Bad Silhouette

Lucy in the City

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 03:16:00 +0000

The glowing yellow moon at the center of the sky
Was a dim flickering bare bulb, corpse like grey
On the stained wallpaper. In his mind a journey lies
On reams of little tablets on unimagined waves
Of synaptic tsunamis. A mix of circuit boards
wired in AI, a paranoid biological-android boy
Toying with his gears and slamming simple chords
Walking fast on pointless tasks, jingling the coins
Truffles and other treasures of the candy store.
Miraculously walking on the church reflecting pool
Falling victim to a swarm of déjà-vu school children
We picked apart their way-ish manners being cruel
Boisterously laughing and exhibiting shrill grins.
Feasting on park benches, the simmering illusion
Was a smell like a sleigh ride, a horses steaming lunch.

Untitled

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Sun, 01 Feb 2009 18:18:00 +0000

Belting from my melting lungs,
Traffic cones
Are neon guns.

I babble on in Babylone.
The tower of Babel,
I tumble from.
This language a sun drifting down;
Just a rattle,
I teething on.

Belting from my melting lungs,
Traffic cones
Are neon guns.

---hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha---

Check-Out Girl

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 21:47:00 +0000

All I remember is how I forgot
The words I’d say in an astrological way,
The December in my nervous walk,
A crab locked in duel with a luscious fox,
Elegant locks and eloquent small talk
The duchess with eyes like brushes
That hushes my thoughts like Saturn
Minus patterns divided by time, growing Toxic
Turquoise roots bright. She shatters
Like glass from mind blowing magic.
A fool with a net I look for pieces to gather.
My crush is a crutch and I’m a lost in Babylon
Like Kermit the Frog I bumble and babble on.
Pacing I wonder whether this poem
Will even matter. Under a hat patiently I grow ‘em,
Thanking Jah everyday that I know H.I.M.
He blessed me with rhyme, many times he tests.
Thus peace and happiness and truth I must manifest
To the best of my ability. I and I project love
Each word is a hug and each letter a kiss
Laila, you’re inspiration is bliss I hold no other above
Take this as a token and be my Empress.

Scalding (unfinished)

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 14:18:00 +0000

The potion sizzled as the pot quickly emptied
As I received her intentions
Because just one thing did she want from me
A simple kiss and she would set me free.

She waddled as she stirred her brew
And for every ingredient the flame fiercely grew.
“Ear of Armenian and a schoolgirl’s shoes
Into this wand do I infuse.”

She laughs a stinking cackle vicious
A sound that only bubbles from brews of witches
In my mouth the fetid smell swirls and swishes
As she sews my lips with just 4 stitches

My whipping tongue and voice was muffled thunder
In a sunken well where lived her humble hunger
By wishing she had suddenly stumbled
Into a kiss of blood with dry scabbed lips of umber.

My crispy layers, with every foot-step she pulls
Peeling slowly from my sizzling onion soul
She left me, burning like a lump of charcoal
A crackling ember, I slowly remember the cold.
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hmmm, this is a halloween themed poem i did today. not done yet, but i'm not sure why, maybe i am.

Sinking SUnset

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 19:32:00 +0000

Number Nine in Time

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 19:29:00 +0000

Spliff # 4,120

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 18:45:00 +0000

Running down the street dodging rain drops
Splashing on the beats like weeds on rocks
Stepping on the leaves. My words were wet
Like my shoes and socks, but that’s what I get.
Walking with the sheeples like a marshmallow in the sky
Doing the strawberry slide, on the Alewife side
I get back to the beaches, by reaching to a friend
He lit up a spliff, Northern Lights and Bali Shag blend.

Scraps

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Wed, 24 Sep 2008 03:50:00 +0000

I am what I am

And I do what I can

But that doesn’t mean

I can poetry slam

Like a ghost on the scene

Or a con on the lamb

I’m a stanza fiend

Without a plan.

I hold every hit and make them last

Like every hit from all the joints of my past

I used the last of my kif from my grinder

And my little blue bowl is cashed

And I don't mind a bit because its

Rolled up Dutch in a spliff like hash.

Spliff #3,523

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 19:34:00 +0000

Abstraction, when it’s subtlety is a fraction
Of its puddles of action
Can steal you back from Babylon
And your handle on conventional wisdom.
The city is a womb from which I come
Cumming wildly passionately, too many cellos for some
With a beat like the seat cushion, and the Subway hum
The passengers are duplexes and condominiums of
Yuppies, puppies, muppets and all the sheeples I love
Each one a finger traveling in purgatory’s glove
Sit melting in wax, their faces hovering on the traincar’s floor.
(I juest received a fax, each page was a boor.)
My fingerprints are captions, the keys are the doors
[For the need of the herd to ship the weed and the herbs
I’m breeding Dutch helicopters. From seeds into birds.]
Like the creed of the Brujo is a journey through shrooms
Ganja is a dojo where a flower named Jah(bless) blooms.

Urban Rainfall

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Sat, 06 Sep 2008 18:34:00 +0000

Hollywood Wax Potatoes

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Thu, 04 Sep 2008 16:45:00 +0000

The quickness of the landscape like a rolling set
Was blooming like a flower in a déjà vu cup
In the holder of a cruiser with the sirens blaring
The autumn rolled back though the wheels were stuck.
He tried to stare in the eyes of the judges of the halls
Fastening his visage those tears were swallowed
By pressing his sadness into small glass beads
That jingled an "om" in his skull so hollow.
The moon was fate, but coincidence eclipsed
And the walls of concrete were shivering shins.
He was a goose bump stepping softly among their craters
Then into the fresh repeating canvas his thought receded again
The autumn forgot him when his jeans wept
With the smell of freshly cut grass
And the physicists jealously looked through a lens
At a rolling landscape of laser printed canvas.

The Boggart

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Wed, 03 Sep 2008 17:07:00 +0000

Crumbling like leaves in gutters my shrinking stomach grumbles
Mumbling while I putter, from the bed, to floor, darkness stumbles
My thoughts are grape jelly congealing to rubbery elasticity
I light my ear like a candle and sail through the opacity
The walking night, right next to me, hiding behind my head
Lurking around every corner and snoozing under the bed.

“DON’T LIE TO ME!” The boggart moaned in an oily scolding tone
The air was moist like moldy bread, and out of shadows like a phone
He spilt like ink into a glass, into a world that wouldn’t last
Every moment more purple, a visible gas, his presence reeked like ass.
“Why so malicious? Your stench is vicious and sharp like broken dishes.”
“I am what I am, I am by no means a man. Do you mean to be so pernicious?”
“I tend to be rude when lying to night is what I’ve been accused.”

Acting offended in a move so swift and splendid he told me I had to choose
“This world has nothing in it like what I hold in my right hand
Pick it up and grip it tight and it will crumble into sand.
The other thing can’t be smelled or touched, held or seen at all
It mostly functions like a crutch, but can’t even catch you when you fall.”

“DON’T LIE TO ME!” To the boggart I yelled. “I am under my own spell
Keep your treasure in your hand and mind, because I know your tricks too well.
Hold it tight and pass it off as pain or pleasure, constant toil or eternal leisure
As small as sand or as large as oceans, I am no slave to your ignorant notions:
That night is dark therefore not like a feather, or rain is wet so tis unpleasant weather.
I see right through your rues like glass, because what I see is not of the future or past.”

Scraps

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Mon, 01 Sep 2008 16:32:00 +0000

Towering letterblock buildings were breathing adrenaline shocks
Bubbles of bacterium drip snot where if whitefish knocks
The huddlebird sings a broken tune of igloos without atomic clocks
And the b52 blizzard is as white and thick as double layered socks

My eyes were refracting and so fast acting
The world was flashing and I was detracting.
My head has got wizards with a pair of scissors,
Firing words from his wand like fiery missiles
If my life were a novel the pages would appear
Like letters in the boggle box, the suggestions are clear

Mutters from bats in caverns are velvety caps in taverns
Worn like it’s the latest fashion. Having too many shots of absinthe
Their tongues are dead and words are in language heaven
Sentences are rivers of mystical medecines,
Sanguine floods on glaciers of shivering penguins
Are hemhoragging brains of redefined hedonism.

WOw, I haven't updated in a long time. I've been in search of inspirado, but she is illusive. My adventures have taken me to state forests and cities and I just got back from Brooklyn for Labor Day and Jouvert. I will be updating again soon.

Gottlieb Zipper 2

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 18:20:00 +0000

Classroom Cannibal

Overtelling history over a tape recorded recitation
His world was a space station of lemonade
“Gottlieb hello. Hello Gottlieb.”
“The world into which I’ve been hurled is an egg hardboiled
So my brains aren’t soiled by microwaves MY HELmet must be tinfoiled”
Fair-play-Gottlieb was. (he) a kite instantly above them
“Kill Kill KILL, do my bidding minions!” he whined like Seinfeld.

----
Fairlove in Numbered Boxes

Clinging to lost chalkboard theorems like Velcro
Student Zipper tore like a rip down the middle of a jacket
“Seaborn illness in the wartorn city, like a shivering membrane
Is the difference between the dying populace and the slow and insane”
Finding himself among the popcorn
Familiar like his mother made on Thanksgiving before the game
He made salty wine pressing with his feet, every crunch sinking.
Like his boots were made for walking, his time was ticking
And Gottlieb stood with a chin above his nose and railed
“Options are effervescent boxes lettered or numbered one, two or three
But every fill is a meaningless spill of graphite into thoughtless captivity.”

June First Flow

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 01:32:00 +0000

Congruent with my mindset, I double my bet
That my words are as wet as a fishermen’s net
Some are surprised that I’m just eighteen
A poet on the scene, already living the dream
And I soak like a catfish in a mud flow city
With my wit like whiskers, I sense things are gritty
I stopped and thought, and for a moment I fought
My whuttering mind raging a mindfish of rot
With tones of nonsense grimy like wake up gutters
My wounds were the city’s, written in pen on the shutters

Untitled

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Fri, 23 May 2008 20:22:00 +0000

I factory. I factory. I factory.
I am junkyard rearranged.

Racing Thoughts

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Fri, 23 May 2008 13:59:00 +0000

Waking up to other people’s alarm clocks
Rewording sentences to other people’s thoughts
Undoing yarn balls, for a cat with no paws
Energy rolled into a lingering fog.
Writing long words on long paper to speak
To the ceiling to the bed, to no one, for me to keep
There is no net for cubes, like child’s toy, that fit
In the moving sound of a technology retard. Squeege.

These words, like sounds make to my mind, are senseless and I can figure them like I configure them in rhyme. I keep them like energy and they come like showers, fast in water. I fish for them and they bite, but not the bait. They've bit other thoughts. Half thoughts, bit by thoughtfish, kept in mind. My energyfish are thoughtfish, half-fish. The pool with chlorine in it, kept to be mine. I swim, I wish. Breath of air.

Lucas

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Fri, 09 May 2008 13:39:00 +0000

When the peach was bruised,
Worms in apples, or pistachios,
The day was rainy,
The rooster an early riser,
It was Lucas' fault.
A dead Lucas was a salty farm.
A bright Lucas, sweaty midnight.

Slipping into the tub
His knees up, head submerged
Lucas screamed
In mermaid languages, cursing
Pale in chalky water.
A spicy Lucas, the definite apple core.
A childhood Lucas was an apathetic mountain.

Tell Lucas and he knew it.
The chalkboard was his master
and he wore its dust.
A mime, he tickled the sunset.
With a climbing silhouette
A round Lucas was a starving chicken hawk.
A quiet Lucas was a supernova word head.

Drominus 2: Pegasus!

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Thu, 08 May 2008 18:57:00 +0000

Out of late night bus mornings
Came a parking lot hoot
From a buzzing pink light
His silhouette was a jagged moon
Barking “Pegasus Pegasus!”

Pegasus, our neighbor’s antiquated yard-mule
Magical bulldog older than we 3 sons
Spoke like a 4 piece demon horn band
Like leprechaun jig on our eardrums
Toxic Pegasus! Hypnosis Pegasus!

We broke our mannequin legs
Orchestrated mass unmakings
Of flower pots, cars, and lawn furniture
The pink flamingo, a flavorful delicacy
For its plasticized musculature

Corrosive night as if seeping from under his paws
Porch-trolling spine-fur snarl-beast
His growl grumbled a churning in his mud guts
His heartbeat sounded like the clacking of boulders
His steaming snort “Pegasus Pegasus!”

On bikes we were Indians whistling
Proud of our chicken plucked feathers
Wearing streaks of their blood and ash
Hiding our packed lunches, juice boxes
Under ten gallon cowboy hats, muffling Pegasus.

Camped on the vertical horizon mountainside
We were sweating like peppermint hard candy
Cracked heads over hot fudge and spam cakes
The chilling night whisper was a campfire tale
An encompassing shiver of fallen clouds

Miles from the mind waves of “Pegasus Pegasus!”
Wizard bulldog, older than the sun
We soon fell deep into a slumber lust, twisted red
Dead would be our ruler Pegasus
Revenge would be our mercy.

Waking crazed we wandered sleep revenge
Our muscles bent on memory of murder
Every step lunged towards Pegasus and cut night
The last cut, was an antiquated yard-mule
Toxic dead Pegasus! Hypnosis revenge Pegasus!

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I'm still editing this one. But it all came out within the course of an hour or so. It is the second part of the Drominus series and came inspired by the theme "transformation." From Totally Optional Prompts.

What is a poet?, this is a pretty good answer.

Gottlieb Zipper

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Tue, 06 May 2008 19:56:00 +0000

Sense Professor

“In these uncertain times,” said Gottlieb,
“The yellow hats,” not so popular on 5th Avenue,
“Were a Colonel Mustard dream.”
Pale and confused, student blue resumed.
“Professor, my paper, the ink and the zipper?”
“Think, son.” Scraping white nonsense in tingles
“The world is a body, the bird is flying
The zipper is ripping and the earth’s coat is dying.”
~~~~~~~~~
Very Outward Plausibility

Two plump mounds drawn on the blackboard
“Don’t quit your day job, Picasso.” Said student zipper.
He was frustration’s scarf on the deck of a confusion boat
Crumbles of chalk, like malted minds covered Gottlieb’s hands.
Back row Charlie’s North Star rose like a zipper.
“The Golden Arches, like those of Rome,
Are anthill fights like Burger King groans.”
Sudden Gottlieb, like peeling wall paint shouted
“A square is a box fish, like a knife is a gun
A line is a zipper from the earth to the sun.”

Why Burn Stump Buzz Cut

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Tue, 06 May 2008 14:37:00 +0000

The tree is round, like the world is rude
But harmless cuts are love to others
The clown was a mess, but his mark was true
And as much as he grew, the tree couldn’t cover
Carved in a heart the gothic letters MG
The burn-stump bark lonely under thick scar tissue.
Hung from her nest the benevolent Queen Bee
Didn’t slip a clue what conclusions she drew.
The cut of MG, the sharp lettering glow
The thick summer buzzed questions under her wing
What haven’t I figured that the tree does know?
What are my letters? Is the king still King?
Where was I when these marks were made?
The MG in the heart, on the tree in the shade.

Naked Blue World

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 12:56:00 +0000

Naked, much more than uncovered people
Like paint is for billboards, is a streaking landscape
Even rush-hour slows.

Blue, more expansive between rainbows
Not unlike a paper towel in a somber green sea
Is a mop like a rolling cloud.

The world, much larger between people,
Not unlike the subway is for moving
I putter in familiar circles.

The Reciept Pillow Smother

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Sat, 26 Apr 2008 21:15:00 +0000

I have two lines that
Burn in two different inks,
Crashing like atoms
In razor blade sinks.

Bound in a book,
In a pocket of trust.
A pawn was a rust cook
Bubbling carbon to genius.

A rook that crooks
With a torch to his skull.
I Reach arm above eye
Dip from my inkwell.

Acquire taste for scratching retinas
With my pen tip I'm risking tetanus.

Bungalo 89/Cloud 487

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Sat, 26 Apr 2008 20:52:00 +0000

I reckon I’ve brought vegetables
And squid to your stone soup
But hope is not a rotting turnip
THAT BUYS HIS WAY TO THE TOP
My Q-W-E-R-T-Y told the exclamation point
To take a vacation, the words are the yelling
And my mind is the same caliber of bullet
Found at the scene of the artistic death
Of an innocent grandmother parakeet

30 second poem. A stream of thought. My mind took a vacation. I was doing sit-ups to kill space-time and it came to me so I wrote it on the laptop. Read Blink by Malcolm Gladwell, or LANGUAGE, this writing is a felt tip pen and its ink bleeds on the pages of my mind. My new guitar is named Procka-Zul, after the demon whose soul was ensared in her gloss finish when I used intestines to string my tattered sunburst guitar. Where after it was strung my guitar instantly shed its finish and glossed a deathly black with tears of abalone echoing a weep from the sound hole.

Bedroom

noreply@blogger.com (M. Morris Gaman) — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 18:53:00 +0000

Piles and walls of pocket crunched
Napkins of puzzling absurdity
Singularly re-livable
But mostly fluffy clouds
And a black bear in pieces
Rainbows of college ruled notebooks
With calligraphy sweeps of
Thick black nonsense
One pen to a notebook,
Uni-ball vision microscopic
For the blue Italian only
Everything is paper
But walls are not easy to erase