simple fairy tale samba

May 7, 2008 at 7:54 pm | Posted in poetry, prosepoemthingy, writing | 15 Comments
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(subtitle (outrageous, who subtitles anything these days):

    Hunger Ocassionally Makes Fools Of Us All, Tigger

It is as if the world contains a soft buzz and then the sudden and spontaneous joy of you unfolding grander than a grand piano, an entire orchestra playing the sweetest chord the flute purring the perfect line of melody over your hips and through the scent of your hair and in that single curve every ideal of beauty embodied) a still warm and alive creature whitch responds to touch in the tiniest detaillliteral electricity beneath your glowing skin and hairs rise and come alive and tickle and twitches his whiskers, hmm something alive this way comes through the dark jungle skipping red and joyous in her youth and unexpended energy, i shall become no more than a helpless old crone in a single bed and i will only bear my fangs after it has become impossible for her to resist and she offers me her throat,


somebodyelse’s fault,

April 9, 2008 at 7:31 pm | Posted in music, poetry, prosepoemthingy, writing | 9 Comments
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beautiful big fat Hammond organ with rotating speakers driven by literal electric motors not some adolescent electronic warble, the bass drum you know is actually kicked in,
even Mamu on bass would flirt with a halfsmile as his huge hands conjure that thrum
somewhere between the resonance of the drum and the mad right hand doodlings
of some manicstrange and loopy cat, is that Monk’s mad hat and shuffle?
Ray Manzarek, perhaps, and when the still sea conspires in armour,

yayayaya, Monk does his dance in this clip, (when the still sea…is a quote from a Doors thingy)
now, where is she,

a poacher angling with fettered lure,

April 2, 2008 at 6:31 pm | Posted in prosepoemthingy, writing | 10 Comments
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the butterfly, of course, in repose her wings held discretely together and aloft
splendid only in vibrant and transitory flight
perhaps balance has become too much of a word and less of a thought
perhaps sanity overrated,

somethings pass silent into the night while others in song are taking flight,

but if it was for me, a little more overt perhaps, each detail exposed beneath a lurid invading sun in some coarse and open field somewhere,

not such a subtle shuffle,

March 26, 2008 at 6:13 pm | Posted in prosepoemthingy, writing | 15 Comments
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Welcome, he said, putting his arm around my shoulders, to the first Cambooya Crafts and Arts fair. See if you can spot the difference. Here is a roughhewn piece of whale bone upon which some stubby fingered sailor has carved a poor portrait of an anonymous Polynesian dancing girl and his hand has slipped, here, see this dark stain, the probable result. And here, carefully crafted, the complete works of Oscar Wilde. Which of these men was more honest?

Oh leave him alone, old man, she said cackling with an air of wild inspiracy. Come with me, he will only have you working. He’s all about utility and the hows and wherefores. I have both the Dali deck and the Crowley. I will raise a future for you, shuffle them together.

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