Archives for posts with tag: Love

Printeverything is a lie; what is a lie?
what can be excused; what must be forgotten?
when the blood is on your hands
the moment you say you’re innocent
do you blame, or just deny? proclaim
you’re just one of the misunderstood
raise an army to fall upon shame
conquer all that is love; what is love?

nothing is true; what is truth?
the stub of a toe; the stab of a broken heart?
when nothing could be further from the truth
do you stand behind it, walk all over it,
or just pretend it’s always been that way?
when you stand alone in a crowd
wearing your bomber’s vest
do you say, this is for love; what is love?

everyone has their opinion; there are no facts
erase each ugly moment, the loss of time will go
unnoticed; the heart is a contagion, release this feeling
as you clean the blood stains from your sheets
imprison the sympathetic, because they’ll
be the first to go; when you storm the temple
remember to sing your song as you carry your torch
does anyone really know what love is; what is love?

Poem and type illustration Ward Maxwell

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apollo-durer

I miss some splendid otherness
as on the pond
the sun comes up.
A lonesome distant frog chirrups.
Mystic fingers—
spiked with light—
play like fiddles on the water.
Am I never going to fall in love
again?

Sensible men are still in bed.
The city’s face is still with sleep
as through the fog a song
repeats.           At my side
half empty bottle,
fallen coppers,
golden weeds in disarray,
a crumpled angel where I lay and
on a stump
my rumpled shadow.

Disgusting Love that makes the heart
so weak and vile.
Oh wonderful Love the strength and
Truth.
Stupid, useless, excellent Love,
I miss your splendid otherness,
I need to feel your fingertips
or else I’ll drink you
clean away.

Ian David Arlett
image Albrecht Durer

Everything about this is better than real.
Real happens everyday, real is the click
of the wheel of the subway train; real
is the constant delay of dying—this is
better. This is the world where stars reside,
a place where moments collide with red
wine, a moment with you when I look
at you and think you are all I want and
you look at me and tell me you are mine.

City steams after spring rain washes
evening so pure the horizon appears
limitless, virgin mother blue porcelain Bavarian church
inverted eggcup of clouds and setting sun, the broken
yolk stain sopped by the crust of the city—upper and lower.

Lilacs strain the air with evening’s reward,
tulips parade to paint their moment, maple trees
afir with green puffs of exuberance, and all is
impossibly alive again, free from the frozen season,
fragrances arise, melodies of perfume; sing a song.

This is now, this is the frequency Kenneth, this is
the vibrancy, the stirring, the beginning, each one of us
knows it, feels it, talks about it, even in the rain rubber booted
umbrellaed hat dashed moment, the gardeners dig it, the birds
and the worms dig it, the weatherwoman digs it, sings it, that song.

Beat of clouds and rain, earth and seed, the evening sky stretches
scarlet teased to tangerine against three grades of blue fading
to a colour previously reserved for the personal use of the King
of France, the lost Dauphin took the formula and the colour
had been lost until now when I found it here in your eyes.

This is the burst moment, the thundershower of blossoms and fruit,
the promise of dance and high pressure zones with only clear skies, sunshine,
a starlit sky at night—so we can dream endless universes, heavens;
we can dream what will be again, this time, next year, next frozen
season, when the sky is etched black and love seems lost. Marry me,

or at least be my girlfriend.

I no longer trust necklaces,
strings of precious lies.
That grip us and keep us
by asking too much for what we want.

I give up pearls, diamonds, gold,
silver hippie beads and moroccan glass.
I cannot believe, another moment,
another string of lies.

One bound to the other, a chain reaction – all dreams!
The chase of the hot by the cold and the union
in snow and rain and thunderclash and drama –
all lies and childish dreams with no place to go,
no heroine, no hero, no redemption, no point.

I will lose my sun, my moon dogs, my rings;
I have lost all values and cannot tell you what that is worth.
I am drowning in a unseasonable micro-burst of exclusion
and no longer want to even know how to swim.
I cannot tell you what the future will bring,
what tomorrow is going to be like,
you’ll have to listen to the news for that.

I cast away the heat of the sun.
I forgo the tumescence of a handsome cumulonimbus.
I resent the equinoxes and re-setting of clockses—
the cant of the world can go to Kant
and suffer the consequences – I’m not going to.
I decant, recant, dirty old paint can can’t,
that’s my descant and rapid descent
into utter depression along the lines
of a running low front, accompanied by
fog and heavy blues. I have imagined you,
sought you so plaintively, heart yearning—
and I have only fallen in love, once again,
with a fantasy.

Love can be found in the city if you look
around corners. Running, a shadow, across
architectural whimsies.

Love can be found in a boy, a girl, dressed only
in gossamer, nude in their clothing, naked
in their intent.

Stand aside from the concrete block feet of the towering city marching by, safe in the rut of its solitude, its quietude; watch as so many run by, chase the bulls, hunt the bear, ride by ensconced on escalators, monarchs of the up and down, while others surge ahead of everyone chased by slavering manic dogs with the scent and taste of blood on their tongues.

There is a dance
throughout this tumult,
fairy rings of fireworks,
sustained burn of home fires,
sparks that cartwheel
through the high and low of the air,
past every obstacle,
to discover
another Catherine Wheel.
Ignited, constant ignition
that has nothing to do with
the traffic jam on the four OH one.

You should know,
the only true commerce
of the city is invisible, cannot
be counted, nor can its index
be assessed, this has resisted
all take-over attempts
and still remains priceless.

It is it, it is love.
It is the illness that cures
itself. What fits it is
it, and only it, until you admit,
it is the bit that makes
a bit of it into more than a bit.
The it and only it—
it fits, and that is what makes it
happen.
Love happens—it can be found
anywhere.

In the gust of the wind before the thunderstorm
how does the bird land on the wire?
A billion billion water molecules in a snowflake
how do they find each other, make that flake unique?
I can trace a flare of energy from the sun
across an incredible distance of void,
tell you about the heat and light tomorrow,
whether the weather is cold or hot,
trace the highs and lows expressed by heavy cloud,
but how do I make it rain in someone’s heart?
How is someone’s static charge attracted to me
so the lightning happens and they say “love,”
or do I just cast my sigh upon the breeze
that ruffles at a light twenty-two degrees
looking forward to a comfortable low of fifteen
easy sleeping weather for those with someone
between the knees.
And when dawn begins at six oh three
and the sun rises in a clear blue sky and a glorious high
of twenty eight, will it smile for me? Will those clouds
threatening to dampen the weekend fun, break for a moment
and shine a special ray to point out someone who will say,
“My almanac’s full of years and years of forecasts
so I’ll make a prediction that will last forever– I’ve already fallen
in love with you.”  Is it too much to ask – or is it
always stormy weather, global warming with no passion?

I dream of being perfect, perfect in every way
lover, dreamer, warrior, farmer, poet, priest
I ceaselessly sing, sing neon digital exclaim
because I seek, seek a return to the heart
and I confess, confess to every crime
whether it be thee or thine, you are my only crime.

Trace a line of surf in the sand
the ridge of ripple or grain
caught between defining each
find the stipple of love, of hate.
I wash in sand, I wash in flame,
I wash at the river’s edge.
I cannot ignore the basket floating there
the king asleep, the lost child drifting.

There is but one drink, drink with me.
This is the only time, time enough for both.
one kiss, kiss me, kiss us both, kiss thee,
let it start, let it end, end me now, let me breathe,
let me know, if you live, you will live with me.

I am attracted to many things,
bound and repelled by forces equal to mine,
I cannot deny their gravity. Released,
then renouned, I am encased, profound,
fossilized and found in amber ’round your neck,
nestled ‘twixt planets that beckon and inspect,
my hands set spinning moments that intersect.

Surrender to my kisses, I am not circumspect.
Sing to me of the spheres, of rents in arrears,
I know you are sent to instruct me in the music
that was made tonight before you arrived. You fell
into me and aroused a room I had rent as empty.
No one bought. You signed me.
I sold and you danced into a line
that I followed though I could not believe
it was you. You found me and claimed me, led me over the plain,
I followed the lines of the horizon until I found day again.
You washed my mouth with clean water, fed me with dew,
whatever strength I have is that which spins in you. In you,
I am renewed. In you the water is clear through. I drink
and find myself in your waves, you gaze back at me and kiss
with depths untrolled, I cannot resist. I swim controlled,
settle and rise, bound to thee, oh contrary pole.

These are the bad things that happen to me.
My wife doesn’t love me, my partner doesn’t love me,
my employees, my suppliers, my clients don’t love me;
my doctor, his dentist and especially the hygienist
don’t love me; and the world doesn’t love me enough.
These things bug me, hug me, tuli kupferberg fug me,
they make me their second skin and wear my
pain as apparel for social, or private entertainment,
a craven foolyard wrapped around my neck;
the world is a dangerous thing to beg
to love you, even a little bit of it, because a big wish
that buys a little might be fate, the right
question never asked, who can know
what was before what was.

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