Jeff Thelen |
Ode to Kinkade
poetry mathmatically calculateddrifts unknowingly into
tempered ears
Bent jaggedly over empty paper
our machine-molded writer drips pretty words
from his sweat filled glands
untrained ears run swiftly
to caress the leaked grease
restlessly pouring from wealthy vats
"I just want to write what is in my head
straight onto the paper.
I want the world to see my thoughts and know
that they are mine.
Art is a chore."
4 comments
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Quiet like restful discretion
Quiet like restful discretionm'lady full of weak trivia
and the loose purse strings plead promises
with dawdling words and greasy chips
scullery maids rot on Cyprus
peeled potatoes and blood stained sheets
the amber green lighting hovers breathless
against "I'm sure"s and "It ain't 'alf swank"
they settle on hussy tips and fancy falls
chat business buzz, gulled mates, and known saints
what's more the venician washer donna
scrubbing rudeness from dear impatience
stiff formalities playing roman order
flowing with careful wine and thankful sneakers
rotten tempers are recognized by sight
and the spilt vinegar hollow out an old womb
but the detest of a stingy maid is devoted to earn a living
now then, to our health
mending husbands and tearing the crotch holes
and all of us bleed'n laughter at the expense
of pigs asking about size
the daft wine is of no matter
and falsely slashed throats provide
no goat cheese by their word of honor
death's laughter is hushed by Adam and Eve's beatings.
1 comments
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
What happened to us
"Rather than ask is it interesting, one might better ask 'is it truthful?'"-Keri Smith (about writing)-
We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?" Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?
-John Keating (Dead Poets Society)-
you're no picnic, all right? You're a spoiled little brat, even, but under that, you're the most amazingly, astounding, wonderful girl, woman that I've ever known... I'm not an idiot, I know how the world works. I've got ten bucks in my pocket, I have nothing to offer you and I know that. I understand. But I'm too involved now. You jump, I jump remember? I can't turn away without knowing you'll be all right... That's all I want.
-Jack to Rose (Titanic)-
0 comments
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Ponytail Parades
"Three sleepless nights,this isn't how its supposed to be.
But you are so good at
taking your time to get back to me.
I will wait for you forever,
if you would just ask me.
I thought that I could change you
but you changed me.
But it doesn't feel right,
holding someone else's hand.
Together on phone line,
and living at two opposite ends.
It scares me to think,
that you could find takers other than me
and better than me.
But you're head is elsewhere,
and I’m talking enough for both of us.
When will you see it's not (it’s not) so easy for me
you’re careless, and whispered, insulting, and bruising.
And I thought that you said
things were improving.
These laces are untied,
but my feet are still walking away.
(I fall from you eyes, your eyes I trusted, you said forever)
I never thought that you could say these words.
Is this really happening?
I never thought that you could say these words.
(Don't say...)
Is this really happening?
I never thought that you could say these words.
(Don't say that we can...)
Is this really happening?
I never thought that you could say these words.
(Don't say that we can still be...)
Is this really happening?
I never thought that you could say these words.
Is this really happening?
(Don't say that we can still be friends)
Erase my name from this page.
How can you take all these days
(What is inside of me what have I done?)
and throw them away
(Is this the only way that you will notice me?)
as I sit here waiting for you (for you)
(Dead words for closed ears all this is sung for you)
I stay up nights
(If you are still pretending this is what's right)
until stars leave the sky
(Why cant you look at me can you only see?)
knowing what my dreams can take away
(Sides, your side, can take away)
Walk away from me.
This night is done."
by Emery (.mp3, 6.4Mb)
for Patric
1 comments
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Look
Look at life please for lifenot some
career driven
people pleasing
money making
baby producing
beer drinking
waste of an existence
life is a noun yes
to live it requires a verb
it requires action
uninhibited action
meaningful action
a get-off-your-second-hand-leather-couch
turn-off-your-blabbering-boob-tube
step-outside-and-look-at-the-lush-trees-grow
kind of action
without thought
without worry
without looking around and taking into account
the programmed subordinates
pointing
and questioning
and spewing out nothing words
full of terrible hurt and verbal pain
trees grow slow
yes... But have you seen it
0 comments
Monday, February 13, 2006
Glorious Adjectives and Monstrous Adverbs
cleverly written upon the back of a ketchup stained napkinmelancholy imagery eerily shakes the rigid minds
of those fearless executives
as they loudly slurp their watered-down coffee
and the angst filled punks
sit silently staring
at the giant maple trees
as they tumble vigorously to the ground
and the slurping is unavoidably heard
above the boisterous crash of nature's old friend
and the innocent napkin is burned
4 comments
Friday, November 11, 2005
Banquet
Mom's specialCrepes on Saturday
For breakfast
The dessert of kings
My siblings
And I
Sit on our thrones
Around the kitchen table
Immersed in our golden plates
Full of freash sourcream
And newly picked strawberries
And the finest powdered sugar
No conversation
Just wind
Echoing across the great hall
When the meal ends
An uproar of applause
Breaks the silence
To honor
The Cook
Then we return to our lives
As peasants
On a special
Saturday morning
0 comments
Friday, November 04, 2005
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