The Touch and the Feel
Current mood: Grooving about my sexy Renaissance band Arethusa
Category: Grooving about my sexy Renaissance band Arethusa Writing and Poetry

Johnny pours wine
And presses a glass
into her hand
 
      Padon me miss
       but I've never done this

She won't eat or drink
But she will dance
He will see to that

      Padon me miss
       but I've never done this

He takes her out on the floor
Holds her tight, too tight
She crumples

Johnny blows her up again
And asks her if she's free
Next weekend

7:19 AM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Accident
Current mood: Navel gazing
Category: Navel gazing Writing and Poetry

Accident

by T. Virgil Parker

In an accidental land
An accidental man
Gave an accidental flower
To his accidental lover.

"Oh fanciful flower" she said.
Oh fanciful, accident? he thought.

7:03 AM - 7 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

my band!
Category: Music

Yep, in my spare (heh heh heh) time, my son and I (He's 14 and has a better showbiz resume than anybody I know) started a band to hit Renaissance Fairs- which is something we're addicted to in any case.
Please friend our little group, Arethusa. We've been keeping it a secret until now, and we outed ourselves by writing a song and popping it up on our band profile today.
Friend us, and listen, and let me know what you think.
http://www.myspace.com/arethusagroup
Peace,
Tim

5:11 AM - 4 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Earth Mother
Current mood: naughty
Category: Nihilistic, but optimistic Writing and Poetry

I hesitate to post this, as I like to think my style has evolved a bit- though I like elements of this poem. It is a piece of juvenilia- a byproduct of my sinister, misspent, youth; which I would surely squander again with even greater ferocity, given the chance. In any case, the piece has been circulating apparently- a while back someone I hadn't seen in years told me that their coven was using it as a chant.

Earth Mother
Written under the pseudonym Eustace

Earth mother
Mother earth.
Mother's nature
Mother's girth

Mother's lover,
Mother's mirth.
Mother's other,
Stokes her hearth.

Brown earth apples
On my tongue.
Deep earth mother,
Fertile birth.

To my tomb
With a bomb
In her womb.

Slipping over
To my Moon,
Planting buns
On his Sun.

Mother's day,
Milky way
Flowing under.
Other begs,
"Fat earth mamma
Spread your legs."

6:19 AM - 14 Comments - 22 Kudos - Add Comment

Jimi of the Left Hand Axe
Category: Writing and Poetry

Jimi of the left hand axe,

It seems like every day I meet

The rusting robot of a soul

That once was writhing at your feet

With eyes as wide as saucers

From the acid and the beat

Of the music that inspired them

To orgies in the street.

A jukebox in a dusty bar,

I drop some quarters in the slot

And "Purple Haze" assaults the air

And recollections long forgot

Return to balding businessmen

Who Young Republicans begot

At Woodstock, balling in the mud,

Behind the parking lot.

            Dead letters, frozen faces all,

            With lithographs of "Post Impression, Sunrise"

            Fading on the office wall.

            Sealed in shrink wrap, framed at the mall.

1:16 AM - 14 Comments - 28 Kudos - Add Comment

300 Million Americans and...
Category: Writing and Poetry

300 Million Americans
and…

We've got Michelangelos galore
Dressing mannequins for discount stores.
Sir Isaac Newton works in shipping
Tracking metric tons of weather stripping.
There's a Bard on every corner, selling cars.
Mozart's doing karaoke, in a downtown bar.

11:00 AM - 11 Comments - 25 Kudos - Add Comment

Flames
Category: Writing and Poetry

Yeah, I'm supposed to be putting the final touches on the next Edition, but that's what coffee is for,right? Meanwhile, this is a quasi-sonnet mostly because I didn't have time to make it a sonnet sonnet. Peace, Tim.

Flames

A Lyric

In the performance of a single phrase
Each note topples in the crypt of its brother.
As the piper makes the piper slays;
A tuneful dissolution that portrays
Our sad finale. Could we but discover
A better theme to mitigate this other?
Stack the fuel and set the pyre ablaze,
Dance on our tomb to the song he plays.
Scorn mortality? Shall we be lovers?
Formed in the furnace of my veins:
A song more potent from the touch of flames.

2:19 PM - 7 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment

East Genesee
Category: Writing and Poetry

Polyhymnia descends on East Genesee,

Masquerading as another sunset.

A trunk subwoofer batters out the beat-

A distant siren blows a double reed.

The shopping cart lady clatters down the street,

A car alarm plays lead.

Busses chuff, cell phones ring,

No sound but of the symphony;

A spontaneous paean

To all gods, no god, infinity.

5:45 AM - 7 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Poet Seeks Muse- microfiction
Category: Writing and Poetry

Poet Seeks Muse

By T. Virgil Parker
Under the pseudonym Lance Mallory

Esmerelda scanned the classifieds while she waited in the check out line. She was getting ready to put the paper back when something caught her attention in the personals. "Poet seeks muse" and then an email address.
The perfection of the statement astounded her. She could see the empty wine bottles toppled here and there in an otherwise pristine apartment. She was airy, translucent, illuminated from within. Her feet did not touch the ground as the poet shuddered in the throes of pure inspiration. She was Dante's Beatrice, a beacon to all that is great and permanent.
It was a tall order. Would she be wordless, lifting her arm toward infinity, rendering herself an image of all love, all death, all striving? What would a muse say if she spoke? What would a muse wear?
That's the problem; once you brought the idea down to reality it fell apart. If the phone rang and someone was trying to make you sign up for a new long distance account, are you a muse when you tell them to buzz off? Are you a muse when you're driving down the road eating a greasy burger from the drive through?
Who is this guy, anyway? Some dude firing a Harley down the road; a balding alcoholic with worry wrinkles across his forehead; a tweedy professor type with an attitude?
Then the Poet began to emerge. He had long black hair and his pale flesh shone in the moonlight. His long leather jacket brushed the ground as he walked toward her. In one hand, a flute, in the other a gun. A man who creates and kills. The Muse arose within her. Vistas beyond imagination opened, shattered, and reformed. The petty soul-killing foundations of modern life were swept away with an imperious hand. Flame leapt from her fingertips. They touched. The earth rumbled beneath their feet. Reams of verse erupted from the sky, falling like rose petals at their feet.
"Excuse me. Are you going to buy that newspaper or not?"
Esmerelda looked up. "Huh? I guess not. Can I get a pack of that gum?
Walking outside the store, she stopped by the garbage can to tear the wrapper off the gum and pop a stick in her mouth. There was a rhythm to the chewing, a rhythm to the walk.

11:08 AM - 11 Comments - 13 Kudos - Add Comment

Whither went?

Whither went the huddled masses

Of brown haired girls who wore thick glasses,

Who wept at Emily Dickenson

And each wore a tight little hairbun,

Who sat in front in English classes

And scowled at everyone,

Who fended off the furtive passes

Of brown haired boys who wore thick glasses?

1:57 PM - 6 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

Lowku 1

Ectoplasm,
Not real flesh,
Dangles from my dusty bones.
I linger on a bank
Where there once was a river
Skipping a stone on the dead stream bead.
A bright red apple
Is hanging overhead.
The last of the season,
Set against dark brown branches.

5:07 AM - 4 Comments - 7 Kudos - Add Comment

Lowku 7

The sun slips through the window,
Like a secret lover,
Igniting with equal glory
Trinkets, trifles, heirlooms;
Such as love.

10:51 AM - 4 Comments - 5 Kudos - Add Comment

Poem: The Kiss
Category: Writing and Poetry

The Kiss

I land
and splash
on a crest of lips,
parting
as if before Moses.
The kiss
is a pebble thrown
on the shore of bliss.
Ripples quivering,
winnowing into
a secret
pocket
of ecstasy,
made for me.
The kiss
is an oasis
in which we swim.

4:12 AM - 4 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Lowku 6

The middle classes

Pick their asses

Waiting for steak

Or a tragedy

On TV.

We celebrate a holiday

That has no name.

Clink our paper cups

And sip our fake champagne.

2:10 PM - 4 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Poem: 0

Between zero untrue,
And one undreamed,
The law of the excluded middle
Suspends amid yes's and no's;
Where neither and both of them
(Rising and falling in rhythmical visions
of logic contorting to moonlight)
Are plotting the x's and y's
Of fantasy apples in orchards of eyes
That germinate blossoms
of zero and one.
An infinite moment:
Her blossom of zero
Divided by one,
Divided by one.

5:50 AM - 4 Comments - 5 Kudos - Add Comment