The house I designed is transparent,
so that gravy stains will seem to hover and hang.
Spots of paint that lend panache
to my languid artistic endeavours
will splatter fragmented rainbows
on diaphanous walls.
The garden will stand naked save for foliage
that will shimmer in mid air. Branch, bark, trunk
will be absent, while grumbling birds bend their beaks,
colliding with fences of highly polished glass,
revealing no reflection as they pass.
You won’t be aware of coming through doors.
Don’t search for a bowl in which to pour in your soul,
you will hang suspended from your beliefs,
as if in a dream, while my butler cloaked in stealth,
will tickle your feet by way of greeting.
You will finally submit, surrender,
confess you’re in a mess and wish to live
outside the pretend of space and time,
your state of mind a blinding light,
body floating like thistledown,
against a crown of helium balloons
bobbing gently forever,
high against the opaque domed ceiling,
where reality is really as nothing at all,
just that transparent wall of feelings
you once stalled in as you passed through.
26 Sep 07
Rated 8.5 (9.5) by 2 users.
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the house that i made is transparent:
gravy stains seem to hover and hang,
and spots of paint lend a dash --
lucid aesthetic panache.
the garden is bare to the nude point,
and even the roses blush red,
when the bed on my wall
seems to tumble and fall
in a cloud of erotic enthrash.
you won't see the door,
you won't see the floor.
you won't be on earth,
you won't come from birth.
i do not like you,
poem that am,
i do not like you,
poem of spam.
I do not like you, Joey bad,
you kill the spark that someone had,
you use your wit to make them sad,
I do not like you, Joey bad.
This is writing of the purest class, but your re-write is even worst.
Larry even the bad times are good Lark
Larry witless Lark
i didn't hear it as writing of the purest class. i must have been distracted. i do think that my poem to your poem was a good night-night for it though, cause it's sleepy and cranky and doesn't want to go to bed while the parents are doing coke.
"the spark that someone had"... and, here i was thinking it was a burp. anyone who can write can write again, and even you sound better when you're focused. if you didn't do so much crank...
whatever you say joey whatever that may be.
larry whatever lark
you could take a reading course at a junior college. the words they use aren't that big, and i try to keep my vocabulary in control here and not upset people like you too much. can't get it right every time though. sorry about that.
anyway, this was a sucky poem, don't you think? too wordy cause it was too ambitious? too ambitious cause life's not what it's supposed to be. but that's why we have art, yes? so we can put it back together in some way that keeps us from dropping off a bridge? or isn't it really just because art is way more fun than fucking, for the mind, and the mind is what you're reading this with and i'm fucking with you. be gentle.
I love the last stanza. It made me think of Alice through the looking glass, and myself. Are we both narcissists?
How good are you at telling people what they should do and how big are your assumptions?
Larry in the same vain Lark
nice poem, larry.
would you consider -
just that transparent wall of feelings where
you once stalled as you passed through.
also, do you need 'as' in line 25?
7-11 is absolutely wonderful.
This is ok...it seems to me you are confused as where you were going with this.
I trip up on L13 everytime...I would consider deleting it or going with something shorter.
The metaphor is interesting...sort of.
i'm pretty good. i've got a lot of experience writing critical material. and my assumptions are always founding in real experience -- i've been around and also been around a ton of poetry and crowds of poets. i read this as i read it, and read you as a personality. i assume that this isn't really you, that your poems aren't truthfully "you", so i give you a lot of leeway... i don't go after the sinews of your work -- i don't want you to stop writing -- just your presumption that you don't need to think about writing.
I've got a suggestion for you. Get a huge dolly tub and go boil your head.
Larry presumptuous Lark
that's not much of a suggestion, but you're not very good at writing literature.
Just following in your "esteemed" Footsteps that's all
but, larry, really. you don't know how to read literature. you have to start simple and you're always so afraid of letting go and looking faggy. it makes your writing sort of fay.
I notice joey, how you seem to home in on poets with real talent. If only you had one iota of larry's talent...if only you had any talent.
"opaque domed ceiling"
yes, i don't write for you.
Stellar! Lines 17 & 18 are extremely poignant to me, right now.