I am hungry for a firm bosom
On which to lay my head, close my eyes
And hear that everything’s gonna be alright.
Careening towards conclusion
And new beginning: new days,
New nights of excess by my lonesome.,
All populated by my skewered imagination,
Made real by isolation,
Made flesh by selecting
Sentiment on vinyl slabs,
Made fleeting by drunken stupor,
Yet creating all that for a moment.
A split second where I am bitten
Drained, refilled, refueled;
Reminded of my latent power,
Envied by those hopeless dead
Beyond these walls of vapor.
Posts Tagged ‘Power’
Firm
Posted: September 2, 2002 in PoetryTags: Add new tag, Dead, Drunk, Eye, Flesh, Imagination, Night, Power, Vinyl
0
Realized
Posted: October 18, 1995 in PoetryTags: Bones, Dreams, Earth, Eye, Fire, Flowers, Genie, Horse, Imagination, Magic, Mirror, Naked, Night, Power, Sleep, Snow, Story, Water
Three nights I have lain awake
Storming through half-sleep dreams
And possibilities, thoughts,
Mental magical carpets,
Half real, half realized;
Doors half opened and swinging
Smooth computers peripherally
Analyzing and verifying
Believing yet incredulous
Of the panoramic impossibility.
The stark lightning of imagination
Energized and rampantly naked;
Leaping obstacles with merry, nimble feet
Barely touching – gracing – the earth.
A sweeping wave of everything
Reconditioning, revitalized
Colorization by raw power
Of a reality as credible as anything,
Dreams of genie lamps opening
Construction paper flowers blooming
Water falling, cities lit by their own fires,
Shadows mocking their creators.
Stories so rich in texture
That you live them overnight,
Morning comes when it comes
With the snap of the blind
And a sense of weariness bone deep.
Aches from riding warhorses,
Twinges from old wounds,
Bruises and abrasions that quietly throb,
That you don’t remember receiving.
Nights pass in a variety of times
Lying awake, or so I think,
Chasing reflections in mirrors,
Tuning in to the colored snow
Falling inside my eyelids.
Forgive Yourself for Evolving
Posted: March 16, 1995 in PoetryTags: Adam, Animal, Belief, Dream, Dwarf, Elf, Eve, Faerie, Fruit, God, Home, Imagination, Life, Love, Magic, Man, Power, Satan, Story
Perhaps my only true loves
Are those that are inanimate,
Or are animated soley by my
Magical imagination.
They love me like a god –
I give them life, they give me
Love without strings attached.
They could attach their strings
If they ate from that forbidden fruit
That Adam and Eve partook of.
But that is the difference
Between mankind and animals,
Plants, minerals, Elves, Dwarves, and Faeries.
We know we do wrong – we still do it.
Some barrier was broken and we keep on breaking,
We made god to subtly blame for our position.
(We call him Satan)
We told him to forgive us because
It wasn’t in our own power
To forgive ourselves for evolving.
We are now the chosen species of the planet
And, collectively, we all want to go home.
So these inanimate things I animate,
Infusing them with imagination and belief.
I can believe in them because it was I
Who made them real in the first place.
God didn’t make me; I made him
Just like I make a dream a reality,
A story my existence, and item alive
And bounding to and fro with innocent excitement.
Evolution Drives the Bus
Posted: December 21, 1994 in PoetryTags: Change, Death, Energy, Power, Spider, Zen
I
rebirth is the sign
I have seen in neon karma,
judging by my scenery.
II
not some paranormal awakening,
nor a Zen-like inner peace:
I am far from stopping.
III
evolution drives the bus;
I’m afraid to lose
what I don’t already have.
IV
potential energy = power,
a force to select the future
that the past dictates I want now.
V
molt like the mad spider
Mordenkainen;
commit yourself to the House of Bedlam.
VI
slough the skin
before it roughens into
the wrinkles you wear forever.
VII
youthfulness is vitality,
the vitality to withstand
change.
VIII
this death must be dyed
to match the colorful shirt
I wish to wear tomorrow to work.
For Galstephus the Mage
Posted: November 6, 1993 in PoetryTags: Alex Kohrt, Dream, Eye, King, Lord, Mind, Music, Power, Wind, World
You dream like a king
on a throne;
you are not like the serfs
and servants of this existence.
This world doesn’t want kings and heroes;
rather, normalcy is enshrined
and page homage to with certificates of merit.
You are a nobleman
and your heritage is not acknowledged –
there is no room for the likes of you
among the jaded and the complacent;
these powers wear blinders purposefully
to destroy the talents
that could change their status quo,
that could threaten their idols of stability.
These same closed eyes cannot envision
the wondrous sights you see;
they cannot hear what runs through your mind,
the musical scales of rivers and windstorms;
they cannot feel anything anymore,
walled into courtyards, shut out from the street,
unmoving –
they cannot even dream on their thrones
where you, my lord,
belong.
Yelling and Screaming About How Good I Am in Bed
Posted: March 1, 1993 in PoetryTags: Ape, Bed, Caterpiller, Dog, Eagle, Eye, Frog, Love, Pen, Power, Song, Storm
I
I am the poet that you long for.
I have powers seething in my pen,
Poems and poems as a storm-whipped sea,
Songs that make you forget to breathe.
This is the something to love, not fall for;
Pedestalled I glitter but don’t grow.
You don’t want to watch, you want to know
How I will surprise you again.
II
I have been elected a poet
While you have been chosen
As something equally important,
Perhaps a poet, too –
It all depends on you.
III
I was once a caterpillar, once a dog;
I was once an ape, then an eagle; once a frog,
But always you could tell by the
Shining eyes that it was me
Figuring out what I was supposed to be.
I’ll change again into something else,
Something new – write a poem or two –
Maybe I will try to be you, but
Remember, I remember who I am now
And who I will always be: myself.
Sorcery
Posted: February 8, 1993 in PoetryTags: Anger, Dead, Fire, Friend, Guilt, Heart, Honesty, Love, Mind, Pain, Power, Sad, Shame, Truth
I have never felt power like this:
the strength to bear people’s friendship
without the artifices of forging my emotions
like the signatures of the dead
on a current document.
I find I’m liked for who I am
not everything I claim to be or wish I was;
pretense has always dampened the fires
that I was wanting to stoke;
I find the call is honesty and enthusiasm.
As soon as I found myself wonderful,
I couldn’t wait to show it of by being so –
no longer shivering in trying to be magnificent
so that I seem wonderful, I see myself
wonderful so everything I do from
my clear mind, my open heart, is wonderful.
The recognition of emotions for what they are
no matter how much they hurt in their true forms:
guilt or anger; shame, sadness; pain and love.
is a truth I must learn to find.
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