Sublime pleasures
Quiet passion
Rituals
Complexity
Taking chances with words
Drinking more than I should
Writing, in your face
Direct and straight up
Just like the booze
Taking no prisoners
Watching a no-hitter fall apart
Still a shutout though
Always on the verge
Utopia somewhere
The anatomy of desire
works in tandem with peculiarities, money-spinning, yarns, lies,
spirit of the demagogue.
Falsification in vogue. Mystique carries with it grasping tendencies,
when morale is high. People are wont to do it well nigh.
Anatomies often
are a quirk for all heavens falling apart
till do us part.
Disdain, votary of contempt,
who says no?
putting together strings, hemming them ornately I vouch for disdain, a sort of standoffish pleasure of getting back. Throw it at will. Make sure it is not contagious.
I asked my wife before bed last night
if I should use my razor blade until I cut myself?
Why would you want to do that, she inquires,
So I know I’ve gotten maximum value out of it, I reply.
She tells me to go to sleep,
Probably wondering who she married,
After 25 years she knows how crazy I am
That value is paramount
Even with a little pain to prove it
Value is everything to me
It’s something that is fleeting fast
in our disposable world.
I’m going for it
What’s another scar on my humble face
Value and cheapness are two different entities
This is a conceptual thing
Some might say art
I say, “let it rip”….
It is an art
I carefully
cultivate
A way of looking
foreign to me
yet I practice.
Sometimes the poem lives,
pouring out of its own accord.
Sometimes it lays sleeping,
it loses shape when resting
and cannot be awoken
until it lays flat on the page.
So, you have to pull it out slowly,
It’s extremely flexible
like imaginary plasticine.
You give back to it shape,
stare at it briefly,
a wonderful polished pebble of thought.
Then close the book,
open up the mind
and set off in search
of the next tiny treasure.
More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
They called me
Bent Key
as a child
as if this were
some kind of insult
Little did they
know how I could
open new doors.
The man next door
has a draconian law
anyone entering must take off his shoes, on his hanger on the outer
room is well hung a retinue of shoes
black, white, brown and yellow.
I’m still waiting
for a white pristine
invitation that never
arrives
I’m still looking
for a dress that’s
long been shredded
I’m still tapping
my foot waiting
for the music
but the orchestra
is out on a bender.