Horrid Poetry

[Mr.Taxi Trix]

My love is as important as some silent shards of mirror in a brown and rusted wheelbarrow, discovered in the fog.

As senseless as untethered stones in freefall.

My passion for my work is like a dancer seen through smoke rings; the flow and curves compel and call in cadences unspecified.

The things we are attached to are like sparks thrown from a bonfire: compelling in their orangeness and brightly, quickly gone.

[Butterfly Man]

Juggler's World

Time in a street show moves faster
One step ahead of a disaster
Jump & scream real loud
Just you against the crowd
Ain't gettin' rich but, hey, it's home

Last night you worked the movie foyer
Like some crazy vaudeville warrior
Start the show with a flash
Make them laugh, get the cash
When the magic is done, the streets you roam

(Chorus)
Know that life isn't fair
Keep it all in the air
Smile, knowing that you
Catch what life throws at you
Cope with all that is hurled
It's a juggler's world

My 6 ft. unicycle is rusted
I hear Dirty Fred just got busted
He just refused to stop
When asked by some cop
He was always a stubborn lad

I got that old familiar yearning
To throw around something burning
That smell so nice & clean
Burnt hair & kerosene
Punter perfume, it ain't bad



written by Wheeler Cole

[charlatan_mudo]

Twolingual

Floating and bobbing
Like a feather
In the breeze
A piece of shit
In zero-gravity

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Incluso mirando hasta
el fondo
de su taza llena de cafe
(solo y amargado)
no pudo encontrar
preguntas a
sus respuestas

[jester]

That moment in the damp dusk,
after a struggle with the reluctant passers by,
you look up,
after pressing on as needs must
making the volunteers happy, hopping on the fly
And where there were spaces
are curious faces
a sea of them swaying - so never say die.

[Butterfly Man]

common, base-born varlet? ..... moi?

The widow-queen of Portugal
Had an audacious jester
Who entered the confessional
Disguised, and there confessed her.

"Father," she said, "thine ear bend down --
My sins are more than scarlet:
I love my fool -- blaspheming clown,
And common, base-born varlet."

"Daughter," the mimic priest replied,
"That sin, indeed, is awful:
The church's pardon is denied
To love that is unlawful.

"But since thy stubborn heart will be
For him forever pleading,
Thou'dst better make him, by decree,
A man of birth and breeding."

She made the fool a duke, in hope
With Heaven's taboo to palter;
Then told a priest, who told the Pope,
Who damned her from the altar!

Barel Dort

[Butterfly Man]

Author Author?!

"Vacuum, yo vacuum, of emptiness around me
I banish you now far away from here.

I am a mountain, of trivial amusements
A swishy servant seeking souls to point and laugh and jeer.

In my obsession I make this invitation,
I call to you to open up: hear my ancient cry.

Nothing will calm me, and soothe my jangled mindset
Except a crowd of punters on whose shoulders I can fly.

There is a quiet slice of dance there in the public eye,
a juice and energy replete with life.
Electric charging ripples driving waves into the sky
careening and cascading through the night.

Give me some people, just fifteen or a hundred,
give me moms and crones and babies, college grads and kids.

What I am whoring is all that I can offer
get over here and drink it, its what I'm given to give.

You are the light force, the lantern in my cavern
the only thing that stops my soul from withering alone.

Come here and join me, and sit beside this bright fire,
and watch it laugh and sing and burn and dance just like a stone.

[Butterfly Man]

did Mary Balazs write this?

Ablaze in his cIownsuit as autumn trees,

the boy grins in front of the ice cream shop

his acts advertise.

He stumbles over his floppy, oversized shoes,

the ball on the end of his nose bobbing.

Spreading his feet, squatting,

he tosses two nine-pins into the air,

adds a third as a sparse crowd collects.

The boy is fifteen and smiling bravely

when the top of one pin strikes the bottom of another,

and the two, colliding, obstruct a third.

Falling, all three sound like water-filled balloons

hitting the pavement and bursting.

Perhaps because of the boy's youth,

perhaps because he smiled even as his record was breaking,

perhaps because of the ease with which

he put the pins into motion again,

as if falling were part of his act,

part of why he is paid to be here,

attracting customers among the mall's

weekend crowd.



To the accompaniment of thin but not unencouraging applause,

the boy again tosses pins into the air, grins when they fall,

he confesses:

only by dropping pins

can he interrupt or halt his act.

More shoppers join the group

with cones,

and no one,

not the boy,

not pausing spectators,

not the owner of the ice cream store is saying

it isn't

a successful Saturday.

[theballoonman]

mariachi bands and mimes....

i walk along the malecon,battling the afternoon moon
berating my disheveled liver,as i wobbly head back to my room.
the smell of chiclets and tequila,waft gently across my path
the bleachly wreak of urine.
takes my mind away from the rash.

chorus
mariachi bands and loud mimes,
and a liver the size of a pee
ay,ay,ay; caramba.
dos mas tequils pora me.

the curses and the curios .
are far louder, over here in the shade...
but its the mariachi band and that crazy mime,
that make me truly, afraid.

It's not the feral american housewives.
with their bleached hair tied cheaply in braids.
Its the trumpetting musical pugilists,
who're keepin my nerves all affrayed.

There's that fluidly lucid old man on the corner ,
who acts just like peppe on crack(but hack)
who doesnt do it for money,
but just to make people react.

he thinks he's quite caballero, really quite soething to see.
but in my day he's as entertaining,
as a syphilitic;
who cries when trying to pee.

Its the local, sordid obstacles. people just passin their times
that sometimes i struggle to cope with.
things like
like mariachi bands and loud mimes.
.

i'll finish this later...anyone been to New Jersey?wanna add a line.or two.

[Butterfly Man]

Pick a picker, any picker, show him to your friends

Wrong All Along


A summer day in ’72 and the Square had come alive
Jimmy picked a slow tune while Henry fiddled five
I was 22, without a clue, so I followed them along
To a tavern built for troubadours that said it's name was Wrong

As I recall, the stage was small and smelled like stale beer
A poetic sort of Falstaff aromatic atmosphere
I took a slot forget-me-not, went on at 2am
The music in my juggling soon made me one of them

Jack passed a plastic pitcher round that no one used for beer
We greatly would appreciate your applause consume our fear
Throw out a line, toss in some rhyme and pass that hook along
Its not about the money, its all about the song


If Eugene's tooth would sputter, Cappy let it slide
Down Steve's hill to Sandy, where Tabby hitched a ride
Smokey may have lost the way; Helt, he never knew
How Larry whistling Dixie turned Charlie green from blue


Ladies wearing Leather made Tirk wilder than the rest
Jonathan went postal, Ronnie felt a bit possessed
Jacqui hit a lick then saw her pick slip out of Mykle‘s hand
Brett played spin the bottle while Sid preferred his canned


Thinking back on memories, the way it was back then
The bar, its stars, the women, the paper and the pen
You gotta say, up to today, its hard to prove Joel wrong
“You won't forget the picker, if you learn to play his song”

http://www.wrongplacesaloon.com/index.html

[Mr.Taxi Trix]

Nice, Robert.