Steampunk love poem

words self-calibrate to match my emotions

all my wires seem intact in the gas lamp glow

no one understands the strength of a potion

until they pour it inside you and they watch you blow

but this is different I cannot quite describe it

I move like a muse with the corset undone

I sense how the power of thunder is striking

and the steam in my pipes pushing up pushing down

I sit on the edge of this meaningful feeling

and everything's trembling inside and out

like a vessel afloat I'm breaking your ceiling 

and reach for you, master, my creature of doubt.

we are two always but one feels the other

the wires are tangled we're both flesh and steel

your arms hold me tight your fingers go further

my eyes melting metal, your tears almost real

now give me a name and teach me your methods

unscrew all the bolts use your lips show me how

this poem will self-destruct in 5 seconds

you may countdown this stanza or you may run.

~NOW!~

Hmmm?

what is this tip toe dance I’m doing

around a purple room

without me moving a limb?

this pursing of lips and

imaginary fingers catching their kiss

at the other end

and this song?

I know this song

 the sounds climbing my frame

up and down, up and down

from pianissimo to forte to pianissimo

why sing it now,  in my dressing gown

smiling in front of a mirror like a dumb man

staring at his feet in a summer puddle

a child is blowing soap bubbles through a straw

in my head

and while my hat is still on

and no one can see a thing

I’m going to corner him

I’m going to catch him

I’m going to grab him by the hand and ask him:

what is this? what is this?

a.m.

dezlipeşte-ţi frunzele de pe nas, cască lung

 unge-ţi încheieturile cu bale de melc

şi fă-mi un ceai cu lămîie si miere

întinde-mi turturele pe sîrmă şi lasă-le să-şi fîlfîie trilul degeaba

în ochiul meu trîntor, nemişcător

prosteşte-mă cu o veste bună , scurtă, neadevarată

cu o orhidee înflorită în şanţ, cu un val nespart de ţărm

 încuie uşa şi-nghite cheia ca pe-o felie de măr

dă-te aproape, aici, pe pat,  lîngă mine

aşază-mi un şal din caşmir pe umeri

o mînă de bărbat pe genunchi

şi citeşte-mi un articol banal din ziarul de ieri

lumea e un demon rătăcit prin coridoarele raiului

cîţi morti, atîţia vii, şi-o singura ramă

din care trebuie să zîmbim cu toţii

pune-mi un Bach

lasă-mi draperiile trase ca un capac de cosciug

nu-mi arăta ceasul cu limba, nu-mi scoate capul din căpiţa cu nori

şi nu mă întreba ce-am facut aseară

dimineaţo, de nu mă laşi să termin poemul ăsta

jur  că mă urc pe tine şi

I do

do you follow rainbows to the end of the road

and pretend they end there with a screech of the breaks

or perhaps you miss the train and convince yourself that

you were on the wrong platform or you were there just

waving someone goodbye

or do you receive flowers from people you never loved

and your ‘thank you’ is the discorded key of a piano
 in the middle of a concert

do you make someone cry and comforting them is a trembling hand

a surgeon never shows the world

do you etcetera your list of to do’s into a painted oblivion

and never ever want to admit

that your blues are not just a shade of angry skies

do you talk too much so you can never hear

the voice of your loneliness

bouncing of the walls of your room

do you read tones of recommended books  

to help you catch another day

while tomorrow comes and discards you into yesterday

without a word of apology

do you stumble across true love and wish you broke a leg

rather than a heart

do you think this poem is nothing to do with you

Secret Places by Rumi

Well..

[..I said to Barbara, I said]

I’m writing my book, making my costumes and playing me

I think I am rather good

remembering all those lines that could

have once made a difference

when sunsets felt real,

 beyond their damaged magnetic fields

I sang, I danced, I concurred

and when my sword bent from my knees

 and I couldn’t cry anymore

I walked on burning coal through the icy rain

to embrace the forgotten

I keep on writing my book

I pierce my ears, die my hair, conjure the dark forces

and anchored by fear I deliver

touching, exhilarating, borderline shocking

live entertainment

half brave, half pushed

sometimes merely there

I remember the lights,

blinding they are, hallowing they are

I keep on wearing my costumes

children rush to me like lambs to their mother-sheep

and their smiles, joy and clapping

are worth a whole sun and one bright half of a Moon

we lick ice-cream together,

 get colds together

make sticker-charts together and

sit on the naughty step together

and after dark - and only after dark – we pray to not have to pray again

shh!

keep reading

turn the page to the scene

 with the guy who locked the rare wounded dove in a cage

and the woman who loved too much, laughed too much, wore too much lipstick

and her depressed chiwawa

and keep playing me

 Sunday to Sunday

The *NHS Song

There’s a wheeze when I breath and this pain when I live

And no wonder our paths come to cross

You’re my Heaven my Hell within you I dwell

Each time my health is at loss

You’re pretty and sweet when we meet and we greet

But your chit chat’s a ‘NO-NO’ because

I am loosing terrain you drive me insane

And I don't know the name of your boss

Your  system has crashed your words come out mashed

My story – I say it again

But you’re now on the phone while I play my trombone

and my patience’s being washed down the drain

My lips turning pale you’re biting your nail

I just need my prescription, I’m sore

You smile with a smile, I repeat for a while

Everything that I told you before

You click and you stare at the screen I don’t dare

To look for the fear that you’re wrong

I can not buy time even for this crime

But tonight (oh, boy, this is so worth breaking a rhyme)  you’ll be blown on my blog

There’s a fire alarm and you say with a charm

'Please leave the premesis now'

I’ll be damned if I go, all I need is to know

Are you stupid or simply a cow

We part and I leave you wave and I grieve

For they won’t let me kill on the spot

And all I can do is wait a day or two

‘Till Tuesday is better' you thought

~

This saga was mine, I bet my last dime

That the papers will take them to pieces

The name of the story, for such fame and and such glory:

NHS – Hope is for sissies

NHS = National Health Service

Note: This poem is based on a true story and is aiming to reveal the impotence of a failing system. 

Control Panel. Test 01

Statement 1.The poem bellow is false

there’s no rush in pushing dreams

one into another and watch them disappear into black holes

like shiny balls on a Saturday night pool table

no need for hope and fear

to marry again and again and again

lovers can only be parents to one eternal daughter: agony

open your eye

the voices in my head are now quiet

muted by the glowing in the dark yoyo of life

forever ends Tuesday and

 it doesn’t matter why

or how or who played in it

the Big Engineer wants us to be grateful

for every dove flying above our heads

for every loaf of bread sliced on the kitchen table

for every mouthful of air allowed in this room

‘Breath in and hold’/ (should I do what I’m told?)

I take in you2 and exhale love dioxide.

Statement 2.The poem above is true



Audio version:   Control panel. Test 01 by Corina Gina Papouis 


~

As she goes

the coffee will taste the same

the blue chair she sat in

will stay blue

her PC screen – darkened for a while

her pictures – gone

people will chit chat in lower voices about the same things

money/hair/kids/grit/turkeys

the delivery boy will bring the mail

at 11:00 AM sharp

babies will cry until their mothers will feed them

mothers will moan until their babies turn will come

some managers will keep planning targets

some employees will keep ignoring them

some will loose a key from their drawers

some will get their overtime back

but some will remember

there will be one less from now on

one less knock at the door

one less greeting in the morning

one less coat hanging upstairs

one less email to respond to

we shall carry on

smiling

staring at the new elephant in the room

silently called

MISSING

..to Gunsel

Costa's

(fictional tale of real beverages)

he sat at table number 9

she chose 10

their eyes never met

but through the wall wide gilded mirror across the room

he thought her name was Faith

she guessed his was Luke

he took a sip from his mocha massimo every 41 secs

she guessed he was 41, slowly stirring her white-no-sugar earl grey

she wondered if the girl on page three of his 'Sun' was a blond, a brunette or a read head

he wondered what principle she's at in 'Why men love bitches'

they ate lemon and poppy seed muffins with small bites

his lips were firm

hers unable to hold on to the cheery blush lipstick any longer

he thought she was single and had a RSPCA rescued cat called Biscuit

she guessed he was married with three children and a wife called Porscha

she must be driving a Ka

he must be driving a Jag

she waters her plants every Tuesday, goes to pilate classes on Thursday and on Sundays she watches Terms of Endearment in her pink jamies with her friend Chris

he walks his dog at 7, plays rugby for Long Lane on Saturdays and on Fridays goes for a round of Grolsch with his friend, Joe

he snores/ she sings in the shower

he's a catholic/ she never quite liked Jesus

he hates his wife/ she loves her cookies

they laugh at the old woman shouting at a bus driver in the street and hate flying, cyclists in Lycra and anything to do with politics

they secretly read Keats, eat onion bagels and tomato soup and listen to Gershwin

they never spoke

they never will

because if they would

Faith would never be able to watch Star Wars again and Luke -

Luke would lose his faith in

love at first sight

Lady of the rings

the world is pouring into you
a waterfall
a rush
a once in a lifetime
you drink your usual earl grey

milk, no sugar
under a pile of clouds
you feed your pigeons in squares
and think:
am I too old for this
what shall I wear tonight?

your streets are blushing with joy
like the cheeks of a woman in love
I too am in your blood,
a cocktail of sounds,
I hold a little boy’s hand
and in his eyes,
two blue wide screens,
you slowly open up your robes
and wave

turn, turn,
uncover your veils
let us see
the face of the bride of the Earth
walking towards the altar
with a torch in her heart,
and five rings on her finger

Oasis

I swear with my hand on the heart
[mine, another’s]
that I know nothing
that I get on the train on my way home
and come off at some Glasgow terminal
that I write on my shopping list b r e a d
and rush through my front door with stolen roses
nowhere is written for how long, until when
but I hear your words climbing my body
like spiders the wonderwall
like ivy the cross
[mine, another’s]
I know nothing
and no book will be able to tell
how a hand is covering your mouth
and the screaming inside yearns for your body
like an unscrupulous whore
like ivy for the cross
[yours, ours]



Friday, 13

Jason, 

de cînd gestul tău înmănușat m-a oprit

lîngă acest trotuar căptușit cu licheni

mă uit fix în ochii tăi

o mare moartă

în care paragrafele legii înoată 

precum un banc de ton

ești atît de înalt, Jason

încît mă mir cum de epoleții tăi

nu-s acoperiți de zăpadă

tu vrei să știi cine sînt, de unde vin, unde merg

cu cine vorbeam

O, Jason, hai să fugim în Elveția

pe drum îți voi spune cum

moș Crăciun a trecut din nou deasupra Africii

fără să fi fost oprit de niciun copil

tu vrei adevărul meu Jason

și-l scoți din mine precum americanii

pertolul din Kuwait

vocea ta mi-ascunde mîinile la spate

și mă-ntreb tu unde-ți ții cătușele noaptea

soarele mă privește prin insigna ta ca un reflector

într-o cameră fără ferestre

pe lîngă noi traficul șerpuiește

ca o bandă rulantă în fabrica de biscuiți

și prin acest brrm stop brrm stop brrm

stop

numai eu știu, Jason,

cît de frumoase sînt diminețile

fără cozorocul tău aplecat la 45 de grade

peste acest parbriz

...dedicat ofițerului Jason K. de la Poliția Metropolitană din Londra

Optimus Anonymous

as birds scratch the sky

so the clouds can bleed

feathers and fear

over a world in greed

we watch with our hands

soft and ready to kill

for whatever we love

or the secrets we seal

collapsed in the same

cull de sack of the mind

thoughts linger alone

in the land of the blind

we never surrender

when sick and in love

become pure and tender

in God’s hand a dove

and good lies in bad

when the worse fills our hope

are you ready to die?

are you ready to cope?

without knowing how

you can never succeed

so release your birds

so your clouds can bleed

The roses are waiting

(this poem explores how Gunsel and I decided to leave our posh jobs for till jobs at Waitrose)

the roses are waiting

but I can not

and Gunsel can’t either

so full of cravings

my peace, her time

we seem to get neither

alas, we have tried

our best and our worst

to make this a living

the moment has come

we’re raising a toast

our jobs up we’re giving

don’t pity us, reader

don’t even try

to make this last longer

our jobs are dead

our heads are down

but our will just got stronger

we’ll pick up the brushes

we’ll handle the tills

the shelves we shall fill if we have to

so, no more debating!

at Waitrose (no-frills)

the roses are waiting



Who Says Words with My Mouth

Poetry by Rumi

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Written by Wislawa Szymborska, read by Flora Coker

Advertisement from doc|UWM on Vimeo.

The art of losing

losing
and knowing how to is a
Mona-Lisa
painted with
every feeling you own
onto a canvas
you never knew
you had

the more you will stare
into its smile
the less you understand
reason and purpose
integrity dissolves
like an aspirin in a see-through glass
on your kitchen table
nights turn into days
days turn into nothing

your universe cracks
slowly at first
then faster and faster
until nothing else stands
on its feet

the only person you have
in the whole world
is Y O U
don’t lose it
when you lose!

Bono recites Bukowski (BRB)

'Roll the dice' by Charles Bukowski, recited by Bono

Unlike others

you’re one tough tree branch
that would hold the nests
of all birds flapping their wings
freely
in my sky

you’re so beautifully disguised
as a bathrobe
waiting, waiting
long after the running waters have stopped
soft and still
to be filled up
by me

you’re by far
the loudest thunder
striking the same spot
over and over
despite no weather warnings

you’re so me..




you’re welcome