Ravaged Beast In Me

The ravaged beast in me is alive.
It survives on pure instinct.
Have you ever been on the brink.
The kind of thing that you don't have time to think.
Oh oh don't blink.
Your life could flash by before your very eyes.
Evil is just a state mind and that's fine at times.
But you still got to strategies.
Mark the beginning, mark the end.
Lets see who wins.
It's another dirty competition.
The ravaged beast in me is alive.
It survives on pure instinct.
Have you ever been on brink?
Theirs just no time to think.
Don't blink.
A Picasso I paint in blood.
Not afraid to lose everything I love.
Every human must suffer in one way or another.
Mutual indifference, mutual ignorance.

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poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Morning Blues.....

i sit beside a soft
sky blue curtain
as i face the monitor
and i am taking the pains
of sight
i decide to stretch my
hands to the
ceiling
and breathe
deep and take my gaze
beyond this
old glass window

out there is the old house
that i see here
everyday

the caretaker
has taken the weeds this morning
and the land appears

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Louis Aragon'la Telepati

Duyuyorum sesini Aragon
Bağırma lütfen!

Biliyorum
Tahta at'lardan inmeliyim artık
Asıp burjuva takıntılarımı
Çırılçıplak çarmıha
Kesmeliyim Mona Lisa'da
Çıkan bıyığı
Da Vinci uyanmadan

Üç memeli kadın resimleri
Çizemiyorum Aragon
Acıtıyor dudağımı her ısırışta
Teresa'nın memelerindeki yangın
Ne zaman kalçalarında gezinse ellerim
küf kokuyor
Üşüyor tuvalimdeki
Kadın

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poem by Muzaffer Akin
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Artist

He gave a picture exhibition,
Hiring a little empty shop.
Above its window: FREE ADMISSION
Cajoled the passers-by to stop;
Just to admire - no need to purchase,
Although his price might have been low:
But no proud artist ever urges
Potential buyers at his show.

Of course he badly needed money,
But more he needed moral aid.
Some people thought his pictures funny,
Too ultra-modern, I'm afraid.
His painting was experimental,
Which no poor artist can afford-
That is, if he would pay the rental
And guarantee his roof and board.

And so some came and saw and sniggered,
And some a puzzled brow would crease;

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poem by Robert William Service
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Paris,1912

I was born a hundred years ago;
Made it to the Mecca of art
For art's sake;
Picasso's circle constituted by poets,
Mainly;
Gathered in outdoor cafes
We came up with modernism
By slamming the door on the old
And inviting in the new:
'If the artist says it's art,
Then it's art.'

(I look at the streets now,
A hundred years later,
And am griefstricken how
The gasoline engine has
Singlehandedly reduced
The role of poetry in young lives;
I am so sorry I thing rap music is neither
Poetry nor music;

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poem by Stan Petrovich
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His Usual Routine...

last night he made love to her
on longer hours
his tongue working out her nipples
genitals on deeper penetrations
trying to reach the deepest part of
the wells of
their souls

it was unusual

attempting to achieve what was never there for once
new techniques of pleasures
unlearning traditions of
the missionary positions
time is elongated
there is a new fantasy
of an abstract
painting a la
Picasso at the back
of his mind

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Corazon

before i sleep let me write this one

it has no meaning
it is but just a marker of what i feel

feelings are like water
with no monuments

boundaries always change
and so riparian feelers always quarrel

over nothing over something that simply comes
and goes and goes and comes like

a pendulum of floods and dry bed upon
a common river

what is see are dead woods drifting
old people holding their young crossing a river

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Kamikaze Cappa

Going with company e to the first wave
I moved to get a close up
The first soldier of the opposite party stopped midway
And cried.
Are these the shots youre waiting for?
The shots of blood and pain are the ones youre
Waiting for
The u.s. medal of freedom will never bring back life to the
Death Ive seen
The goal of my life
I would like to be an unemployed war reporter
Pablo picasso
Francois gilot
Hemingway
Hitchcock
Ingrid bergman
Henri matisse
They all knew Im a gambler, corresponding with death
They know that life is white light, slightly out of focus
Kamikaze cappa always on the road

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song performed by Falco
Added by Lucian Velea
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Her Velvet Walk

Words burn like fires from Troy
Pearls from the dying myths
Some fear what then have become
Rodin with hands that touch Michelangelo
She draws for the left bank
Seines flows like Chopin’s piano
Picasso walks under halos
Love is the only moral

Freedom, equality, fraternity
Notre Dam like Emperor Napoleon
Tyranny in the soul is hard to control
The system is congenital
She knows what men like

Draperies as cruel as a whip
Vain damsel of the Mediterranean
Roman grapes like violet slaves
Balance like a Corinthian mathematician
Architects of Ian Rand

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poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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The Key

Though I am not worthy to call out your name
I still inquire and I still want to be saved
From the closure they stand up
And the marks they brand on
And I'll keep my soul locked up till I find the key

[Chorus:]
As we return to innocence
We'll let the sun and the moon guide our way
As we return to innocence
This Picasso work refroms our face

I know your hands heal and your words inspire
And I hope and pray and hope I will be coming to your country
And then I'll find pure happiness
In the scent of your breath
And I'll keep my heart locked up till I find the key

[Chorus]

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song performed by Justincase from Upstart
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Shes A Gipsy

Satin sheets in her bedroom
Picasso hung in the hall
Only cover for a secret lover
Who shes expecting to call
Oooh-though the lady tries
She cant hide the gipsy inside
Shes a gipsy, and the ladys her disguise
Shes a gipsy, see the fire in her eyes
And shed sell off all her diamond rings,
The rubies and the pearls
If she could buy the freedom of a gipsy girl
She never touches her steinway
Plays the tables instead
Oooh-win or lose she still leaves with only
A dream to take her to bed
Oooh-though the lady tries
She cant hide the gipsy inside
Shes a gipsy, and the ladys her disguise
Shes a gipsy, see the fire in her eyes
And shed sell off all her diamond rings,

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song performed by Cliff Richard
Added by Lucian Velea
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On The Fifth Day Of A Hunger Strike

My brothers,
Forgive me if I'm unable to say
honestly and straightforwardly
all that I would like to say to you
I'm drunk, my head is light, it spins,
not from raki
but from hunger.
My brothers,
I'm European, I'm Asian, I'm American,
In this month of May
I'm not in jail or on a hunger strike,
But lying at night in a meadow
With your eyes as near to mine as the stars
And your hands in mine as a single hand
like the hand of my mother
like the hand of my helpmate
like the hand of life.
My brothers,
You, at least, have never abandoned me,
Not me or my country or my people.

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poem by Nazim Hikmet
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Her Black Fog

The depression moves in on her
Like a dark fog. It seems to suck
All interest in life and events
From her mind so that she sits
And stares from the window like

One dying slowly over the month.
Outwardly she seems quite fine.
Little quiet perhaps. Not her usual self.
None of her unstoppable laughter and joy.
She hates it when the fog comes.

The curtains drawn in her mind.
The deep depression sucking.
There is the same view from the window.
Trees and lawn and the bird table unattended.
Snow had fallen last time. She remembers

The white blanket over everything.
The bird table like a white statue

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poem by Terry Collett
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Picasso's Pugalist

All I can really say is that my new face
Looks like Picasso got punched,
And that’s okay: a little crooked, like President
D$ck, unsymmetrical, but big,
Like Dolly Parton’s tits- Some things which
Are real: speedy motorcycle, hearse’s right-of-
Way, sea-shanties which stormy areolas mermaid:
The phone rings from another planet,
Or demoted Pluto- I think its just you, but it never
Is: Solicitors, tax collectors, sisters.... Rivers
Run to the sea, but that is not where you can find me,
So for very long I’ve been reading naked in the igneous
Rockslides of her undraped back, crooning-
Video games say I’m overweight, but they’re stupid,
As the hands arrest empty Michigan, your groom’s
Flannel tuxedo accordions- When you didn’t answer,
As you can see, it was a Holocaust, a default,
The bankruptcy of a favorite super center- The trick
Lady’s overweight shoulders shrug, and we light off
Fireworks: Semis honked, this is the great America stretching

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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Dinner With Gershwin

I want to have dinner with Gershwin
I want to watch Rembrandt sketch
I want to talk theory with Curie
I'mpossible I guess

I want to talk moods with Picasso
On a rendezvous
I want to fly double with Earhart
I want to get next to you
Next to you

So close
Just as close as I can get
The rain of your worry
Can't effect
What I feel is what I feel
One touch
Of your greatness
Is what I need
My circle of fantasy

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song performed by Donna Summer from All Systems Go
Added by Lucian Velea
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Inscription pour le tombeau du peintre Henri Rousseau douanier

Gentil Rousseau tu nous entends
Nous te saluons
Delaunay sa femme Monsieur Queval et moi
Laisse passer nos bagages en franchise à la porte du ciel
Nous t'apporterons des pinceaux des couleurs des toiles
Afin que tes loisirs sacrés dans la lumière réelle
Tu les consacres à peindre comme tu tiras mon portrait
La face des étoiles

Tu te souviens, Rousseau, du paysage astèque,
Des forêts où poussaient la mangue et l'ananas,
Des singes répandant tout le sang des pastèques
Et du blond empereur qu'on fusilla là-bas.

Les tableaux que tu peins, tu les vis au Mexique,
Un soleil rouge ornait le front des bananiers,
Et valeureux soldat, tu troquas ta tunique,
Contre le dolman bleu des braves douaniers.

Le malheur s'acharna sur ta progéniture

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poem by Guillaume Apollinaire
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Humanity How Many Wars Do You Need?

trophy heads mounted on pride home walls
words of characters mounting up in his novels
Hemingway bullfights marlin running the bulls
blood blood blood sports death proves scalp man
a man is a man only when proving he has big balls

Spain a civil war your dice choices fascists communists
International Brigades arrive on street cars named desires
passion pays all expenses when arriving in popular conflicts
land begged common man dig me irrigate me work me harvest
grow food in emptiness landscapes past limited to rich riders

joy determination written in calloused hands of Spanish people
drinking just cause consumed in rebellion wine casks of freedom
human need to own seize control loaded dice spring out of control
one more drink one more drink laugh dance before we die or fight
men about to die courage question brings out rage festering in beast

eye of raven cawed more blood more blood more blood evermore
glory of battle is rich song praise sung by war mongers profiteers

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Their Blackness...

‘..and their blackness is incontrovertible…’

as the mind surfaced out of sleep today,
these words – matter-of-fact, authoritative –
spoke in my inner ear.

had it been a fleeting image or
the painful ending of some dream – like
struggling to catch the last train
which all the time receded –
it would have been dismissed;

but the writer’s mind seizes on such things:
this line, an Alexandrine or hexameter:
what scene had come before
this ultimate pronouncement?

was this the verdict of some shining, white-robed one
summing my mortal sins, written indelible?
what came before? had there just been

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Mother's eyes

Telugu original: Mahe Jabeen
English Translation: Ch J Satyananda Kumar

(Amma Kallu)

jeevita saMbaMdhaM tegipOyaaka
baMdhaalannee baMdhanaalae

kalala Saaluva kappukoni
naannatoe aeDaDugulu naDacinappuDu
ammakaLLu svapna nikshaepaalu

chekkiLLaloe valapu vasaMtaalu paMDiMchi
doesiLLatoe amRtaanni vaDDiMchae
ammakaLLU pikaasoe varNachitraalu

moggalu vicchukunae
rahasyaanni choosina arudaina kshaNaallaa
ammakaLLu adbhutavalayaalu

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poem by Ch J Satyananda Kumar
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Smalltown

When youre growing up in a small town
When youre growing up in a small town
When youre growing up in a small town
You say, no one famous ever came from here
When youre growing up in a small town
And youre having a nervous breakdown
And you think that youll never escape it
Yourself or the place that you live
Where did picasso come from
Theres no michelangelo coming from pittsburgh
If art is the tip of the iceberg
Im the part sinking below
When youre growing up in a small town
Bad skin, bad eyes, gay and fatty
People look at you funny
When youre in a small town
My father worked in construction
Its not something for which Im suited
Oh, what is something for which you are suited
Getting out of here

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song performed by Lou Reed
Added by Lucian Velea
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