Monthly Archives: September 2012

Form 17 a Seth Worley short film

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<p><a href=”http://vimeo.com/48853502″>Form 17</a> from <a href=”http://vimeo.com/redgiant”>Red Giant</a> on <a href=”http://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a&gt;.</p>

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Kandinsky and The Russian House

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<p><a href=”http://vimeo.com/6764181″>Kandinsky and the Russian House</a> from <a href=”http://vimeo.com/copernicusfilms”>Copernicus Films</a> on <a href=”http://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a&gt;.</p>

Vending Machine: Poetry For Change Vol 2

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A free download anthology with me in it from Poets Haven so go on download and make a donation to a food bank in your area. http://www.poetshaven.com/bookcontents.php?section=18&page=3

 

http://www.poetshaven.com/bookcontents.php?section=18&page=3

Waiting In Line

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frosted lens one secret eye,

it’s time almost gone,

other vibrant blue watery,

she waited to be served

packaged meals enough for

a few days,

tremors with age

cellular collapse,

life’s abrupt stoop to spine,

coat drawn snug,

cold reaches more easily

through mottled paper,

her turn,

trolley a support to feet

more unsteady than an infant,

red leather handbag

leather fashion for forty years

cracked and glazed,

pleased to talk to the assistant

juddering conversation,

sprawled out topics of conversation

no linear trail,

topics of weather,

her husband passed twenty years,

lack of pension,

always broke,

children dispersed seed unconnected

and when she was younger

flew planes in the Pacific

a job few knew of,

no government medal,

yet she offered her life

as she did now to survival,

gnarled arthritic hands

struggled with notes and coins

tomorrow a fragile

premise

 

20th Century Cento

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you must be the change you wish to see in the world,

for those who think your light is too bright,

feeling good as lovers can, you know,

i’ll be clickin by your house about two forty five,

that’s why i had to get my khaki’s pressed,

by the hot sun emptied, blistered and dried,

to the man who only has a hammer,

everything he encounters begins to look like a nail,

there are no facts only interpretations,

two forty five came and passed to four fifty two,

he did not stop by

heard it from a friend who, heard it from another,

but it was only rumor and suggestion,

flowers for the day,

to make amends,

no need to hammer there is only peace

and in embrace khaki’s grass stained,

love found splendor and forgiveness in truth.

 

dramatis personae

Line One- Gandhi

Line Two -Cat Forsley a great Canadian singer and musician

Line Three- Panic At The Disco !

Line Four-Tom Waits

Line Five -Frank Zappa

Line Six -Rudyard Kipling

Line Seven and Eight – Abraham Maslow

Line Nine -Me

Line Ten -REO Speedwagon

Line Eleven to Sixteen – is all  Me

 

Gadfly Bitter

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three fucking sides,

all contained by Maslow,

cornered that abstraction of my mind,

my motivation

was self actualization,

rather than messy physiological,

i had no need for pain

searing transmutable feeling,

textured and phrased in life,

physiological was her

to be excreted from my mind

before that word of babies

and the pushing of a pram,

her ideal not mine,

she saw life in colors,

emotional spectrum that concluded

fear, willpower and hope,

i had reacted to none of these

probably made each more defined

in the lethargy of my words,

battle lines layered down

indivisible by touch,

peace a searing brand

upon my buttocks,

it would winter away,

lilac time was coming,

there in my own identity,

things would not burn

or boil into steam,

forget her now

left to that sound inertia.

 

http://newworldcreativeunion.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/nwcu-wednesday-wake-up-call-wwuc-260912_26.html

Subtraction From

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in the obstinate realm

of flightless thought,

a man may lay down

finding all muscles non compliant,

he had a chance

that possibility to extract

a thought chick from the nest,

without down stark uninteresting

pallid pink nothing

with voracious appetite,

cast away

all limits remain,

lust , love and desire

three traps set for him

all ensnaring,

have caught him

escape an alternative

only accomplished with thought,

yet he could not think,

each entice

her whisper,

a touch upon bare flesh,

the merest smile,

beguiled, her medusa words

turn flesh to stone,

marble for her own touch

contoured to her own wanting

it was her savor,

not his

a phallic model of molecular degeneration,

reduced to base instincts and constructs,

he was for her

and her alone