Just a chorus cliche
with spice and phoenix,
with
ampersands and cashews
in a tin to my left for the man
on my right.
Useless news for sour goes:
Dad, pleased to meet you.
I know you know, but
wipe your eyes.
and we’re
drunk on high
about an hour I think.
Practicing black light shadows
he says slowly
"I love her and it scares me."
Lamb’s lungs swing
notes in iambic meteors
but he shows me
axioms on her body, across her arms.
A year or two
of temporary and (but mild) recurring depression of
what is me?
A good time to move on, I think.
Yelling through lines and clicks
conscientious, self conscious
stream of consciousness.
I got three dogs fuck.
No such thing as a double hallucination,
just throwing that out there,
he thought,
recording his voice through
his mind.
Think of something major:
You cant show me sound, he thought.
Yes I can.
Drink from the earth
what the water can't give,
but refuse willingly.
Let's go to the atmosphere
knowingly going
into danger
but let's smirk with hidden tears
and step into infinity.
Good bye, maybe I'll tell
you the story.
Tuesday, December 16
Sunday, November 30
and she giggles
Actually seeing snow's
fat flakes kissing her lips
in the same way I should have been kissing her lips.
And twice more again there was Nature's enviably
blind courage.
Her ridges along mine
and
on the side, licking for up for good
measure and showmanship.
Again those ridges attack
and once pricked
I lash back and grab her hips.
I shiver and she giggles.
fat flakes kissing her lips
in the same way I should have been kissing her lips.
And twice more again there was Nature's enviably
blind courage.
Her ridges along mine
and
on the side, licking for up for good
measure and showmanship.
Again those ridges attack
and once pricked
I lash back and grab her hips.
I shiver and she giggles.
Sunday, October 5
She,
She,
relaxing a smile,
her lips like
poorly stitched
silk,
lolling her head out the window
deep in that low tire fog,
smiles at the wind.
relaxing a smile,
her lips like
poorly stitched
silk,
lolling her head out the window
deep in that low tire fog,
smiles at the wind.
Wednesday, July 16
homerun stunner
I
homerun stunner
makes the houses light
up when
a guitar dog to the
left licks the ground.
Chorus cliche
with spice and phoenix,
with
ampersands and cashews
in a tin for the man
to my left.
Useless news for sour goes,
Dad, pleased to meet you.
I know you know, but
wipe your face.
II
The sky pops in my head,
what was I?
Hello again, Popadoobop.
III
Yellow lines swirl the long mural.
His
illegal phoenix at the foot of his feet and we’re
drunk on high
about an hour I think.
A wrong misplaced sliver under the mouse’s
beard, long hair for
something like that.
Practicing black light shadows
he says slowly
"I love her and it scares me."
IV
Faith
is what you make.
It's yours.
Lamb’s lungs swing
notes in iambic meteors.
I knocked his pipe on the rot iron and he hacked something
big and meaty in his throat
but he shows me
axioms on her body, across her arms.
A year or two
of temporary and (but mild) recurring depression of
what is me?
A good time to move on, I think.
V
Yelling through lines and clicks
conscientious, self conscious
stream of consciousness.
I got three dogs fuck.
No such thing as a double hallucination,
just throwing that out there,
he thought,
recording his voice through
his mind.
VI
Peace's echo
finds its way in
the blank valley
in your beating head.
You feel that?
That
that everything at the moving
Have a good night,
he forced a smile.
Form open to flow,
open awareness!
but awareness to what?
Pause for nirvana and
sleep some more.
Repeat
everything.
Graffiti spells love
on walls,
and
tired evolution
erased natural selection.
Think of something major:
You cant show me sound, he thought.
Yes I can.
Feel your head on the acid
shock of iron
and your
feet say
“hello!”
VII
Admitting truth to a strange friend
while closing your eyes
and thinking of your chipped tooth
and chapped lower lip.
"You too ?"
VIII
Don’t listen to depression
and breathe.
Drink from the earth
what the water can't give,
but refuse willingly.
Let's go to the atmosphere
knowingly going
into danger
but let's smirk with hidden tears
and step into infinity.
Good bye, maybe I'll tell
you the story.
homerun stunner
makes the houses light
up when
a guitar dog to the
left licks the ground.
Chorus cliche
with spice and phoenix,
with
ampersands and cashews
in a tin for the man
to my left.
Useless news for sour goes,
Dad, pleased to meet you.
I know you know, but
wipe your face.
II
The sky pops in my head,
what was I?
Hello again, Popadoobop.
III
Yellow lines swirl the long mural.
His
illegal phoenix at the foot of his feet and we’re
drunk on high
about an hour I think.
A wrong misplaced sliver under the mouse’s
beard, long hair for
something like that.
Practicing black light shadows
he says slowly
"I love her and it scares me."
IV
Faith
is what you make.
It's yours.
Lamb’s lungs swing
notes in iambic meteors.
I knocked his pipe on the rot iron and he hacked something
big and meaty in his throat
but he shows me
axioms on her body, across her arms.
A year or two
of temporary and (but mild) recurring depression of
what is me?
A good time to move on, I think.
V
Yelling through lines and clicks
conscientious, self conscious
stream of consciousness.
I got three dogs fuck.
No such thing as a double hallucination,
just throwing that out there,
he thought,
recording his voice through
his mind.
VI
Peace's echo
finds its way in
the blank valley
in your beating head.
You feel that?
That
that everything at the moving
Have a good night,
he forced a smile.
Form open to flow,
open awareness!
but awareness to what?
Pause for nirvana and
sleep some more.
Repeat
everything.
Graffiti spells love
on walls,
and
tired evolution
erased natural selection.
Think of something major:
You cant show me sound, he thought.
Yes I can.
Feel your head on the acid
shock of iron
and your
feet say
“hello!”
VII
Admitting truth to a strange friend
while closing your eyes
and thinking of your chipped tooth
and chapped lower lip.
"You too ?"
VIII
Don’t listen to depression
and breathe.
Drink from the earth
what the water can't give,
but refuse willingly.
Let's go to the atmosphere
knowingly going
into danger
but let's smirk with hidden tears
and step into infinity.
Good bye, maybe I'll tell
you the story.
Sunday, June 15
Bonnie Brae
Three grand
children on the avenue
with conelicking lips
a baby's finger dirties
a line and the blonde's
pink feet bounce
till she
falls asleep
children on the avenue
with conelicking lips
a baby's finger dirties
a line and the blonde's
pink feet bounce
till she
falls asleep
Tuesday, June 3
He wanted to be a surgeon
He wanted to be a surgeon...
Flesh frightens
human bits on
pale eyes
open to go
screaming but
what happened to the gun?
Metal for
Americans
at hotel room
two37
blood irony
and pointlessly nude
foreshadows
with a silhouette purse.
Have you seen her
noble, burning eye?
Flesh frightens
human bits on
pale eyes
open to go
screaming but
what happened to the gun?
Metal for
Americans
at hotel room
two37
blood irony
and pointlessly nude
foreshadows
with a silhouette purse.
Have you seen her
noble, burning eye?
vibrate smile
Noble sex,
frizzy glasses too,
read blood on papers
and the yellow high.
Pursed eyes
strike
alien legs.
A child points his
too-big glasses
and she gig
gles shame.
Vibrate smile
in a coffee house.
frizzy glasses too,
read blood on papers
and the yellow high.
Pursed eyes
strike
alien legs.
A child points his
too-big glasses
and she gig
gles shame.
Vibrate smile
in a coffee house.
summer walk
about geese and baby geese
and
(no green gay wind)
all walk
summer.
Cute blonde
with a cute
but
to
day never looks
back
with a perfect bounce.
Beautiful sweaty
beauty sways her hips.
Mustache stained lips
coffee burns for
years!
Resist the dog
on a summer walk.
and
(no green gay wind)
all walk
summer.
Cute blonde
with a cute
but
to
day never looks
back
with a perfect bounce.
Beautiful sweaty
beauty sways her hips.
Mustache stained lips
coffee burns for
years!
Resist the dog
on a summer walk.
Thursday, May 1
The Iceberg Theory
"If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water. A good writer does not need to reveal every detail of a character or action."
—Ernest Hemingway
—Ernest Hemingway
Wednesday, April 30
like father like son
my poetry is very similiar to my father's.
He has recently changed his style and I am now adopting and adapting it.
I love him and his amazing vision.
He has recently changed his style and I am now adopting and adapting it.
I love him and his amazing vision.
Dad's poem
my dad wrote this poem. he used a short story of mine as his inspiration.
nothing was there
brown tie his loosen
polished amonia
gibberish terrif
ying
spitting
alleys catching up to me
bitch like a stung hollered bolted
ac
ross honk
ed cars
screeched skin
flesh te aring
my self over crotch
tree trunks
watermelons pointe
d
nose smiling a wrapped a
nkle
behind a wall hidden torture toys
on the ground bl
ood i
breathed cold air conditioned air
initial surge died hobbled
halls my waist no
thing
there
clean wrists
fogged memory
of me take care
nothing was there
swung head i my on
th
e floor
keep movingflatonmyback
i couldn't hear anyone
my feet at saw him
it ended
and i was a gorilla
playing three decker c
hess
head floating down in cement
winning money
it
- gishi bian
- robert payne
30 april 2008
well your revised edition of this paper was again full of images
i could use!
it was a completely different paper
polished
thoughtful changes
exciting
well done
i noted it was a bit longer
it seemed like a slice of turkey from the breast
just a eye into a longer piece
leaves one wondering and wanting more
i hope you like my poetic version
i started from the end
and went up
reversed some things and added an ending
comments welcome
love love love dad
nothing was there
brown tie his loosen
polished amonia
gibberish terrif
ying
spitting
alleys catching up to me
bitch like a stung hollered bolted
ac
ross honk
ed cars
screeched skin
flesh te aring
my self over crotch
tree trunks
watermelons pointe
d
nose smiling a wrapped a
nkle
behind a wall hidden torture toys
on the ground bl
ood i
breathed cold air conditioned air
initial surge died hobbled
halls my waist no
thing
there
clean wrists
fogged memory
of me take care
nothing was there
swung head i my on
th
e floor
keep movingflatonmyback
i couldn't hear anyone
my feet at saw him
it ended
and i was a gorilla
playing three decker c
hess
head floating down in cement
winning money
it
- gishi bian
- robert payne
30 april 2008
well your revised edition of this paper was again full of images
i could use!
it was a completely different paper
polished
thoughtful changes
exciting
well done
i noted it was a bit longer
it seemed like a slice of turkey from the breast
just a eye into a longer piece
leaves one wondering and wanting more
i hope you like my poetic version
i started from the end
and went up
reversed some things and added an ending
comments welcome
love love love dad
Monday, April 28
thunder
thunder
clapssmile
a scarf a
hooded sweatshirt
he has a beard and
the other knows it
all; metaphysics as a pillow.
the last one is French
and I'm just learning.
unimaginably arrogant,
pretentious, and elegant.
teeth chat
er and we breath
e our hands.
clapssmile
a scarf a
hooded sweatshirt
he has a beard and
the other knows it
all; metaphysics as a pillow.
the last one is French
and I'm just learning.
unimaginably arrogant,
pretentious, and elegant.
teeth chat
er and we breath
e our hands.
Sunday, April 27
she me
a frog to the sewer and over the drain while the trees
up in the air and back with the leaves.
She me and kisses while
mine are closed,
but still
she me with her smiling eyes.
up in the air and back with the leaves.
She me and kisses while
mine are closed,
but still
she me with her smiling eyes.
Thursday, April 24
Tuesday, April 22
Monday, April 21
Two, twisting to one.
Two, twisting to one.
Writhing, delicate and smooth.
Hushed moans of bliss and love's lust.
Bated breaths of passion on young breasts,
timid fingers, timid flesh.
A kiss of the lips, and they heave their chests
Writhing, delicate and smooth.
Hushed moans of bliss and love's lust.
Bated breaths of passion on young breasts,
timid fingers, timid flesh.
A kiss of the lips, and they heave their chests
Raven Poem (part 2)
Senior Year, 2007
oh!
That raven slipped, and
oh! how gloriously
she swooped.
I watched with a creeping smile as
she finally plunged from her
steadfast perch, sliding beautifully
s
o
u
t
h.
She tilted, rocked
then dropped;
spread awkwardly her lovely wings
and glided downward
lyrically.
oh!
That raven slipped, and
oh! how gloriously
she swooped.
I watched with a creeping smile as
she finally plunged from her
steadfast perch, sliding beautifully
s
o
u
t
h.
She tilted, rocked
then dropped;
spread awkwardly her lovely wings
and glided downward
lyrically.
Raven Poem (part 1)
Senior Year, 2007
a Raven will Never slip
Thirty8 ravens rest ahead,
in the road I see them
cock-cock-cocking along.
I walk,
they stop.
I stop,
they fly.
Adoration is nothing but a twist of a lovely knife in
in a pathetic/needful heart,
guised in, well...
hmpf.
There is no disguise.
Infatuation becomes obsession,
a bane of existence/
an identity (?)
Who are you, who are you, really?
Really?
I don't believe you.
What makes you want me?;
what makes you want it even
more?
And what when it is no longer it, but that, what then?
Will you want that more than them?
and when will (if ever) it [that] be me [them]?
(Yes, Selfish, I know)
Now 20nine ravens sit,
wobbling along the tree branches deftly.
Yet I still wonder,
impatiently hoping one will slip,
No. It won't happen.
I'll wishandhopeand cross my fingers, but
a Raven will Never slip
and I won't get what I want.
a Raven will Never slip
Thirty8 ravens rest ahead,
in the road I see them
cock-cock-cocking along.
I walk,
they stop.
I stop,
they fly.
Adoration is nothing but a twist of a lovely knife in
in a pathetic/needful heart,
guised in, well...
hmpf.
There is no disguise.
Infatuation becomes obsession,
a bane of existence/
an identity (?)
Who are you, who are you, really?
Really?
I don't believe you.
What makes you want me?;
what makes you want it even
more?
And what when it is no longer it, but that, what then?
Will you want that more than them?
and when will (if ever) it [that] be me [them]?
(Yes, Selfish, I know)
Now 20nine ravens sit,
wobbling along the tree branches deftly.
Yet I still wonder,
impatiently hoping one will slip,
No. It won't happen.
I'll wishandhopeand cross my fingers, but
a Raven will Never slip
and I won't get what I want.
Four short poems
in my Intro to Poetry class at
Macalester College, 2007.
1.
4:08pm
dreams (fall
happy) and
nightmares
(quick
ly curl)
2.
4:13pm
Can't fly? Oh, just run.
Move along move on, just live.
Time now, not then. Go!
3.
Never's end never ends
and
End's never never comes.
4.
Another cat's dance
stops to dab the saucer.
Macalester College, 2007.
1.
4:08pm
dreams (fall
happy) and
nightmares
(quick
ly curl)
2.
4:13pm
Can't fly? Oh, just run.
Move along move on, just live.
Time now, not then. Go!
3.
Never's end never ends
and
End's never never comes.
4.
Another cat's dance
stops to dab the saucer.
Haiku vs. Senryu
Senryu:
senryū tend to be about human foibles while haiku tend to be about nature, and senryū are often cynical or darkly humorous while haiku are serious
Senryū is a similar poetry form [to Haiku] that emphasizes irony, satire, humor, and human foibles instead of seasons, and may or may not have kigo or kireji.
Haiku:
a major form of Japanese verse, written in 17 syllables divided into 3 lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables, and employing highly evocative allusions and comparisons, often on the subject of nature or one of the seasons.
senryū tend to be about human foibles while haiku tend to be about nature, and senryū are often cynical or darkly humorous while haiku are serious
Senryū is a similar poetry form [to Haiku] that emphasizes irony, satire, humor, and human foibles instead of seasons, and may or may not have kigo or kireji.
Haiku:
a major form of Japanese verse, written in 17 syllables divided into 3 lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables, and employing highly evocative allusions and comparisons, often on the subject of nature or one of the seasons.
Senryu
We're gonna work backwards.
These were written during Mr. Alex Spare's First Period AP English class on Thursday, April 26th, 2007.
While Spare was bobbing his head and asking permission, I was feeling pensive and my mind was a racin'
Naps are my favorite
My arm and face are now red
I want more sleep, Mraw!
Pleasures of the flesh,
Fleeting, often without love.
Is that all there is?
[Please! Can't there be more?]
Pleasantly, oh, yes!
we would lay together; peace.
Love me honestly.
Fire burns 'neath my flesh
life is nothing; lost and found.
Jessie, you smell bad.
Carnal needs unmet,
dangling herself over me.
Not even she knew.
'else is there to life?
Lovepassion, pleasuresin...
Over there! The sounds.
These were written during Mr. Alex Spare's First Period AP English class on Thursday, April 26th, 2007.
While Spare was bobbing his head and asking permission, I was feeling pensive and my mind was a racin'
Naps are my favorite
My arm and face are now red
I want more sleep, Mraw!
Pleasures of the flesh,
Fleeting, often without love.
Is that all there is?
[Please! Can't there be more?]
Pleasantly, oh, yes!
we would lay together; peace.
Love me honestly.
Fire burns 'neath my flesh
life is nothing; lost and found.
Jessie, you smell bad.
Carnal needs unmet,
dangling herself over me.
Not even she knew.
'else is there to life?
Lovepassion, pleasuresin...
Over there! The sounds.
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