Hello all, this is my first blog entry (I'm, lol, quite late on "the scene"); I guess I'll start with poems:
Bewitched by pretty letters lying to the populace.
This situation would be more under control were there a Situationist on the scene.
We're all under a billboard on the Sunset Strip.
The smog is chic.
Snakes in the hills shed skins and she buys a bag.
Drinking from wine-skins is long overdue as a bar trend.
The air by the door to the club is electric.
They joke about how much they like spooning.
A scholar with a nose for coke chuckles at the nasals in Navajo.
Boys blather on the radio.
Popular music is not like bands of static.
Black and blue are the in colors this season.
I wish it's my milieu which I've been writing!
Rocks are arranged intp the garden of the new Elizabeth Arden.
A couple drinks Elysian tea.
Someone swallows a Tetracycline.
Sartorial I joshes with authorial You till oops a crashed BMW.
Bob Marley won't go out of style for a while if ever as far as humans are concerned.
Time is fickle but to call it so is also a joke as what could be more constant?
I heard through
Won't be mine.
Fading faster than the loveliness of a cut flower is the beauty of a Mahimahi's scales.
Often when discontent swells and swells instead of exploding it deflates.
Sincere flattery is like honey drizzles one's hearing.
Our listening is as prickling to blood-spores not the sheer-clear of serum.
Listening lacquers and as a result no-one hears anything.
Agapanthus lining the drive to the Governor's mansion stream in a storm.
I heard a
Baby looks just
like the infant Goethe
Wailing in the
Ear-pain of its flight.
A happening club in Rio must be tres terrific but right now I'm not up for it.
At the Lebanese restaurant on the corner they serve perfect Mojitos.
Has anyone ever made a coat out of penguin?
Tuxedos look best at the beach.
I heard through
My baby's mine.
Generic drugs compared to brand-name are not in a relation like faux Chanel to Cocolicious.
A man named karl smirks then grins.
I guess Robyn Schiff
Has already done fashion
She's done Worth!
My dream job
Oh if only
There were more
is to do runway's music
And cast shows.
I could never be a designer:
I'm not good at drawing
Nor cutting shapes nor
Draping nor folding.
How much do excellent condition Fortuny pleats cost?
Why am I writing about women's clothing when I'm a man?
Is writing is like cross0dressing a false analogy?
I love fashion though I myself groom and dress unimpressively or impressively badly.
I've been hearing through
The self-hate line
Is so far from fine.
Do I know better than anyone else how bad I am?
Does it matter who knows or is the importance that I am?
Does one have to be witnessed to be bad?
Does one have to be caught?
Does one have to be caught to become better?
Awareness and incriminating intertwine into no rescue line.
Notes on the poem above:
1--it's stemming a bit from Joshua Clover, whose poems I don't know well, tho do occasionally read
2--I'm, despite evidence to the contrary, not a fan (at-all) of line after line of end-stopped by periods
3--Do the enjambed interludes work?