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Pinocchio
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CLICKITY CLACK
I sat staring... straight and steadfast fast
Washa of a special fishing district I could
but happen to sniff your strong floral surge
the tidings we share, just a softly rocking
splashing of silky quivers... We twine rope…
Seagulls spawn above… Insects... G’night...
It is impossible to say all the right things!
this foolish fucking act, fragment of small
chocolate, in any way shape or form, ah!
What do you worship? Mad Ahab Jack-O
Lantern, on this airy occasion and thusly
I, swan-like do calmly commit to study-
as if only the Fairy Faithfuls shall appear
and swooningly call upon the Cosmos...
ay that
...hypnotic, rhythmic
...hypnotic, rhythmic quality—pulling the reader into a world where thoughts, sensory experiences, and existential musings merging; like Jack-O-Lantern and Pinocchio intersecting. The contrasts between physical setting and abstract philosophy enhance its complexity, making this poem feel layered with meaning.
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
galateus, arkayye, arqios,arquious, crypticbard, excalibard, wordweaver
Party Advertisement!!
A boundless honor, Oh Sykik Samurai, to be granted such a grip, on allied stick and garment, a hoot-a-toot to Salsa Disco Deva Paradíso!!
peace, pot, tequila shot
Jesus loves us, stoned or not
oh, so much better than party
oh, so much better than party politics and partisan protocols.
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
galateus, arkayye, arqios,arquious, crypticbard, excalibard, wordweaver
nobody talks about 'white' flags
a waving handy 'kerchief touché, you bastard...
peace, pot, tequila shot
Jesus loves us, stoned or not
The chancellor kneels, not
The chancellor kneels, not for himself, not for Germany, but for ghosts in Warsaw’s streets— silent, unimpressed. The cameras hum, history clicks its tongue. They say humility cannot be staged, yet here we are. Willy Brandt on his knees in Warsaw 1970.
A voice in Berlin cuts through the Cold War frost, "Ich bin ein Berliner," and the crowd erupts, so delighted that they ignore the pastry joke until decades later, when revisionists gleefully inform them they were cheering for cake. JFK in West Germany, 1963.
Two men clasp hands at Verdun, gripping the century’s blood between them. Some call it reconciliation, others call it a handshake over bones. And the press, always hungry for symbols, devour it whole. Helmut Kohl and François Mitterand, 1984.
Adenauer, unyielding, steps onto the carpet meant for victors, pretending it was his all along. A gesture so bold that even protocol looks the other way, muttering about audacity.
Donald enters, a maestro of pantomime, mocking and mimicking, small hands waving, exaggerations towering. Some call it leadership, others call it performance art. Either way, the audience keeps clapping.
History moves, but the theatre remains, a stage of gestures and grand illusions— each one a waving handy 'kerchief touché, offered in jest, accepted as truth.
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
galateus, arkayye, arqios,arquious, crypticbard, excalibard, wordweaver