Tag: davidmpitchford
-
Breakdown
you’ve lost all hope of reason, she says. her hypodermic is that for which I came. what the fuck ever happened to refuges, to the sanitaria of yesteryear? I need a peaceful stroll upon a lawn unwired and without the green threat of work, the soft voice of a sympathetic soul. my dreams are meaningless…
-
Written in 2012 about This Current Year
LITTLE APOCALYPSEit’s the end of the world, the end of time,the end of all things, the prophet tells us.but there’s never a calendar entryto guide us, just the vague hint of “in yourlifetime”. all we thought was holy will berevealed as lies of the Adversary.fire and mayhem, disease and flood . . . it’salways the…
-
Poems are Like This
he was something special “back in the day”;she still writes sonnets of/to him, though he’s deadto her these three years; one has to wonderif it’s dedication, obsession, orperhaps merely her addiction aspoetess; in the end – does it reallymatter if the poem is to or foror about anyone in particular? some say one way, some…
-
Question, Please Respond
What is your opinion?
-
The Poetess
younger, she wrote of transcendence beyondthe body, of ecstasies grander thanwhat the flesh can offer; she wrote ofexperiences so wholly spiritualnothing might compare. such were her metaphorsmany considered sublime . . . with age and lifeexperience, her poetry turned moretoward the body, the thrill of nerves touched byhands of her true love; later, the bodilylonging…
-
For All Our Erudition
she and me and a bottle of red wine,questions of cosmic significance tossingback and forth in a hotel room afterthe symposium, philosophies ofstruggle and economics, of art andpsychology, of class and caste—we tossedaround expressions like disenfranchisedand plebeian and bourgeoisie; concepts:opportunity and entitlement,under-privileged and . . . and in the end,it was all words to open…
-
Night After Night
night after night in the twilight of dreamsyou stand beside a brightness blindingits jeweled hues string my heart intobright realms and I wonder at the truthof love glowing from your presence likepromises of succor and rescue from deepdepths of evil times when the world seemsfull of dark enemies and hateful, mercilessfoes who trample thoughtless what…
-
THAT GREENBAUM DAVE
back in the day, was a cat named Dave Rossused to come ‘round to Yella Dove with freshcut grass – no one was ever sure if he grewit in his greenhouse over by Quincyor in some nearby field, but it was eitherthat or his ice-fishing expeditionsto Canada – anyway, they called himDave-the-one-hit-wonder; he was mythicfor…
-
Theodorian Rhapsody
future uncertain but certainly – brightangel on my shoulder, lucky cloverfilling my pocket with wishes I ridelike horses into unicorn meadowsovergrown with posies gathered from allthose forgotten nursery rhymes . . . o Seussianlife: how can I unstar my belly to strideproud among these lovely other sneetches? scrape from these foolish eyes all delusion,o father…
-
Another Lost Sonnet
If Furies were muses, what poet would dare the empty page? tongue stuck in dry cheek, brain electric with fear, yet thrilled to seek glory against their rage. what laurel could then suffice to crown our versed heads? or should we boldly sing our yawp for silent bleak awards of empty lauds? no longer chic…
Fringemonkey Scribbles 