…for the Today Poet Video im looking some brave woman and men…
On top of a pineapple.
on top of a bed of pineapple
the sound of your voice is hidden
in the deserts, in the crowns of pine trees, at the bottom of Dragon Lakes, hearts scalped
into whose scales
the sun casts a glaring shadow,
I am miserable and naked every morning
in his attempt to conquer the mountain of mercy
yet when i fall down
into the arms of You and the Dragon's Mouth,
on top of a pineapple,
puzzle of You,
the most beautiful puzzle.
So I'm open to ANYONE who sends to my mail firstname.lastname@example.org any part of the poem, just word,verse,all poem, anything, in ANY language, loaded in their own voice, recorded by anything , PC,notebook,phone, will be used in today's Poet Video, with the name and link to their page, the deadline is 12.00 today.
If You like and be a part of this, YOU ARE WELCOME.
A lot of courage to everyone.
jsi má Ifigenie z Tauridy,
vítr který tě odnesl měl podobu jazzového saxofonu, telefonu,
jsi má paní vstupující bez vyzvání,
se slunce východem,
sonáta spadlá do bláta,
venku je nádherný den a krvácím , jen tam mimochodem,
tajné znamení a posunky,
kam jdem ,
kam to jdem ,
možná to tak má být,
všechno je příběh,
you have Ifigenia from Taurida,
the wind that took you in the form of a jazz saxophone, a telephone,
you are my lady entering without invitation,
over and over again
with the sun rising,
sonata fell into the mud,
it's a beautiful day outside and I'm bleeding, just by the way,
from the sky,
secret signs and gestures,
where are we going ,
where are we going
where are we going,
you are silent
maybe it should be,
everything is a story,
Karta Crowleyho Tarotu na publikaci čtvrtečních slov pro Tebe je
,,Ctím vše, co má hlubší význam a smysl. Tam, kde je to pro mne důležité, nikdy neustupuji.“
Where whales die.
...where is the place
where the gray weight drops to the depths,
and disappears in
-Leave the three fairies alone, leave them.-
...an unhappy sailor takes off his shirt,
he mutters under
British slang -
Dolls with mouths full of sodium morphate, blond phantoms,
Sirap Sirap Sirap...-
You hold a mirror in the depths of the Marian Trench and look into it,
Pískání pochází ze zvukového Archivu BBC, volně použitelné, pro neziskové účely, tedy je opravdu ,,BRITSKÉ"
recited by heart from my tearing memory...for You :
,,my eyes gnaw,
You step into my dream
You include me with sweets,
how the pale blue velvet of the Night covers the dying"
Dinner at Minski´s.
She put her hand under the table on my thigh,
still looking in front of her, talking to someone opposite,
I didn't know him.
the burnt meat of an Ethiopian tiger on plates,
we both observe ourselves in the attitude of Aphrodite,
We watch the sweet asses are presented to the golden rain
I will use seven or eight tablespoons
servants bring on polished trays swallowing in Italian.
She put her hand under the top floor narrowing it down,
it was a penguin's claw slowly sliding it inside,
a salivating search inside the chest pressed against the lungs
She ran over the ribs, the grooves of her spine
it vibrated between a fan of air bubbles
there was nothing
suddenly, buch buch buch
not mine came up in the sky,
emerged from a hole in the moon from the veins of blood spewing blood,
stripes of earth in shades of steamed sweater
the clay grave is an indifferent time around
it just fails,
pieces of green flag torn in the morning
walled together in a narrow dream of exorcising the devil
Minski is coming.
Opens his mouth bites pieces of torso ,
asks what it is time ?
impersonal connection caress leaning against the metal wall of the toilet
She withdrew her soaked hand I opened my mouth
let everything be scanned,
that real sorrow deep down when it then rushes to the surface tears you to pieces,
feast of worms in the endless footsteps of the goddess of war,
the squeal of little pigs somewhere in the distance
under the sky obsessed with the farting of thunder.
And she covered my eyes with the same palm,
I was just another run
for dinner at Minski´s.
/from ,,Dinner at Minski´s and other poems ", 2016/
Banal poetic junk known since the 19th century.
/To Milan K./
In the raunchy neighborhood of Edo
the sound of wooden sandals
crosses a stone bridge.
she has a light canopy of sorrow draped over them.
The title of the poem is from prof. Milan Knížák, Milan Knížák – Wikipedie (wikipedia.org) years ago he gave me a nice slap in his words, I needed her, thanks. Thanks for You time. These are his words:
„You use banal poetic junk known since the 19th century.“
Time …. a word.
Thank you ….words . But sincerely.
And after Your criticism, I wrote this poem…maybe special haiku.
Try to capture feelings. …..How does a sales woman feel?
Doporučuji první poslech VE SLUCHÁTKÁCH. Ideálně přitom zavřít oči.
I recommend first listening IN HEADPHONES. Ideally close your eyes.
I'm looking for Veronica Lake.
I will crush a thin one hundred and fifty-one inches in my arms,
even though I don't really know Her, I'm looking for Her.
In the back alleys full of paper bags from cheap alcohol,
in the trunks of abandoned cars,
cars squirting at night,
in incinerators full of flesh of Ethiopian tiger meat,
in the middle of pine forests.
The last path leads over the ridge,
through that rattling pile of bones.
I'm looking for Veronica Lake,
sometimes it's better
when it's like this.