3 polished oak fans,
Swirling in robotic unison
High maintenance socialites,
Sipping on Merlot fallacies
Lemon yellow coated walls,
Like their smiles
Comparisons of dangling Porsche & Bentley keys
A glorified day care center,
The muted virtuosos speak softly in hymn dialects.
Courtesy laughter in snob’s octave
Their heads twitching side to side,
Left to right to left
An equilibrium facing assault charges against self
They slow dance to cello dreams
And E minor dividends
Two-step monotone, sway
Against platinum lacquer foundations
But, it was then.
These same socialites,
Made of recycled candle wax
And rubberized, hedge-fund confidence,
Began to stare longingly at the party host’s 70 inch plasma TV
Proudly imported from China
“Attention uptight snobs of Mecca!
The city zoo has imploded!
The monkeys revolted!
The zebras were tired of being racially profiled!
Run for your LIV…!”
And before the reporter’s frightened inner child could finish’s his clause,
An elephant crashes into the decadent room
Filled with Crisp linen scents of Febreze & judgmental fear
It stares at the socialites,
Laughing heartedly as it playfully stomps away into constellation’s onyx night
As tears waterfall from the snobs’ sobbing eye sockets
As if they just listened to another Celine Dion song
The real newsflash
Metaphors played hooky today
©Drake J. Eszes
An old herbal gard’ner turned bard
dedicated and well-versed
now works his pen from his backyard
in plants and poems immersed.
His choice nouns engender meaning
cleverly minted with scents.
Rare verbs gingerly gleaning
from time’s savory essence.
Somewhat focused on composing
but nettled by a drizzle;
causes his brain to fizzle.
Lo! His inspiration now gone
like the ink upon his page.
Mrs. Bard calls from the lawn
“I just watered the sage.”
Tonight I sensed the arts' demise
and thought of your indecent writ
that could be used to kill the flies
that buzz above your perfumed feet.
To liberate what's kept inside
you must allow yourself to dart
where inspiration poisoned died
cause of your mindless abstract art.
But this is wrong! The muses went
(because your odored feet emit
condensed that deathly worn socks scent) ,
outside to breathe! Lickety split!
Your mind, surprisingly, expressed
what could be taken for a verse
tormented nostrils were suppressed
their agonized intake was terse.
Your fans, inhaling the extrait
(those well worn socks let loose with pride)
decided to command in verse
what should be buried cause it died.
They called it 'poem' but was known
that flies, somehow, became extinct,
bystanders run to wear cologne,
your Sockspeare theme, was thus succinct.
Those blackened socks you wore around
with plastic sneakers, bought on sale,
became the cause the fish have drowned
and deathly scents were to curtail.
Please tell us why thy feet perfumes
became the symbol of foot-prose?
Dug up feet-ology exhumes
what should be listed to dispose.
© 10-13-2013, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
Day in, and day out, from the ripe old age of five
I’ve take to sharp objects and whittled at their sides.
Plotting the precise angle with penetrating gaze,
the slant of slice, just so nice, as memory replays.
With curt tongue and tireless ire, I shred the sages
Burroughs, and Asimov, the Shakespeare past ages.
Butchering with rare delight, the language on the page
lancing every metaphor and simile upstaged.
and so I've arrived her in rhythm and in rhyme
killing the English language as other people dine.
*Nibbs are the pointed ends of fountain pens
as well as being an important or self-important person
A crowded table, all suspended in shock
The sound of the shot dimming to a ‘knock’
Only silence, except for the marching clock
The weapon still smoking; an anonymous glock
WHO KILLED THE EASTER BUNNY?
Loud cries arise from the elongated table,
Jack Frost is shocked, the Tooth Fairy unable
To speak whilst Santa is checking the stable
For clues on the erstwhile maidservant Mable
WHO KILLED THE EASTER BUNNY?
They searched for hours, called in C.S.I,
Panic set in, would the children all cry?
Sandman confirmed the bunny had died
Batman suspected somebody had lied
WHO KILLED THE EASTER BUNNY?
Guests were quizzed, interrogations began
The mystery unfolded when Santa Claus ran,
Grabbing the pies, he tried escaping in a van
But was stopped in his tracks by superman
SANTA KILLED THE EASTER BUNNY!
The Soul is the Beautiful Light of Love
Shining like the sun through the
As the reader, I’m going to have to cut you off there.
Here’s a metaphor for you…
Reading is ****ing.
And your words hit our auditory canals
Like a hotdog down a hallway.
As an experienced reader, I’m after
The virgin vernacular
The aphrodisiac aphorism
You know- the big… black words
You feel me?
Because a line is a flashlight, exposing the world’s nudity-
And we’ll never get anywhere shining it in the same spot.
So kiss me with classy couplets
Smack my assonance!
Bring me to the climax-
And we’ll share a smoke together,
Warm beside the fire of your Three Inch Clichés.
I dreamt myself as poet-frog
And good Fancy` Fairy
Would stoop to pick my verse…
But she didn`t come.
Oh lonely Inevitable Bear,
Padding claws, death in white
Sorrow in recurring nightmare
Instinct’s test; fight or flight?
Camouflage against the fence,
A challenge; my subconscious fear
Ominous slowly moving silence,
“Let me in, there’s a bear out here!”
Enchanting is the beauty of your pic
I reckon if we tried the night to guile
you would become a pique nique exotique
anthology of verse to read worthwhile.
Shan't ever inspirations lead this flight
above the vastness of blue seas and you
Hors d'oeuvres' delicacy and choice of sight
a connoisseur of arts should taste fondue.
© G.V. 07-22-2013
Sometimes I can literally feel the burn of silence.
It’s somewhere within my bones,
a blank slate made of heavy metal poisoning.
Perhaps if I cut deep enough, I can retrieve it
and find the inspiration needed to purpose
the lonely canvas I’ve sheltered for so long.
And with a marrow’d ink I’ll scribe the secrets
I’ve forgotten over years of mirrored eye
rolling and self propelled pity #$%*s.
Finally, I’ll be free to pool the ashes,
and build my castle of upside down day dreams,
and brightly lit nightmares.
I’ll call it “The Globe”,
and dress like Shakespeare would if he grew up in the 90’s,
and all my friends can help perform my drunkenly scrawled
screenplays that lead, inevitably to the death of “The System”
that we all helped create,
just so we could have something to destroy.
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.