Karel Simunek 1869-1942

Karel Simunek

Czech modernist art with the often erotic yet sensual image

Remember Gremlins

Gremlins

the reading poet

behind his book

taking microphone,

spoke

each word lengthening

to a degree

of edgy movement

what seemed so few in words

became eternal,

those who watched

brow moistened by sweat

beneath his fringe

saw an iconic image

poster adorned with Che

on bedroom walls,

fingers found a glass

to sip some wine

for confidence,

feet moving almost pacing

just shuffling,

closer to edge of stage

silence in the darkness,

all held on his voice,

a lithe brunette student

leaped forward

lemon t shirt lifted

baring breasts

with

I Love You

lipstick marked

flashbulb pop

a step back

maybe a stutter of words

faltered only for a beat

smiling continued,

status assured

 

fever on the funship

grampus in my thoughts

vessel resonant to pharaoh’s dance

from a bitches brew,

no mirror

no media

in any sarcasm would find me

i would smoke

i would dance,

old hulk decks creaking

as my silk collar shines,

from cabin to hold

the merriment stretches,

i would distance myself

and not be portrayed

anonymous to all but the

lips and tongue i entwine,

whiskey manufactured in the south

smoky sweet tingle,

it was migration

or mitigation

of many ravenous appetites

bologna sausage and sweet mutton,

so vibrantly lost

room extended that i was hidden

faceless in the extreme,

music of davis found me

wanting more,

gilt frame my hair once neatly combed,

come grampus

tilt on rolling waves,

find me a place

of nonchalant obscurity,

saxophone and drum

the ariel had been lost

it was memory that

dragged me down

into the depths

that would fill my lungs

with salt water,

careful heart placement

extracted blood from veins

i was infused with a rhythm

that could only lead to one conclusion

i was intimate in my body

with all of one species,

more smoke

more mirrors,

hearing snare and guitar

long days vanished

a place found

yet i could not reveal

who i totally

am

 

 

execution of the goat

clouds slaughter rainbows,

expectant mothers cries ,

every other wound heals,

you can knock on doors

but who will answer ,

not a man with a golden goblet

who watched you

cast over a precipice

saved by a pen stabbed into

stubborn rock,

white rock

unheeding to your cries

crack appears

fissure to place your mind

letting thoughts expand,

pressured opening

wider

a flow of cerebral digestion

spilling over

staining with a curious purpose

from here others see the marks

a territory of mind and heart,

and will learn

to be as you are

or better,

scabbing crusting

around edges

salted tears

as you pick and worry,

yet stand firm

words stoic and resolute

to others scrutiny

a whale sings

no torment,

inspiring

extending pen to another’s hand ,

goats run in the enclosure,

a dying man has a kiss

and you see the virginity of

ink taken

and shared,

purpose found

love true

you will now open the door

to those

who knock

 

to share with others your writing and help those who struggle is part of being true to your art

 

Martin Rosete – Voice Over (2013)

Pedro Cristiani – Deus Irae