Najnowsze prace:
Matthew Bass, 29 października 2012
Chicago In Dreams
took the 56 bus downtown
to a place once real,
or at least in imagination.
The flat windows and cold steel
that scraped against the winter sky
felt like human parking lots
hanging over the abandoned shoulders
of people running back and forth,
while the homeless sold newspapers
no one cared enough to read.
A city lived only in imaginations
by people without imaginations.
I talked to old friends along a dirty river
about nothing about a reoccurring past,
their names slowly forgotten, names whitewashed
into a tapestry of post-industrial bliss.
I followed an address to my childhood:
an empty void with escaping memories
blowing in the lake effect wind.
And when I awoke
I walked forward... because
there was no where else to go;
tears were not worth the trouble.
Matthew Bass, 15 października 2012
Reflections In Muses
Am I insane?
Blessed with trials
of unclean angels
perfected with imperfection,
mirrors of experience
reflected in a cracked iris.
The holy face that follows
comforts and watches over
with a holy smile radiating
in stark starry sleepless
pre-dawn mornings intertwined
in long walks to nowhere
from Yuma to the Middle East
with notebooks of noble philosophy
holding hard against supernova
storm clouds that sway blindly
into unknown fiery revelations.
Murdered with angry shotguns
on the brink of failed hope
as thousands and thousands of
trumpeted bugles scream down hills
in complete darkness one can only
discover in slippery black sand.
Slipping away on credit
in imagined Spanish avenues
that continue on until irrelevance
is no longer a petty comfort
to watch pretty girls
dance on giddy toes
refraining "This is how I am"
thinking about strategy, conquest
the science of sex, and
the next fix.
This is for you Priya Shah
This is for you John Caltagirone
This is for you John Bouse
because this life is not for
petty meaningless us, we
pointless chroniclers of
what we strive to be with
words destined to fade slowly
in the utter blankness
of pre-dawn mornings cursed
with the comfort of self-important
tarnished abstraction obssesed
with structure, form, and
stark raving expression.
Without you we are nothing.
Matthew Bass, 6 października 2012
Shadow Of A Tornado
Tornados form in the distance,
products of wild imaginations
on rolling highways. Wisps
of nipples barely swirling
from green clouds turning above
God´s country in opposite directions
with unspoken understanding that
the plains are there only in preparation
for gloomy sunlit Kansas desert doldrums,
and the people on this tapestry blanket
only do his bidding here.
Screaming yelling kicking
in the absolute silence of corn fields
connected by straight lines dashed arbitrarily
in the great empty vastness.
Interstates, highways, country roads
marked with letters numbers
and towns unmoved with the strings
of quaint dignified sleep
with something lost in the madness
of cities who have failed
in their search for the authentic.
Symbols, important things.
Eagles in the sky encompassing everything,
sometimes lifeless on the asphalt.
Vultures salivating above rotted corpses,
floating over South Dakota waterfalls
that have always been there.
The moons burning in infinite space
guiding us in the darkness
from Des Moines to Eldon.
Harvest moons eating the stars
like red giants,
high blue ones atop
the otherwise unknown
in search of the spontaneous
betrayed by great horizons.
Small wood houses standing upright
against dismissive winds running away east
past the decay of another time eyeballing
underneath shallow skin with gothic dignity.
Deep into the night the world turns slowly,
change is just euphemism for how quickly
tommmorrow chooses to forget and ignore.
Matthew Bass, 6 października 2012
The Death Of Poetry, The Death Of Me
Oh world! (blah). Poets! What have you become?
Directionless without Bréton´s authority
Obscure like early Rimbaud
museum pieces in the attic
trapped on this plane, marking revolutions
from bored jaded middle-classes.
Alone on a stage with Kevin McCameron
with no one to listen or
pass us by.
Western destruction imminent and passé.
It is only best to speak in love poems
sonnets, and prose of sweet rememberance.
The sun sears asphalt on stop-and-go traffic.
The heat smells not all different from colors
in crowds of faces too unhealthy and beaten
to see all the beautiful things just outside
their frames of mind; characters only spoken to
in old books and ideologies.
The Meaning of life:
To catch a glimpse of the waitress pretending not to notice
the table full of torn notebook pages during happy hour,
but you notice her
and she held your hand in meditations
that very morning.
To teeter on the edge of obscurity because not all hope
has yet been lost. The universe exists in infinite space.
The Bodhisvatta has a pleasant smile, straddling the body
like a dripping wet sweatty naked woman in a blanket,
the fourth dimension hidden by the other three
length height volume.
Poetry has done nothing for me.
War made me fast and violent,
bloodied my knuckes with blistering cigarette burns.
Death made me a man without dreams of
towering cities over lakes and rivers.
Spain made me human, fascinated by
unscripted lives that moved still with time
lacking purpose. Priya taught me love
risk and heartbreak. To love is always best,
To love unconditionally is always better.
God taught me to never give in to astonishment,
to understand what is directly in front, but
can never be seen.
Everything that has been written
or will be written has already been written.
Fear is control, Fearlessness is freedom
We are only theater, extras trying to remember
what it is that we´ve already heard.
Matthew Bass, 6 października 2012
Linger On
(You)
Sublime and calm,
pecking and cooing
at the unseen side of my brain.
A breathless hug pinning my body to the floor
asking me to come hard and let go this time;
sometimes it´s on the floor
sometimes it´s on the bed
sometimes it´s in a book of poetry.
I hope and dread but secretly wait
for you to tickle me with your soft syllables
to pull down my arms
and massage my lungs
until they fall on top
of my broken heart.
But
you
do
nothing
When you finish,
you just dance around in the air
hanging from a thread
with your damascus sword.
Blow me kisses on your tip toes
and say:
"It´s not time for that yet"
I almost walked away yesterday,
couldn´t quite cross the bridge!
Maybe I will today,
I hope.
Matthew Bass, 6 października 2012
Is It Too Much To Ask
Is it to much to ask for something more than
dopamine and ((pulsating)) cromatics
beating and shaking
against the walls
counting time
until
your middle-aged 2 A.M. destiny...
that never seems quite as good as it could be,
and you´re left singing karaoke to a wall
once your best years have passed you by
while everyone else gets drunk
fantasizing about
the fear of yielding to other´s desires
and you´re ass.
Is it too much to ask for a little true love?
Romance isn´t dead, but your bleached hair
and fake tan are; standing helpless in the cross-rhythm
of your insecure shoulders, just so you can complain
about something else. A rook in the relentless assault
to commodify one of the last few things
not ripped from our chests without anstesia just yet.
I will not forget how to dance on thin membranes of air
lifted by the scent of chivalry
because not all is sucked out by:
text speak and faux-paux dispositions stuck to listas
and empty stares batting themselves to death
looking for open doors to E-Classes and X5´s
with drinks full of secret ingredients.
Is it too much to ask for something beautiful
that goes a little deeper than damaged flesh
hung out to dry on glossy meat hooks?
To care about something more tangible you obviously
could never care enough to try an understand?
Matthew Bass, 6 października 2012
I am (not) Alone Today
I am alone today,
Alone in a cobweb
with friends clamoring
from the kitchen to the porch.
Alone in the jokes bouncing off antique windows,
alone in my own smiles and laughs, and an ominous feeling
I share with no one. I am anonymous;
as a face in a dark pub
comforting itself
with feigned ignorance,
much like the night before.
Did I fall asleep? Does it matter? Do I care?
It's said:
Time heals, everything arrives at a rightful place.
I know that already, it's hell.
Yet I hope
I want to hope
I need to hope,
if only day to day.
I could write you, express my love in abstractions
though you would not answer back, even if you want to.
I feel your graceful movements
as real as they always are,
then you kiss me in the awkward moment, and kiss me again.
I say stop, shutdown,
clean off the beer cans
stacked on the glass table
and you put your arms around me
just before I fall into you
on a white leather couch
because,
I can only hold on from afar,
Matthew Bass, 7 czerwca 2012
Drunk On A Park Bench
I will sit here.
Drink another beer
smoke another cigarette,
alone. And contemplate
nothing.
Meanwhile,
Drunk Punk Mike stands on his corner
with his white witch wife
talking about 1977
when
people were alive.
Larribe the hippie
drinks mint tea in the Jewish Quarter of Tangier
talking about Katherine Hepburn and The Rolling Stones.
The whore in Singapore I got drunk with
who admonished me for feeling so so sorry for myself
still sits there with her teenage face
talking of beautiful things.
and
I will become this bench
punctured with splinter wounds,
watch man descend into chaos
hoping for the rise of woman
with a Teak smile.
Then decompose like stagnant driftwood.
Matthew Bass, 7 czerwca 2012
Only To You
I promise I will
smash unplane mirrors,
let the stars align
like all the times before
with riddles cased in midieval stone
and shared cups of tea
as we fall into Saturn´s embrace
without ever saying a word.
Matthew Bass, 6 czerwca 2012
I Promise I won´t Call You
The color of your eyes
is as lost as your name.
I refuse
to look.
The warmth of your arms
does not make the bedroom
feel any less cold.
Before you spoon me
just know...
I´d rather not hurt you
tommorrow.
Matthew Bass, 6 czerwca 2012
Alone In A Train Station
I fell into the concrete
when you turned your head
at a harsh inward angle,
and replied
without passion.
I imploded
into a cubist painting
when I saw your hand
move toward mine,
until you became aware
and pulled it back
into your abdomen.
In that moment I died...
but not really.
I screamed!
"I love you"
"I love you"
"I love you"
too loud
for you
to ever
hear.
...in that moment
I saw the train
leave the station
with you on it, and
I knew I did not ever
really love you.
Matthew Bass, 6 czerwca 2012
Machine Gun Victims
The intersection
of a third world market:
An insurgent, and old man
a woman, or a child
broken under dawn;
sloppy pools of
bone and flesh.
What they never saw
will never see again
under the terrible
orange sun.
And the machine guns
continue to laugh
day after day
year after year,
like background noise.
Matthew Bass, 4 czerwca 2012
Jorge´s Machete: Revisited
His rusty Machete gleams in the moonlight
over the scared scrawny head of Daniel
painting pictures of drunk tourists
and old buildings on the stone-lettered streets,
he is Jorge
and he has a machete, but he also has
a thick scarred Cuban accent.
Pablo, dirty and unwashed: watches with exitement
the pretty girls tripping over their heels
because even he knows those vulgar pick-up lines
are more charming on Fridays than on Mondays, next
to Gustavo chain-smoking like a stinking addict one cigarette
after the other between alien yellow fingertips. And
he complains like a man happy with unhappiness; about Spain,
about Argentina, about women, but never about the French.
A Danish boy who makes old ladies blush and sings newborns
to sleep, returns from Lavapies speaking in utopian tones
about French strawberry fields. Black women who endured
Rape in the Sahara to be raped by something worse
taunt English boys dazed by their own spinning stone-lettered heads amongst petty dealers in knock-off leather jackets.
I immersed, laugh at everyone
while the pretty Danish boy practices Bob Dylan poses
in the reflection of a water puddle, and the Chinese work harder
under the noses of the Conspicuous with back packs full of beer.
Soon though, this will pass and dawn will awaken cold reality scattering us as old ladies take in the laundry and humanity
moves on with drowsy hangovers. Our pockets will be empty.
"Go back from whence we came"
Come morning doors will only be locked when we
need a place to sleep. "They will not have the answers we seek".
and
"El Dorado is only a mirage of the Sun´s rays".
Matthew Bass, 4 czerwca 2012
Stagnant Water Blues
The first drag sends you to space
in the fog of cherry red light bulbs
inside large windows of the meat market.
Like a child, beckoned by the perfume
of window taps: imagining what each one
will feel like when you penetrate them
as you count your money.
After she kisses you good-bye
you´ll fall into the stagnant water
of a dirty canal that rusts
white row boats bottom up,
and for the first time you open
your eyes wide closed.
The second drag hugs you
with gabled arms. Its
so hard! to speak when
your abdomen vibrates
and your throat burns
more and more and-
more. Every breath
a waterfall.
The third drag is a tall dark bartender
who expects a pick-up line you´ll never give
as old men stop in for a morning pick-me-up.
The third drag reminds Englishmen
they once ruled the world
with their pants around their ankles
and hot dogs in their mouths,
as well as everyone else.
The fourth drag brings you back
to a cup of Morroccan tea underneath
an unknown blanket.
Matthew Bass, 22 maja 2012
Farewell Spain: Preamble To The Exit
Bright luminous yellow circles
line a street on a small Malasaña hill
and the light reflects off
uneven puddles in the cracks.
"Life is a painting without us in the way
finishing another guilt ridden cigarette",
without the wild laughs at jokes
that are not funny,
without the wild laughs at stories
that are not that interesting,
without the glasses of red wine
spinning from the head to the stomach.
Without the dread of returning to the corner of the bar
watching with an extra pair of eyes the nonsense
of self-absorbed stimulus monkeys
positioning for social status
sex, or to forget their unintentionally normal lives
decieved by all too obvious verbs:
I am
I want
I need
I have.
I dread the spectacled reruns
of lifeless tortured dependencies
valuing small reoccuring moments
marked by headaches and forgotten memories
that was the night before.
I have been pushed to the edge of sane insanity
by one too many matter of fact pieces of advice
into the arms of pure love that I cannot hold fast enough,
and light heart to the carry the burden on a pair of shoulders
that needs nothing more than a sturdy pack
and a good pair of walking shoes
to carry me from
acid trips in the mountiains
to
the sweat lodges and poetry clubs of St. Louis
to
the the streets of Manhattan.
To an old man who refuses to go quietly in this night
and to
the the God-like wisdom of a Five-year old.
Matthew Bass, 22 maja 2012
Cook County Juvenile detention center
The black and Brown kids locked in tiny pods
banged their fists and penises against the plexiglass
"I´m gonna get outta here
and rape yo whole family"
and the white stooges just called them animals
while they counted crisp bills to be spent
on county board meetings in Hawaii,
and those poor kids wasted
in a catch-22 without knowing
nor caring to understand
the horrible game
they´d been forced to play
pretending not to think
about their 16th birthdays.
Sometimes rumors would filter back
"so and so was raped"
"so and so is in the hospital"
"so and so is gettin off cos evidence
is circumstantial"
Most never left their blocks,
trains through other hoods
were gauntlets
and
there were 12 hour days on the corner.
They were handed pieces with promises
that a couple years in juvi
"wad´nt shit";
14 year olds don´t get tried
as adults.
Close to their 16th Birthdays
they now scream like animals
pretending not to think about
what happens to boys to young to shave,
and how many cigarettes a human being is worth.
Matthew Bass, 22 maja 2012
What No Longer Haunts Me
What no longer haunts me are:
the shrills of munitions
dropped onto a suspecting city
night after night, cold defilades
on a desolate highway, and
the smell of rotten air.
What no longer haunts me are:
the caved skulls of mother´s sons
no different from me, and the dead
torn apart in the pink mist
they never asked for.
What no longer haunts me are:
feelings beyond hate; emptiness,
because if we could not put a bullet
in someone´s head those pretty ribbons
meant nothing.
-That man passed away years sgo
the day he found the courage to politely say "no more"
and learned it is better to reach out your hand
and never let go.
Matthew Bass, 22 maja 2012
Inventing New Ways To Dance
I cannot help but be reminded of rising dawns
in the rythm of ridiculous dancing in the perpetual state of wonder
of 80´s pop music played on the English radio station.
The air is still abound with the pheromones emanating
from soft South-Asian skin in a surrogate home
that has long since moved on.
Perfect cheek bones smile better than others
who dare question the human condition
and perfect cheek bones shatter granite
with the upmost frailty against passive serfdom.
Zion is fucked, but not us for we do not play stupid games
that end up lost in trees because idiots spend too long
admiring the forest, and your slight Jersey accent
speaks louder than the so-called profound
who place their weight on your shoulders
I wish I could put on mine, though I can
barely breathe.
A crazy old poet reminded me
attachment is not love, so
I´m learning to love you
the way you need me to,
but attachment is sincere
and the farther I am from you
the more important you become.
Matthew Bass, 22 maja 2012
Thoughts On Nothing(Important) April 29 12:35 A:M
I woke up three days ago:
with thousands of-
-wristshaking words
that made nosense at! all
And the boat was going topside
with the water seeping through
the white-painted wood looking
blue and beautiful in the balmy sunrise
as the wine tasted better than usual.
,Humming
"I hope I don´t fall in love with you"
put a smile on my daydream, then
it
made
me
feel
stupid, with all of
the possibilities of falling in love
at first sight twice with you;
which is more realistic(and optimistic)
than most concepts said to be real
by so-called inquired minds.
I thought about the non-justifications
to justify the unjustifiable used to supress
curse words sex and pointing out the obvious
somewhere in the semantics that go into
self-degradation. I thought about the trials
that quickened my spirit on the open ocean
to blissful alienation.
The thousands of blank words still
stared back at me, but they didn´t
need to make sense anymore.
The boat was just a lucid metaphor
to drop the scull in the plunge forward
associated with the inability to live.
Matthew Bass, 24 marca 2012
On America
Just like my father
you are broken: the eggs
are melted, the scrambled ham
is rotten, and the steak
is mostly corn.
John Wayne died on the farm
seeing that everyone was
hanged by the judge,
his bravado drawing
a clear line in the East River
against the "injuns" in the sky.
Now, his cowboy hat and Colt .45
are trampled carictures
on the playground.
The purple fabric of your mountains
regally outsourced to oriental
shoddy workmanship chronically
bleeds in the acid rain,
eating at the decaying landscape of
crumbling bridges, communities
ravaged by renewal,and those
neatly rowed suburbs.
It competes for the love of Jesus
concealed in weapons permits
with the 2012 nativity/Santa-Rudolph The Reindeer
Light Show Extraveganza
for a spot on the list
behind Senators and Bankers.
God has given up
on the souls who call for him
the most, who plead
to make things right
but
even he knows
the message has been lost in translation.
Fight! you great rabid eagle:
your life source, your men and women
abandon you in search of the American Dream
that have fallen like grains of sand
on your majestic beaches through
loopholes twisted in supply-side slippery slopes,
refusing to let go like an abusive preacher
late on a mortgage payment,
insiting that he will not unfasten his hands from the neck
out of pure love for the wool of his flock.
For
we are numb and cannot afford
shiny obesity.
Matthew Bass, 24 marca 2012
11:20 P.M
Paths to love-Devotion;
the only way to cleanse
my thoughts: through you,
even in rooms
designed for Tai-Chi.
On a dark path
with yellow street lamps
swimming in dark-blue
impressionist hues
on a pre-spring night.
The only way home-
Through you.
The secret to flight:
to deliriously float
from street lamp to street lamp-
Is only through you.
You are kinetic energy
nibbling my eardrum.
Yet, I am sadly
only full of potential
on a blue-hued path.
Matthew Bass, 24 marca 2012
Thoughts On Love : March 21 2012
Increase The Pressure-Conflict
"Fuck´em up, Fuck´em up, Fuck´em up"
coming out of the stereo like a machine gun
no army, no police officer, no systematic hegemony
can stop us if we have the audacity to live.
The truest expressions
are the purest forms
without attachments
forced upon us
by others.
-freedom
I tried to picture myself
out of love this morning,
And I couldn´t! I really
do care about you so much.
Singular moments:
a tightly held hand
a kiss
a warm embrace
each just as powerful
as the last, leading
up to a crescendo
that has meaning
only in the now
no petty status
could ever describe.
-Purity
In the bar I write poetry in
the waitress already knows what I want
as I open a notebook blessed with
the scars of life "Café Americano"
she say in a husky Latin american accent,
and you are in the notebook shielded
from the crap that has no purpose
while fragile me claws for
fresh air to breathe.
I like sounding like a bad movie.
I will not lose my sense of wonder.
I only care just enough; that is too much.
I cannot defend myself against
what other expect from me
nor can I learn to stop dreaming,
to love
to share
to grow
to act without regard
is the ultimate form of protest.
-Independence
You´ve said I am your release...
You are mine, so let us not worry
and just be.
Matthew Bass, 24 marca 2012
Nomad
I walk alone along streets full of people
who attempt smiles for brief moments,
before a man in uniform nudges them
back on the circular race of deadlines
consumption, and unfettered wants.
They peek into my book of anarchist poetry
in horror suprise and curiosity
in language they do not understand,
moving forward in shielded bliss.
Me. A ghost tip-toeing down the skirmish line
one foot in the orchestra of absurdity
honking beeping yelling falling slamming
chattering in the symphony of decline tumbling
down artificially expired peaks;
the other foot in utopia.
-
Cities can be terrible places.
Where people choke on their own dust
to keep their head above the smog line.
The polluted watch helplessly as their
self-worth wastes away like fluid trends
in the breeze, ignoring those in shame
who ask for a little, while fighting like dogs
for a little more.
Farms can be terrible places.
Deserts of corn spreading past the sky
beaten down by a hot dry sun
for scraps bathed in pesticides.
The screams of animals
diseased and slaughtered unmercifully
for rich men with throaty laughs.
-
The once great ones,
who despite their serfdom
maintain lost pride, die of cancer
feasting upon their muscles
of malnourished hearts
coming to terms
with the need
to break free.
Matthew Bass, 24 marca 2012
Thoughts On Awareness March 26 2012 6:34 P.M
?
The perfect Café Americano
requires two packets of sugar
and at Morrigan Irish Tavern
in Madrid you recieve a complimentary
after coffee chocalate.
If you drink two cups
your head begins to spin
but you recieve another
piece of chocolate.
I.
Uncertainty flows from the wrist
"I know she loves me"
thats
why
this
hurts so much.
I like us.
I like what we have.
I love her.
II.
Growing up and giving up
are not the same, though
they are confused
with one another.
To look down-To lose balance
To look left-Don´t look left
To look right- To do what is right and lose your balance
Patlologies are Pathologies
People are driven by cars
to work for cheap paper
to buy houses that are too big.
There are many ways to be a whore.
Capitalists die at 30.
Communists starve from idealology.
Alcohol and Tobacco will kill Young Urban Professionals.
I.
It´s okay to be confused
about the important things sometimes.
The people who care understand that
and don´t overthink everything
and don´t waste shower water;
feed Pigeons instead
in a place with trees.
*After you have read this treat yourself with a piece of chocolate.
Matthew Bass, 10 marca 2012
Flash Flood
The muscles tighten
The chest protrudes
The shoulders broaden
The endorphins
fly
spin
race
absorb
shake
blow-up
r i p a p a r t
stream
run
absorb:
brighter, higher, amplified
like the 4th of July
moving to one heartbeat increasing, Increasing, Increasing!
to
a climax
choking happily on drunk-red fleshy spots
steady drumbeats moving with steam whistles
pushed down a mountain like a free falling object
momentum
momentum
momentum
momentum
momentum
quicker
quicker quicker
quicker quicker quicker
quicker quicker quicker quicker
quicker quicker quicker quicker quicker
making toes curl in the imagination
ruptured by the blink-
Matthew Bass, 10 marca 2012
La Arcángela
I lived
drank
and wasted away,
without ever knowing
from one day to the next
before the one after that.
Many nights(years later)
you were in front of me
with a red dress. So real
I could touch you. So I did!
Then I held you, kissed you
and fell to earth.
I no longer live for today
but for tommorrow, then
the day after that without
knowing what today is, nor caring.
Matthew Bass, 10 marca 2012
Hurt Feelings Aside,
stupid audiences are no worse than
boring poets,boring musicians, boring artists
boring philosophers.
If the world is a stage,
the audience: (you) amoral nymphs
gorging off the sangría
pouring out of my wrists.
I am a prostitiute.
We´ll clank our glasses together
and taste smooth full-bodied delusion,
lay the cornerstone the next eleven steps
are bulit upon.
Eternal life Moral enlightenmnet
all crocks one in the same,
but you will still fade away
like blood thirsty citizens
swayed to and fro with the prose
of sweet idiots like me.
I am no vanguard
nor should you pat yourselves on the back
but digress
I,
because
that cute guy in the corner checking you out
is really saying
"She have wide hips, she give many babies".
that cute girl smiliing and tussling her hair
is really saying
"He have broad shoulders, he hunt many antelope".
and
all I really want is a spear to kill things with,
marking my territory on the walls with out
getting arrested, scratch my balls in public,
naked like pre-historic man.
and
six months from now you will love this poem
on a different night, in a different bar, no different from this
swathing into another more pretentious than the next
cursed by sirens singing on the rocks
about cusps, futures, selfish revolutions
taking vacations to the margins
with that so typical
Wicker Park mentality.
Matthew Bass, 8 marca 2012
Poetry On A Bus: March 8th 2012 Repeated
Why do you revile!
this book of poetry
I read?
Why do your stubby
fingers shake! with
anger?
Why does your upper lip quiver?
as your blood pressure
rises! Spatially imprisoned,
conditioned to beleive
beauty is useless and unproductive.
Can´t you understand! Your
ugliness is as beautiful as
this book of poetry I read
you so revile.
I am, you are
citizens of a black mass
on Gray´s gray line
from infinity to infinity
Like Bus Stops on the circular
getting on at one stop
getting off at another,
while the bus travels on
full of Abuelas yelling:
Puerta! Puerta! Puerta!
when the driver refuses
to move slow enough
for their bones.
History has gotten over you.
The next generation has gotten over you.
Someday, I will get over you.
But, will you one day get over you.
Idolatry comes in subtle forms
and consumerism is not the engine,
but you, you alone, are stupid enough
to believe the Bus Stops begin and end
with tri-corner mythology.
I was once your Marine-Hero
burning, raping, pillaging,
killing; feeding the grass
the blood that makes it grow.
Carried those stereotypes
proudly upon my chest
above and left of my heart
you lap up like a dog
in those thoughtless
box-movie theaters.
Like all good Marines I
called myself a christian,
though I probably wasn´t.
And all good christians
called me christian
because
a scourge called Islam was upon us,
burning, raping, pillaging
killing; not so different
from us.
And God would forgive me
for the seventeen-year old asian Girls
I wore through like second-hand clothes,
though they fall in love and feel
their hearts break much like us.
I could drink a case of beer, run
up recon ridge then tell you to
"Shut The Fuck" with the best,
but
tonight I´d rather drink tea
and read the book of poetry
you so revile! The endless
rounds of cheap beer become
harder to recover from the
closer I push thirty, and
Wednesday´s are for Yoga.
You will always be welcome
on my property, after all
we are a society and communism
has been dead for twenty years.
I´ve seen it´s obituary!
I´ve seen it´s headstone!
I´ve seen it´s occupied
burial plot. You can stop
and take a punjabi breath
alone, together, indifferent
with one another on the same gray line.
Matthew Bass, 4 marca 2012
Prose: Madness Personified
The years have begun
to pass with seasons
watching winter slowly
squeezed out by the sun belt
inching north, to where
frosts no longer sing
the dreary melody whistled
in the februrary chill. And
death in all of it´s tricky forms
from; the pointless slaughter
wasting, agonizing away
in a broken system: The
over dramatic shakesperian like
fall from grace by those
with fat ears who see the world
short sighted; and do not understand
the remnant who will not except
table scraps like hungry, obedient dogs.
Priya,
the first kiss on the 9th of September
is as real as the last kiss on the 16th of December
as real as the next kiss I impatiently anticipate.
I am not mad nor never was, but this weight
on my heart becomes to much sometimes
to concentrate on the next foot in front of me
when the horizon looks so beautiful over our ocean.
I understand more than you think, though I lose myself in
the dribble rolling of my sleeve I am irrecoverably attached to,
chained to this mountain like Prometheus above the first circle
of Dante´s Inferno, for it is worth the fire burning inside you.
Your hand clenches mine tighter and tighter
not in front of me, not behind me, but next to me,
an extension of my right arm. I lose myself in you as I
lose myself in the words of O´Hara, Ashbery, Kock and Shuyler,
words that call me to my mecca(New York).
I have always dreamed of you; on the playground
seeing cruel children choose sides until only one is left;
all the times I felt the salt sting open sores
like car exhaust on bloody knees; in the rotten desert
with a sword that hung over my hemet with piano wire when
I promised to loosen my finger from the trigger; you always
breathing on my shoulder. You pulled me from
the colf lake effect wind and 4 years later my eyes laid upon you
for the first time in front of a castle I now consider ours.
My Words, poetry from a recess
neither google nor facebook can spoil
the prose I express only to you
because,
to hurt
to love
to care
to yell
to share
to fight
to understand
to have compassion
to have symapthy
to dare
to dream
to take the path left of two roads
diverged in a wood
is to win.
Matthew Bass, 1 marca 2012
Blanket
STOP
TELLING
ME HOWStructures
are TO
strAight jackets
with
can you[not] flower
SCREAM AND YELL
lace.
think?
Ostatnie komentarze:
16 maja 2024
violetta
Może w lipcu będę miała takie wakacje:)
16 maja 2024
jeśli tylko
słońce w płynie..
15 maja 2024
Weronika
Za jeszcze jeden rejs!
14 maja 2024
Mam takie oko :)
14 maja 2024
Jaga
Zwierzęta upodobniły się do koloru otoczenia
14 maja 2024
To naturalny suchy i pustynny klimat. I tam są
14 maja 2024
Klimat taki, że nie był i raczej nie będzie,
12 maja 2024
Melancthe
Kajzerki są przereklamowane ;)
11 maja 2024
kb
wielki wypas - był albo może będzie. kto wie...
11 maja 2024
sama prawda z tym myśleniem i psoceniem ale
11 maja 2024
zastanowiło mnie czy owe cenienie kajzerek wynika
11 maja 2024
skomponowane kolorystycznie..
16 maja 2024
violetta
16 maja 2024
Marek Gajowniczek
16 maja 2024
wiesiek
15 maja 2024
wiesiek
15 maja 2024
Jaga
14 maja 2024
violetta
14 maja 2024
Misiek
14 maja 2024
Arsis
14 maja 2024
Marek Gajowniczek
13 maja 2024
Arsis