
Even what's written can't make Nature tame.

Her bitter talk flushed a lie,
Hawked a thrush, in winter rye.

The baby has no memory,
Its Mommy has two mammaries.

Walk to where you walk upright,
Talk to her, who learns from Light.

Go to where whistling sounds are strong,
Listen there for stillness, and Song.

Take a sip of the Housatonic,
Get so sick, too Loose-A-Tonic!

Poetry sets sail with a mast that breaks,
Gets caught in a gale, a psyche that shakes.

So these poems are never done.
The words are rounding, from two to one.

She says what she says and will not repeat.
Unplug your ears and stand on both feet.

Dylan sang a burst, in his apocalyptic brand new band,
Then I heard him drop some words, I wished I could understand.

For sure she's a poet if she called it Sci-fi,
She doesn't know it, it's all about sky!

The neti I bought has an elephant's long nose,
It puts water in my trunk, without a bong or hose!

You say you are my Oracle,
    You say you are my Muse,
Why are you being so practical?
    Why can't you let me choose?

We all showed up at U-Mass,
   there we heard Bob Dylan.
A heap load of blues and bass,
   that really was extremely thrilling'.

You're just missing me, and I'm just missin' you.
Let's wait patiently, till our moment comes through.

I knew I had caught her, when she poured that hot water
    and cried two tears in my tea.

Ten thousand visits have graced this page,
'Offers to Raven' has come of age.
Lyrics of joy, torments of rage.
A pyrrhic moment, a passing stage.


Balkan Politicians & Voodoo Economics


Who caused it all? I'm not talkin', 
But it ain't the fault of the subprime Balkans.

Berlusconi can't take aid, from the one and only IMF maid. 
If she was young he might have asked, for bunga-bunga but those times are past.

Greek bonds got weak, German banks got wormy,
thanks to the French the rot stench is germy!

Italian paper's coming down,
a fire-sale in your home town.

Swallow burdock as media medicine. 
Follow Murdoch if you need to jettison!

Emperor Silvio dreads a high rate bond. 
Fate will reveal a dead Euro, conned.

More bears are coming to Italy, 
to gore Berlusconi finally.

What print empire can fuss and strut,
Conspire, sin, say 'sorry' in smut. 
What karma prying into private lives,
Comes to haunt even Murdoch's lies.

Commons is to Murdoch as blank is to bored. 
Amens are encouraged since he won't be called Lord.

Greedy feeding at the trough,
Weeping wives and lovers lost, 
Brooks and Murdoch not enough,
To pay busted lies, and karma tossed.

If Jabba the Hut was really King Tut, and Murdoch was not a vulture,
The case is shut, the PM's a slut, and smut is really just culture.


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