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The Satires satire XVI: Dear Anatole Broyard She’s a born bouffant hairdo & French nails sed cruel— Hey tooty fruity, hey! Oh oh toot y fruit y—o boot-y-full! Lui said he’d love americans, tyle her dancing drunk naked in Santorini’s topless barre, bel suicide riding bulls in l’anonyme Poet in Pigalle bars drank til she puked in London Town’s bylines As Ginsberg & God chanted Blake in the streets;
Well put on some Kylie Minogue and Sock it to me, sock it to me now… satire XV
Kerry cut all adjectives
so, style was sparse so says the times he lost the election because there was no narrative no coherency no “grabber of insight” Oh—so Kerry’s a poet…? satire XIV
The voice endowed with the power to free meaning Would not look at me— So I glance over my shoulder in a second Turning my head to the sounds— And the speed turns my head or my head conceives speed— Then I am the copula with and without negation— I am the piston in motion…
he Laughed; satire XIII (to Ezra Pound) Clutching my black purse I waited in the station, and as the
roar of the rail train came rushing in I caught a slow sight of red rose petals on a black lapel— I saw how it so exactly matches the one I gave to another man two weeks ago— I’m on the symbolic highway, again… satire XII
if you want to be a poet,
sashay text down the page 20 sec per free verse. NO TEXT AVAILABLE NO TEXT AVAILABLE NO TEXT AVAILABLE NO TEXT AVAILABLE NO TEXT AVAILABLE NO TEXT AVAILABLE NO TEXT AVAILABLE NO TEXT AVAILABLE NO TEXT AVAILABLE NO TEXT AVAILABLE NO TEXT AVAILABLE NO TEXT AVAILABLE NO TEXT AVAILABLE NO TEXT AVAILABLE NO TEXT AVAILABLE NO TEXT AVAILABLE NO TEXT AVAILABLE NO TEXT AVAILABLE NO TEXT AVAILABLE NO TEXT line ends here satire VIII
When you ask me what people here are like,
I must answer Like people everywhere! However confined, he still holds forever in the heart, that sweet feeling of freedom, who knows he can leave his prison anytime: Well, just remember the rules, and you shall never produce anything in bad taste... satire VII (to Lorine Niedecker)
Gonimou men poietou—ostis rema gennaion lakoi.
(A creative poet—who gives vent to a single noble thought.) thought after autumnal thought break off, descend— descend— You will approve of this poem, which is entirely historical. satire V
Are these lines a poem?
I am of California, seclusion is how I'm bound— Many glorious mornings I have seen flatter the mountain tops with autarchic eye— My Love looks fresh, and DEATH unto me subscribes... satire IV
NO TEXT AVAILABLE.
satire III (play-on-words)
wrtie rghit words wtire rhigt werds wirte rihgt wirds wtrie rgiht wyrds witre rhgit wûrds satire II (outcome)
csaue and efceft
cuase and ecfeft casue and efecft csuae and effcet cusae and ecffet csaue and efceft cuase and ecfeft casue and efecft csuae and effcet cusae and ecffet csaue and efceft cuase and ecfeft casue and efecft csuae and effcet cusae and ecffet satire I
LOOK. see more. ese eorm. ees mroe. see orem. ese rmeo Tnhik Yous. |
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