Thought on the Peak
Goulet
Posts: 918
If it has no consequence
and the diary pages of every journal
or every notebook
or every mind-state
aren't too chalk-full of already-been-used words,
I think it's important to listen to the way the words sound
and the way the sentence structure
rolls off the tongue
and the direction in which I go or you go
or we all go.
Even to begin by telling a Tall Tale
or some-kind-of dream-nightmare story
seems a little repetitive,
and of course to ruminate about lost love
or found love
or lust
also seems very cliché,
even if to be cliché is to be real.
But I would like to start by saying that my hands are cold
and they ache and creak,
but my fingernails are trimmed,
and my cuticles are pushed back to the brink of beauty,
but I’m not so sure what I'm supposed to do
or what you think I'm supposed to do
or what we're supposed to do.
I realize that in the long run this all may seem like a good idea,
but really it was just about pretty eyes
and sexy lips
and a song that made me smile and you laugh.
So I can dream about sitting in a fetal position
or a lotus position
in the nook of an old evergreen tree
and my ears ebb the oceans
and my eyes twitch and operate on the moon's splitting head,
and my feet nudge and squirm and touch my hands,
and in the dream-state and mind-state
that I occupy at that moment
I feel loose and stringy
and tight and pulled in several directions,
I am a Harpsichord,
I am a Feather Bed.
What if we're all great people,
but we're all so different that it doesn't matter
because your greatness is pitiful to me
and my greatness is cliché and tired
and pathetic and whiny to you.
After you held me in your arms that night
and asked me simple questions
about death and life
and afterlife
and gods and goddesses
and all the philosophers, that I knew about
and you knew about,
I wanted to tell you about my dreams,
about the ones with the Grand Dinosaurs
and the feeble, deaf telephones
and buildings that reached the sky
and how I could jump off them and fall and fall and fall
and you would get lost inside my stories
and maybe want to make love to me
or fall in love with me
or at least kiss me.
In your bed I sleep on the left
and I seem to think that makes me someone special in your life,
someone much more then the best lover ever
or the best looking lover
or the longest lasting lover
or the most intelligent lover,
maybe I could be your rhinoceros horn
or your belly button cord
or the bee that stung you in your eye.
Its just like meditating
when I'm with you,
and life is just waiting for death,
and sleep is just dreaming about dying
during a long journey,
and words move in and out of mouths
and in and out of pens and pencils,
but I can't quite find the right ones.
and the diary pages of every journal
or every notebook
or every mind-state
aren't too chalk-full of already-been-used words,
I think it's important to listen to the way the words sound
and the way the sentence structure
rolls off the tongue
and the direction in which I go or you go
or we all go.
Even to begin by telling a Tall Tale
or some-kind-of dream-nightmare story
seems a little repetitive,
and of course to ruminate about lost love
or found love
or lust
also seems very cliché,
even if to be cliché is to be real.
But I would like to start by saying that my hands are cold
and they ache and creak,
but my fingernails are trimmed,
and my cuticles are pushed back to the brink of beauty,
but I’m not so sure what I'm supposed to do
or what you think I'm supposed to do
or what we're supposed to do.
I realize that in the long run this all may seem like a good idea,
but really it was just about pretty eyes
and sexy lips
and a song that made me smile and you laugh.
So I can dream about sitting in a fetal position
or a lotus position
in the nook of an old evergreen tree
and my ears ebb the oceans
and my eyes twitch and operate on the moon's splitting head,
and my feet nudge and squirm and touch my hands,
and in the dream-state and mind-state
that I occupy at that moment
I feel loose and stringy
and tight and pulled in several directions,
I am a Harpsichord,
I am a Feather Bed.
What if we're all great people,
but we're all so different that it doesn't matter
because your greatness is pitiful to me
and my greatness is cliché and tired
and pathetic and whiny to you.
After you held me in your arms that night
and asked me simple questions
about death and life
and afterlife
and gods and goddesses
and all the philosophers, that I knew about
and you knew about,
I wanted to tell you about my dreams,
about the ones with the Grand Dinosaurs
and the feeble, deaf telephones
and buildings that reached the sky
and how I could jump off them and fall and fall and fall
and you would get lost inside my stories
and maybe want to make love to me
or fall in love with me
or at least kiss me.
In your bed I sleep on the left
and I seem to think that makes me someone special in your life,
someone much more then the best lover ever
or the best looking lover
or the longest lasting lover
or the most intelligent lover,
maybe I could be your rhinoceros horn
or your belly button cord
or the bee that stung you in your eye.
Its just like meditating
when I'm with you,
and life is just waiting for death,
and sleep is just dreaming about dying
during a long journey,
and words move in and out of mouths
and in and out of pens and pencils,
but I can't quite find the right ones.
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
and you're shadow boxing
while the clothes dry
and so much humming
in the world
it's difficult to hear
what the heart
is
saying....
god i love the seashorey dali scapes,
the dream aches
the word choices
and tactile feel of hands
and we're talking
and it seems to go on & on
but that's ok cuz it's rhythmic
and rhythm matters
most in a sea
of redundant
aches and kisses
and mostly i like it when your lines
tumble out of bed
and wake up somewhere in the middle of my elbows
and secondly
i like best the way you make me remember
pencils and eardrums and why i write poetry ~~~
Friday the 13th references: 0%
Awesomicity: 300%
heh, I guess you pass.
I couldn't compete with that. A++++++, my friend.
but my attention span is short
and i'm not so smart
but i do maybe live in a town called Crystal Lake
so i think that redeems me with at least one person
Just seeing you post again redeems all
"But I would like to start by saying that my hands are cold
and they ache and creak,
but my fingernails are trimmed,
and my cuticles are pushed back to the brink of beauty,
but I’m not so sure what I'm supposed to do
really it was just about pretty eyes
and sexy lips
and a song that made me smile and you laugh.
So I can dream about sitting in a fetal position
or a lotus position
in the nook of an old evergreen tree
and my ears ebb the oceans
and my eyes twitch and operate on the moon's splitting head,
and my feet nudge and squirm and touch my hands,
and [I'm] tight and pulled in several directions,
I am a Harpsichord,
I am a Feather Bed.
I wanted to tell you about my dreams,
about the ones with the Grand Dinosaurs
and the feeble, deaf telephones
and buildings that reached the sky
and how I could jump off them and fall and fall and fall
maybe I could be your rhinoceros horn
or your belly button cord
or the bee that stung you in your eye.
Words move in and out of mouths
and in and out of pens and pencils,
but I can't quite find the right ones. "
***
Again, these words are certainly the right ones!!
you did an excellent spin~~so eloquent and metapoetical***
I want to you edit everything that I ever write...
and
I don't like the word "Cliche' "
I think my poetry class last year killed that word,
Thank you Goulet I liked your piece ALOT!
"But I would like to start by saying that my hands are cold
and they ache and creak"
BLAME IT ON THE RAIN
TIGRESS
TIGRESS
TIGRESS
i smack my lips on you
you're a devil girl
GOOD CALL!!!!!
panama red siberian striped
relaxations to a drizzled moon
yowz
all ye lil devils shimmy up now
gonna cool smooth oceans
all through the night
of stars and cows and rainbows
dream-warped silhouettes
grooved
on rust
and sunshadows...
(whee) oops, it's not yet friday
get yr heapin spoonfuls of love etouffee
party on, yr royal loungekins goulet gold
This apparition of faces in a crowd:
Petals on the wet, black bough.
Sometimes, if you can condense even your best work down to one powerful couplet, you've created truly transcendent poetry.
didn't see you there....
thanks for the PMs! There were FIVE!!!!! That's how I like them...copious.:)
are you guys all dressed?
Jim Carrol
Good. I actually think I'm shit. But there you go.
No...I've really enjoyed the discussion, goulet. You ask the right questions. We are the BBC Radio 3 of the board: we are a recondite institution.