Tuesday, November 9, 2010

BLAND LAND BUSTS POET SMOKERS (1st draft)

Five units of verse of the universe of the imagine nation of the Peoples Republic of Poetry (PRP) were arrested in Bland Land early yesterday evening on charges of possession of poet for the purpose of trafficking, and being intoxicated on poet in a public place.

Proseph Stalin, director of the Blandinistas, announced the arrest, “Bland Land has come under direct assault by the 101st Word Warriors of the imagine nation of the PRP once too often. It is done under the cover of poetry readings, spoken word performances, slam bam poetry or other sub verse euphemisms with the purpose of overthrowing mediocrity, the stabilizing governing principle of Bland Land.

These misguided units of verse were found to have been carriers of pure poet. Countless studies have found that chronic poet smoking, principally by those of the most delicate sensibility and the most enlarged imagine nation, produces a state of mind that is ‘at war with every base desire’.

The units of verse had been touring Bland Land as part of an outreach program known in poetry circles and triangles as Give the Bland a Hand. The program was developed by the Creative Intelligence Anarchy in collaboration with the Federal Bureau of Inspiration.

The units of verse readily admitted to being poet smokers. The poetic outreachers were reported to have been in possession of an unknown quantity of ‘Onomatopoezia: sans simile’, a genre of poet that condenses the imagination to its grass routes of grunt, groan, and moan alone that often finds expression in sound poetry.

The Minister With Poetfolio of the PRP, condemned the charges. “Poet smoking is nothing more than the inhalation of airy somethings to rearrange the local habitation and names of their origin allies. Bland Land is a verbless noun. They are seriously blandicapped.

Arresting and detaining our units of verse is nothing more than the worst kind of blanditry. We appeal to the United Imagine Nations to demand the release of the creative force that through the green fuse spurts a world of multicolourfulism.

The Creative Intelligence Anarchy released a terse statement, “Poet smoking is the leading cause of flights of fancy. The imagine nation will not be grounded by the farces of suppression, oppression, repression. We will continue to enforce landing writes in the blandemic wasteland of mediocrity. Those units of verse will not be ablandoned

Poet smoking has been the write of every unit of verse of the imagine nation of the Peoples Republic of Poetry.

Spreading the Sword

Click on image to enlarge

Sunday, November 7, 2010

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Waterfront Fun

Cobourg's waterfront was assaulted by outsiders last Monday afternoon. The outside agitators came from the west, an unrelenting swarm of heavy breezes silting Corktown with fine sand dredged up earlier in the year. The outside agitators also stirred up some exhilarating head-banger waves to entice local teenagers to the bottom end of Division Street.

Click on images to enlarge
Occasional waves exploded two or three stories into the air, drenching girls who perched themselves, like sweet little seagulls, on the steel railing that perimeters the pier.

There were three boys and a girl in the frothing turbulence of the water, riding the surface currents of the waves. It was a wonderful display of mental alertness and physical strength and endurance of their prime-of-life bodies. The background ambience is Danger. Risky behaviour? Of course. How else does a human being test their abilities?

The waves had a rough rhythm roughly learned by the quick-witted teens, when they were climbing the ladder, the impact and withdrawal of a single wave ripped them off the rungs and pulled them back down in to the deep. One of the boys gripped the girl's arm to ensure her safety. She successfully made it to the arms of a girlfriend.
Some times the waves would tease the teens, pushing them up as if to cast them out, but in a split moment sucked them back into an adrenalin rush. Toying with them like so much flotsam.

Finally, everyone is safe and secure, drenched in a lifetime memory. They will eventually become responsible civilians, pass through two or three decades, and recall the sheer exhilaration if this day. One older woman admonished the teens, telling them the fine details of bashed heads, lungs full of water, etc. It reminded me of the words of Irving Layton in The Whole Bloody Bird:

"It is cruel for the old to inflict their disillusioned wisdom on the young. Fortunately it is also impossible."

Monday, August 16, 2010

PARTING IS SUCH SWEET SHALLOW

PARTING IS SUCH SWEET SHALLOW

For the past half century
enjoying an unprecedented
state of peace and prosperity
I savored the muscular memory
of my signature hand
how it held

firm
moist

the curve
of your pubis
It has been

two years
since …


I am beginning to lose


my



g
r
i
?

.

.

.


Sunday, July 25, 2010

Monday, July 5, 2010

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

TO THE END OF YES

In the beginning there was the word
and the word was YES!
so I fucked her
I fucked her again
mornin’ noon & night
I fucked her
day after day
I fucked her
year in & year out
I fucked her
YES! YES! YES!
I fucked her
OUI! OUI! OUI!
I fucked her
SI! SI! SI!
I fucked her
DA! DA! DA!
I fucked her
in every tongue
from left to right in Poland
right to left in Persia
top to bottom in China
everywhichway in Klingon
I fucked her
affirmative action of the first disorder
she scented herself with YES tonight
I fucked her
in great mutual affirmation sessions
cum-sensual adults
every time she opened her legs
it was in the shape of YES
a very expletive undeleted YES.
She was YES to the very nucleus of her woman
She was my woman of want
She was my woman of want my vowels.
YES, she sucked vowels from me
Vowel-howling sound poetry
ecstasy poetry bouncing off the walls all covered in wet YES
I fucked her
YES! Aaaaaaaaaaa
I fucked her
YES! Eeeeeeeeeeee
I fucked her
YES! Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
I fucked her
YES! Oooooooooo
I fucked her
YES! Uuuuuuuuuu
I fucked her
in great gobs of gushing vowels
She loved the splatter of vowels
So I fucked her
with a mouthful of wet YES
my fundamentalist theology
exploded down her throat
To hell with the socialist sub-committee policy meeting tonight,
YES let’s fuck
To hell with lobbying for funds to feed crippled orphans
YES let’s fuck

I love how she gives good debate
turning onto her knees
to present the best part of her argument
like the good field beast she is
I’d rather plunge into the democrazy poetics of her cunt
than earn a living pro-actively in happy contrivanceland.
than a committee of global swarmers
She is my Al Gore rhythmn

And the decades go by
I fucked her
fucked her again
and again
it was all YES,
choirs of YES
chorusing down the hallways of YES.
Gospel YES, the G-spot
Soul YES Deep Soul
Classical YES Class Suckle
Rock YES & Roll YES
Decade after decade
The pension arrives
I fuck her on weekday afternoons
Sometimes right there
on the floor before the tv
in front of Oprah & Dr Phil

YES through the seasons

Then June 23, 2001
she whispered a soft italicized yes
into my better ear.
so I mounted her
and there was a breath of yes
followed by the de-conjunctiving ellipse . . .
So it was
in the end
there was the word
and the word was NO!

LEARNING TO UNLOVE LOVE

When I return alone home,
morning, afternoon, evening, night,
when ever
what ever
how ever

no one
. . . . . . is there . . . . ever
no one

silence undances with a skindeep shadow
reflected from an unsilvering memory.

I bed my brokenmess
cocooning the pillow
soft but unbreathing
yielding but unwarming
the unthreading remains of love
pulled up to my kissless lips
grow thinner
as night grows colder
as I turn
and curl
into a foetal question mark.

I Am Writing Letters

I am writing letters
from my primary residence
on the Island of Alone

Paper skins
Words kiss
Sentences caress
I like them swollen with myths
Of turbulence and tremors
Of abandonment
And collapsing stars

I love weaving long umbilical poems
that vine their way into your heart

Debris

For the past half century
living in an unprecedented
state of peace and prosperity
I have savored the muscular memory
of my signature hand,
how it held firm the curve
of your moist pubis.

Throw me out of your home
Throw me out of your heart

My grip on reality
crumbled
to debris.

Every Word She Speaks

Every word she speaks
is touched wet
with her
tongue.

I want to become
the vocabularly
she draws on
the language
of l'amour

I want to be the word,
a long multi-consonant verb
that tumble-tongues
into luscious nouns
carried on vowels
made of the soft-interior
of her cheeks

A Spring Thought

Forest ferns all foetal
uncomma themselves
to full-frontal green grammar

Sex percolattes in the soil,
hormoans bloating
the bulbs shouldering up
break-through flowers
gluttoning themselves
senseless with sunsex
as we lean forward to sniff
their delicate wide-ons
all petal perfumed
in the quiet orgy of gardens

The Best Part of Me

THEY ARE THE WOMEN

There are Women who last a lusttime in a Man's groin.
There are Women who last a lovetime in a Man's heart.
There are Women who last a lifetime in a Man's soul.

God sleeps at the edge of the universe
where the clarity of science fades to uncertainty
where the deep-throated howls of women
in the full froth of fuck
soften into wet whispered somethings
soothing in the vowel of O

The universe is a wOmb
The earth is an egg swirling dervish in cumulus cum.

Their small breasts
fit firm
into my hand
into my mouth
into my poem
warmly as a sparrow snuggles in its nest

I love how they open their legs
in the shape of YESOYES
fitting into them
firmly as the rugged root of an oak
into the sun soft soil

They are the Women
who make the best part of me
uncivilized.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

POETRY IS POETENCY

Dedicated to the supremacy of Poetry over mediocrity.

Monday, February 15, 2010

SLAM POETRY: We Are More ...



http://www.virtualstadium2010.com
The Stadium is a global collaborative art project for fans to participate in the XXI Olympic Winter Games.

Celebrate Canada and the spirit of the Games, with Canadian slam poet Shane Koyczan's tribute, We Are More.

For a transcript from the Opening Ceremony of the Olympic Games, please visit http://ow.ly/17hel

Friday, February 5, 2010

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Hey Ayatollah, Leave Those Kids Alone

Written and performed by Blurred Vision. Directed by Internationally acclaimed filmmaker Babak Payami. www.blurredvisionmusic.com

Here is a poetent mashup of a rock&roll classic, Another Brick in the Wall by Pink Floyd altered. It has been morphed to express the situation of youth in Iran. HEY AYATOLLAH, LEAVE THOSE KIDS ALONE.

During the Cold War, I was deeply involved in the smuggling and distribution of samizdat in and out and between the nations of the Soviet bloc. Samizdat consisted of underground publishing, always paper bound. Magnetizdat consisted of underground audio cassettes.

Technology has evolved and the youth know how to wield it big time. This is 21st century samizdat – youTube, Twitter, etc. (Coming soon to a tablet near you) For instant news from the Iranian youth front, a Twitter site [http://twitter.com/search?q=%23iranelection
] provides links and info. Fuck the Ayatollahs and their Islamaniacs!

Below is a description attached to the above video:
"Rarely in the history of rock 'n' roll does a cover version come
along that actually dares to exist at the right reactionary time. By
cleverly updating Pink Floyd's 1979 iconic protest anthem "Another
Brick In The Wall" exactly thirty years to the month that it was
originally released, Blurred Vision are wielding their activist music
as an irresistible force irrevocably set in motion to shake up the
staid conventions of repressive regimes and show solidarity with common street soldiers everywhere. Thanks to Blurred Vision, the revolution will be downloaded."

-- Jeffrey Morgan, authorized biographer of Alice Cooper and The Stooges.

Friday, January 8, 2010

"WE ARE AT WAR"

WE ARE AT WAR
declared the Nobel Peace Laureate, as 30,000 more U.S. combat troops were surged to Afghanistan. Obama Lama Ding Dong seems to be displaying some BUSH league mentality. Apologistas and progressives are queuing at the mic, chomping at the bit.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

MARG BAR DIKTATOR

WE WANT FREEDOM. DEATH TO THE DICTATOR. WE WANT FREEDOM.

A 3 1/2 old boy tells the ancient Persian tale of Arash E Kamangir (Arash the Archer). Set in context of the Iranian uprising against the fascist government of the Islamic Republic and its fraudulent 2009 elections. "MARG BAR DIKTATOR"

WARNING EXTREMELY GRAPHIC IMAGES. Iranian citizens rise up once again to clash against the fascist Islamic Republic and the fraudulent June elections. Cut to Seven Nation Army by The White Stripes.