Don’t fret about us thinking you are all alone,
Don’t hurt yourself when you are already torn ..
Thousands of miles across, still I ain’t too far from you ..
My body ain’t there, but my heart ♥ is always with you ..
We dwell in each others soul, love will soon find a way ..
Years pass by with a hope that we’ll be together someday ..
- Kokz
movie moguls, reel artisans
rabbis and bishops
dilettantes of the antiseptic silver screen
a sour troop of soup de jour caricatures
pour speed amalgamate enamel and covered
nougat over malleable minds
that imagine hardcore lemonade cosmetics
bookworm birddogs and the acrid shred
chromosomes of inebriated ailing G-men in drag
try to evade petty arrest and the icy waste fanfare
of Serengeti street bands playing sequoia Swahili music
to exonerate the czarina caught in an adult truncheon noose
before it amasses into a viral spiral peer project
owing dent dissection by a demon ape’s interposed sneers
on a mayonnaise jar in Pisa
it only took a sniper shot at a yacht to designate
the settlement of a values meltdown
Oasis of Chaos Theory
innocent satanic goat heads
adorn art class avatars
street Cossacks
and Dali wanna-bees
as the silver bullet trio of snobs
play clarinet, tangy steel piano
and out of tune cello
anemone gladiators spew verse
recite odes of gun-port malaprops
while the sharp edged co-anchor co-authors
unveil a wired vat anthem
of misnomer ear candy epaulets
filled with alien slang sarcasm
to garner old flame Elysium stand-ins
and amuse runner-up vestal virgins
shed rabbit tears
as a village voice cries in the wilderness
tied to a gothic chain link fence
enforcement of a weedy leash law
enacted by red face rat race atonal icemen
who inflict seedy red-hot exclamations
to provoke a bar room brawl
whiteness wastes away
as they drink low end olive oil
a spot of tea and manta ray ale
http://vimeo.com/26530950
Directed/Shot/Edited By: Mark Valino
Perfromed/Written By: Greg Drakes
Anything I’ve ever loved doing in my life has always been the SCARIEST thing for me to do.
Poetry.
Poetry, is my release. Poetry is my therapy. Poetry is that ear when no one will listen. I once told someone that performing my “therapy” is like turning your skin inside-out. That vulnerability that I’m left with … that vulnerability leaves me exposed, but at the same time… FREE.
This video, is the first I’ve EVER performed, but felt it was necessary. I’ve launched this project entitled Drakes365 in an attempt to get out of my shell and essentially, drop all fears.
Shooting my first video in the busy downtown streets of Toronto is liberating, and a calculated attempt of freeing those fears. Crowds forming, people watching, external distractions, have all been part of my expansion process; my breaking out of my preverbal shell.. Fear is something we all face. Fear something I face. OVERCOMING that fear however …
is what life is all about.
drakespeare.tumblr.com
She is a ghost, now.
A chilling slice of wind that curls
Around the hairs of your forearm.
Refusing to leave in such a fashion,
She is a ghost.
Taken not by the disease
That wracked the body,
But simply by some ink on a page
A pen in the hand
A job at a desk
An office in a building
A policy at a company
A bottom line on a spreadsheet
That said this disease could withstand
Modern medicine and
Modern accounting that says
While we buy a war and a campaign and a Lexus,
We can’t afford to save everybody.
- J. Barrett Wolf
Rock-hopper Koala
a showboat showoff
one of the real neophyte off-white
hot pants flappers
dances in an itsy-bitsy glitter glass
bikini with the body of a brass wine flask
suffers peg-leg stigmata
recites sonnet texts from a silo oracle
The accompanist Bristol Esau
(a snooker table pen name)
and a member of the royal society
of radio cyborgs
tickles the Tibetan Ivories
performing unicorn boogie-woogie
an operatic euphony
on a withered out of tune
stuntman organ
Together they open woe,
open wounds
peel away scabby scars of society
impale inanimate lunar moths
with needles of pliable tantric
marsh mellow melodies
odd asps of modern art
highlighted in a toga opine annex
music and verse presented
in a nanobot nutshell
spiced with nutmeg
saved by hell’s bells
Peter V. Dugan
I suffer from brain freeze
sitting in front of boob-tube
cable network news
listening to the voice of verbs
the choice of words
scoundrel newsman on leave
read from a slanted script
skews all ethical earth essays
a rat line lime slime fiasco
provide the aligned zodiac animaniacs
the tinge of the titans’ hidden edition
of altered ego pages
soothe the neon sages
with diplomas on the wall
emanating from peon wages
an earned enema of the ages
by diplomats in the stall
racism dislikes the discourse of freedom
improvise a makeshift hatchet job
using robocop roommates in white hoods
that sing around the binge bingo bongo
free lancing square dancing
kick up one’s heels in an inane mange mango
doing the sting tango
entice seated saints with rarer radar scams
arrest in-law stowaways
while love runs amok
Timothy Leary watches
from Chicago, O’Hare
Michael Jordan takes to the air
and Mrs O’Leary’s cow jumps over the moon
Peter V. Dugan
and why have now chosen the skies
to release this deluge congruent with
my uterus. and why after a month of
flush and flutter, she burst again. and
the rain now explodes in a witching
hour proclamation meant for me per-
haps for me alone. aligned as well in
violence alarmed by the tell-tale bang
of propelled steel not stopping and an
explosion. now the streets are all barred
up and the traffic diverted. the twenty-
four hour convenience store branch closed
and dark perhaps for the first time since its
commencement, cops and servicemen
drawing in and around. i heard the bang
through the rain and darkness. he saw
the flash of light rise in exultancy in the
night sky… thru the rain. and my own
flood complacently diminishing ‘neath
robe and out-curling thought. force,
collision, brightness and deluge. love,
lust. collusion, harsh words. complacent
collusion with the inner sanctum seeming
to pull gently closed the inner veil of blood.
and now past the witching hour, the flood
of blood
and the skies opening up and the clatter
of teardrop voices, between my legs re-
opening and between the sky and the
jagged mangled earth
unbeholden. and… neither substance beholden.
only consciousness beholden to either phe-
nomena. and the two held in twain and
in utter dilemmic awe.
Michele Trigleth
The President raises human rights, as vowed
House votes to repeal, Senate hits snooze button
While the last Christians ponder pressing China
As the US prepares to lift ban on a racy show
with teenagers showing subtle signs of progress
Prolonged life on trial, as Justices uphold background
checks for Ex-Alabama Governor’s conviction
Courts weigh whether a carefully constructed guest list
Has personal rights, but won’t end some deficits
More officials quit on a brink of a windfall
No fifth term to open markets
And wire taps fan flames,
as gay parents are thriving
Priests chide the skimpiness of it all
But they receive laurels abroad and brickbats at home
Preaching about a string theory liar, a TV host
and peace corps leader who will seek to put woes
behind him, instead he becomes a cook
and care taker, after scrutiny by New Jersey
Jets hit familiar steel wall, cast blame on
Chechen dissidents, retribution is inevitable
but diplomatic dangers lurk as traffic backs up
go-carts and limos race away unscathed by scandal
nitwits evade shoddy paw slang in a mailroom silo
dressed in armor highlighted by air-drop bloodlust
from a knavery of an Odessa dole-out
filled with oven holes and coal bin treats
we should shout and yawn amen
Or maybe
recite an ode on the eve of a bad omen
—Peter V. Dugan
the lawyer’s tedious day-to-day humdinger
leading to the Griffin Longbow Amnesty
filled with thorny eye candy from Indochina
likewise; The Windows’ Dynamite Psyche blows-up
all that is newsworthy from picayune ice fishing
to a gigabyte powwow on the Infobahn
Somewhere on a one-way street intersecting
the internet highway nowhere near
Key Largo, Acapulco or Netanyahu
but still, there exists the omnipresent
foolish air sac on perma top woods
while sharp Sherpa spa aides apply
lethal doses of arsenic aloes
leaving the lace lard ajar, as exacta Ajax
aspires to spiders , the stolen staples’ of academia
a theft setting off Rolex alarm cameos
written in a Beat armband novella
by an opal afro robber describing a smidgen
of an ordeal that set a wave of ennui
to amuse safari yuppie pill poppers
asleep at the wheel with tin can bedside manner
living in a Miami Beach coma
a fellow spy akin to the slobs in oil studs
decorated in decal bitter steel, offers a totem
shot at an acute tilt to dwell on a shale flux
in the stock market trout basket
endorsing the gable gas box energy dogma
releasing onions reseed to shift the abyss
in the Barbary apex, the burnt ribbons flown
in Iona England as Playtex care ends
a shaky snaky plea to soar with hip-hop riches
— Peter V. Dugan
Short lyric poetry of the South Slope. Published by the Park Slope Poetry Project. Submit poems no longer than a sestina (39 lines), or short videos (under 2 min). Please put your your name under the poem. Come to our reading the first Tuesday of every month at the Park Slope Poetry Project www.poetrycentral.com.
