They say a picture may paint a thousand words
but I can't read what he wrote
household paint poured onto a horizontal surface
ain't what I call works of note
splashed with no pre-planned end-result
for art's sake to me does not art make
known for his 'drip technique'
yes he was a drip and no mistake
yet a few of his spills sold for millions
long after his prime
as a fool and his money are soon parted
and you can fool some all of the time
but if we pry the boards from his studio floor
and hang them on the wall
why it would be far more relevant
tho' still takes no skill at all
his splotches are not pictures of poppies
nor pansies petunias or hollyhocks
in fact they're really nothing more
than just a load of Pollocks
darkness in the mist
light shines down from a streetlamp-
drip. drops from my hood
Your hands linger now as prints upon my mind.
I became a glove for your love.
I gave you my tongue
so you could speak a moment of ecstasy.
You gave me Cauliflower Cheese,
the only meal you could cook.
Then when you were done
with my squishy love,
you left on a bus, never to return.
That was back then
when cakes were left out in the rain,
when poets wore bell-bottoms.
I recall it rained for days
in our love-stained apartment.
The mattress survived,
but all too soon,
it forgot how to talk
like you used to.
Chance
accidents
in time&space
float in unreal
swirls
flowing
without restraint
turmoil
in
energetic
explosions
flung
splattered
moments
arrested in space
dripping
drop
by
drop
Why raindrops drip and drop in time,
not timorous; divine.
A splash, playful
in a pond of koi brass.
Tines of Sankyo, priceless precipitation;
A plink and plunk, Chopin;
“Till the End of Time,”
that is why raindrops
hold their gravity,
until the fruit
of their musicality
must be mined,
be longed
by great golden fish
with open lips
excited by the weather
without human palms
to catch, a catch
that croaks and grunts,
that fills the pond.
.
drip
drip
drip
mine engram
drips
rousing me at times
from mine snoring
slumber
tuh
tap tap tap
for you
to feel
just one uv those
drips
drip
wet tails touch my leg
dodging towels they start shaking
second bath for day
Your hands lingered as prints upon my mind.
I became a glove for your love.
I gave you time,
I gave you my tongue
so you could speak a moment of ecstasy.
You gave me Cauliflower cheese,
the only meal you could cook well.
Then when you were done
with my squishy love
you left on a bus, bound for West Ham,
left and did not wave back
from its people stuffed windows.
That was back then
when cakes were left out in the rain,
when poets wore bell-bottoms
when flower power flexed its stems
with blond muscle men.
No beaches in Tottenham,
the parks probably still are
municipal mud baths.
I recall it rained for days
in our love-stained apartment.
London often chooses
to live in small puddles of loneliness.
The mattress we had inherited,
survived to moan on and on.
.
Drip dream drip
dream drip dream
drip
In the
Fall
Of drops
mine soaked
to
thuh
bone
Racing
Mine
through the drips
dreamt i...
the rose uv your
cheeks
Throw me down a lifeline
‘Cause mine is getting too short
All tangled up gimme some slack
Worn out from the battles I fought
Lend you my ear for persuasion
A good soul is so hard to find
That PAINFUL ANNOYING CONSTANT DRIP
It’s driving me out of my mind
Hold up my head above water
‘Cause it feels like I’m starting to drown
You’ll find that I burned all my bridges
I finally burned them all down
So lift me up with a notion
Show me the path I should take
Give me love understand my affliction
And tell me it’s never too late
~Billy Hitz~
This
gooey
and
oozing
chocolate
laden
cake,
tempts me,
beckons me,
it's weakening
my resolve
and as
the
icing
starts to drip
I feel
the
diet
end!
31/03/2023
Waltz Wave Poem
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
His mouth was a constant drip of a tea pot
Words came out in rushes, and I mean a lot
Most of us could not hear them after awhile
Even his relatives had trouble mustering a smile
Shadowy silver curls of sweat
Beads of pearls along the way
Coats of pink nail polish
With sparkling silver overlay
Easy streets yet broken beats
Of concrete noise in an urban throng
Of despair and hollow noise
Dogs and cats eat the wooden bark
Of coquettish thriving meows
Silver singles, oh yes, us oldies do mingle
Lagging the sunrise, he sizes the day
Sleep was a stranger, came deep in the night
Try though he may, he can not make a plan
His instincts tell him not all will be well
Coping, there between moping and hoping
Pouring coffee, ignoring the cough he
developed, enveloped in sweat last night
Off to the shower, he's dreading the hour,
the 405 drive, and then to arrive,
with nothing to say, in meetings all day
To make matters worse, the trip in reverse
Stare at the ceiling, devoid of feeling
Resistance, futile; existence, brutal
Six months estranged now - it's time for a change
----------
Lannet: 14 lines of 10 syllables like a sonnet, but internal rhymes only
https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/lannet-poetic-forms
Ice cream cones are meant to drip
But once you’ve got the knack,
You catch those drops on tongue or lip
To help preserve your snack.
At times the bottom of the cone
Might form a little hole,
Allowing an escape, unknown
When ice cream’s in a bowl.
So someone came up with a plan -
A paper cone-shaped coat
To overlay the cone, but man,
They’d never get my vote!
The paper's somehow always stuck;
It’s hard to peel away.
Thus, oftentimes, I’m out of luck
And there’s a price to pay.
I either toss the cone before
I’m finished or I might
Ingest some shreds of paper, more
Than I want in a bite!
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