notebook poem #42
The succulent
tits of this
gorgeous nymph
of brittania
tuloz my
judgement
questions my
ability to
transverse
the thighs of
little girls,
the smoking
old man
suare in piano
sonato of little
girl tempers
my intentions
& let me ride
on chopin
piano sonatas,
leaves me hovering
as lost trumpet
sparrow in the
spit of her
breath
the eyes looking
as solemn
fish tanks
to my man
hood question
the alps of
her means
the tanned
quest of her
budding in
consequential
the doubting
lips of her
lips
and in the hurried
hair of her
existence she
sequesters her
engagement finger
to thick calloused
silver tome
If it was
up to the babylonian
gods to discern
the day nature
of her face
I would rule
out god &
suckle on her
beautiful toes
& we would
dance her
mothers tap
shoes
wash off
all of our
sins & collapse
beautiful mal
funct creatures
together,
thumping
enlivening as always,
such beautiful
lashes cast
aside in
time constraints,
us beautiful
moans never
meant to be
The soft hum of the keyboard on the oven
The soft hum of the keyboard on the oven
the simply milky way you caress my cock when you snuggle
the early morning coffee disasters, me cracking beer
this is the way that the domesticate
checks his schedule comes home watches a friendly network television
and you naked on your libations couch wanting to have all of me
as soon as I am home,
I question whether this keyboard is sliding far enough to the left
you say oral sex
I say well in the current mood of the keys
put on some shotakovich
pretend to pitter patter and just write lines
of this or that, making you think I'm being productive
The sad truth however is that if I don't have the ability to write
and you dont have a bell to make me change the line
then its saurkraut and underwear
ruined toast and soggy coffee in the morning
just wrapped up in the early morning quesadilla of another
day in the little apartment we share
trying not to get you pregnant
paying bills,
going to work again on time
and finding out little by little that there
is more to life then just the playhouse reality
the dog night drunkards trampling about on roses at night
I bury my head into the door, with key protruding, I'm waiting to enter
fumble about the lock and fall asleep with my hat on the eye hole,
you look out and see the brown material of another drunk jim
home late from the trailer park margaritas, and wow babe
another wash out day, complaing about something, tell her we need exlax
drink a beer, and fall asleep snoring with her comfortable
you are near at least, not in prison or on the street bleeding
smoking crack with prostitutes, no you are an upstanding regular honest
joe just trying to crack a break in the breakneck race they rat us around
in
just take a look ourside darling its snow
the soft hum of the typing on the carpet
warms us
ruined work
behind the painting hides a ghost,
his chiselled pigment worn as a dress,
curtly calls,
beckons from beyond, for you to touch,
feel the landscape he is wearing hidden,
if for a bit of tongue, for you to taste his distraction,
the venom from inside him would be purged,
the canvass would outweigh the framing nails,
and plunge an exposed soul to the sun
for he can no longer paint
a girl, runs to the wall, to show all her friends,
pinches at his cheek so sweet, don't worry dear shade
of mine, we shall find out all things together,
and in this connect
the canvass on floor catches on fire
the sprinklers blaze, the alarm echoes the gallery,
vibrated several pieces to the floor
and now a naked wet running of color,
shows the room its true obscurity,
all naked ghouls trembling and new
gaugain
drink
I'm now thinking that I may be gauguin
shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
please oh please please oh please
do not tell a soul souls to tell do not
and if so in a moon and sixpence we find
the floor has been leveraged, taken up
what then to paint to gravitate this way
I
had a cup of coffee
got lost in the skin of her hut, her up poly,
made it over back and then again to bide,
please oh please please oh please
do not tell a soul souls to tell do not
and if so in a moon and sxpence we find
the moon is gone thrown from the sky
do we still clasp our fingers to nibble free
do
indulge this punch
reincarnate blocks [ ]
give them freely in or out of
they hold space or nothing
but they look pretty
stuck box, we all do
oh
for its all about drinking the text in waves,
sit back in the grass, the blue tahitian sand
you who kindly as kindly ask who
souls can tell this to to tell to souls,
and if so in a moon and sixpence we find
no starry night canvass for a fistful dime
and let this ink run as we drink these haunts
I
do enjoy spirits
I woke up today a new french painter gaugain
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhh
please oh please please oh please my lord
do not tell a soul souls to tell do not dine,
and if so in a moon and sixpence we find, here
no just canvass sky then burn the heavens
mangle the wood from the back of jupiter ring
easy
About: James Browning Kepple is a veteran of the poetry wars. A constant whirlwind throught the states and europe find him the proprietor of the Hart Crane Black Box Theatre in Spanish Harlem. Noted for his use of language, James enjoys multiple hats, coordinating Juneteenth Poetry Readings and Fronting the Jimbo Brown Band, he is open to suggestions on the east side. Co founding member of the Mustard Bastard and a resident member of the board of directors for Pretend Genius Press, he enjoys long walks on the beach etc etc
I like your poetry James
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