Sweet Addiction Mistress

Golden wings,

sweet tongue flying.

 

Sugar girls, film noir.

Toes touch necks,

scratching grind  -

rhythms not sane.

 

Polished bright for all.

Come one, come all.

Tent of covers.

 

Spot in corner.

Sweet addiction mistress.

 

 

Grab my throat and spread.

Scream and smell my,

addiction mistress.

 

Cut me and line me up.

Sweet addiction mistress.

 

Favored many, live long -

sweet girl.

 

 

 

Posted in beat poetry, Boulevard Saint-Germain, Génération au Feu, jack kerouac, Jacques Prevert, leonard cohen, Paris | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

My Hollywood Girl, You Mystery Mine

My Hollywood a mystery girl,

all sunglasses and rose-shaped hips,

smile at me, smile sweet sun.

 

Paint me young and draw a tour of

stores and palms.

 

Love girl, play girl, steal me in the

daytime light. Front her friends my rhythm and

save me from my gauzy eyes.

 

Paint me old with skeleton sketches, faded with

palms facing down.

 

Save me friends no more.

Lost or gone, never was and never were.

 

Always the beat of heart in

tunes of strangers’ songs in transistor-

shaped dirty diaries that hum

and hum.

 

My Hollywood girl, you mystery, you all mine.

 

 

Posted in beat poetry | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Starlight of Flesh

Resurrect some head and

give some breath.

Outside with variation.

Slap the flash of sun shadows.

Fiction.

Read the story girls.

Whisper stories, celebrate the taste;

a guide for ghosts.

Uncomfortable bend on stone.

Starlight of flesh.

Softly Softly Softly

Posted in alcohol, beat, cohen, dreams, love, music, beat poetry, Dreams, grief, Hope, Paris | Tagged | 1 Comment

Fresh Peppered Loin

Blackback stares, shares secret beats

with rouge-bright skins,

a patter of later tomorrows,

future rounds of bouts -

beating hands – airstream shapes,

thinking mercy,

give us beat, ignite our cores -

loosened lips,

sweet smell of mold -

lay back dreamer.

Crowded watch,

crows circle back,

fresh peppered

loin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in Allen Ginsberg, beat poetry, Génération au Feu, God, grief, Hope, jack kerouac, leonard cohen, Lost Generation, Paris, Serge Gainsbourg, Sex, Spirituality, tom waits | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Honey Pie

I’m so sorry honey pie,

I got the mixed up tone and

whipped up cream.

I love you honey pie,

of all the ones who

flew me up and

shot me down.

I feel you honey pie,

dear sentiment,

my sweet rhyme.

Slap me honey pie,

make me red.

I love you honey pie,

until I’m dead.

Honey pie, honey pie;

pull my hair.

Make me cry.

Posted in alcohol, beat, cohen, dreams, love, music, Allen Ginsberg, beat poetry, bible, David Cronenberg, devil, female politicians, Francis Ford Coppola, French Poetry, jack kerouac, Jacques Prevert, leonard cohen | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Wild Thing

Wild Thing – you make my heart break.

Wild Thing – I cannot be this sane.

Wild Thing – I hate you and am down with that.

Wild Thing, you moved me.

Wild Thing – come on and torque me tight.

You kill me.

Posted in alcohol, beat, cohen, dreams, love, music, devil, Poetry, sentiments, Sex, Spirituality, suicide, The Troggs, William S. Burroughs, Women | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Little Pink Matches

Grace follows a girl who

whispers love and wears a sweat in

gentle tufts; corn and

syrup.

 

Positively lovely, adorning

the sky with curling lace and

little pink matches, waiting

to strike.

 

45 rpm, soprano lilt;

return dear scent, fond meal

of memory and breath

long past.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in alcohol, beat, cohen, dreams, love, music, beat poetry, leonard cohen, Love, memories, Poetry, Song, the beats | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Shadows Paint the Walls

My home is warm

where skin blisters

a fragrant smell.

 

But my home is warm

and I survive.

 

Someone is always

telling me to leave,

but home is where

I find my blanket.

 

It is me.

 

Call it sane mayhem,

or little deaths

day-to-day.

 

Home is where my

heart grows soft while

beating time,

and losing clocks

on plastering

and frame.

 

Sadness knows

no limitations as

shadows paint

the walls.

 

2013 Barry Comer

Posted in America, beat poetry, bible, Dreams, God, Hope, Love, Paris, Poetry, Sex, Spirituality, the beats | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Blue For Me and Black in Spades

Blue for me and black

in spades.

 

One up and down

with running totals -

marked in blue and

black for  you.

 

Blue of me who

counts my cards

and wilds imagination -

blueways.

 

Black in prairie the

storms and sounds

of gospel chant.

 

Blue maker go away,

set a pathway normal -

release the hounds

of god.

 

Draw me sun, sketch

some rabbit rare in shapes

and whites – no

bloody poetry

please.

 

Blue for me and black

in spades.

 

2013 Barry Comer

Posted in Albert Camus, Allen Ginsberg, America, bible, Génération au Feu, jack kerouac, leonard cohen, Lucifer, Poetry, prayer, Song, suicide, the beats | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Hey Girl – Sweet Dirty Bitcher!

Hey big girl -

lets play it fast with

little start-up and

pedal push.

 

Beat the toms -

let’s drum the dark

and fit the lock and

storm the pool.

 

Oh big girl – slinky longest.

 

You not fussy,

oh you be dirty.

You ain’t part beast -

yes girl?

 

Hey big girl – grease me up!

 

Hey pinky pie with pork

ring curls. Give me

taste, lend the tongue

tasty bitters.

 

Hey girl – sweet dirty bitcher!

 

Beat me up. Beat me free

of earth and mud.

 

 

2013 Barry Comer

Posted in Allen Ginsberg, America, Bathsheba, beat poetry, bible, devil, female politicians, God, grief, Hope, Love, Lucifer, Paris, Poetry, Sex, Song, Spirituality, tom waits, Women | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Tame My Monkey for Smokes of Hot and Fetching Breath

Dizzy rates

high and lists of

bars lowered.

 

Tame my monkey

for smokes of hot and  

fetching breath.

 

Soon darling soon.

 

Polish to gleam

 

and inspect 

your hole.

 

 

Your encase and

clinks to ground

excite my ears.

 

Carry you yes.

 

Darling you  madden,

your tug of love;

the incessant call

to arms.

 

I love you dearest, 

hand of god.

 

 

2013 Barry Comer

Posted in alcohol, beat, cohen, dreams, love, music, beat poetry, bible, devil, Dreams, God, grief, jack kerouac, leonard cohen, Paris, prayer, Song, Spirituality, tom waits | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Bellow the Bloat and Waste the Lamb

We stand outside and bathe -

in starlight and glow, of

histories in context

and roots.

 

Lives begun and deaths upon,

stream showers of 

eternal end and story.

 

Les lumières in canopy

holding essence and finds -

us who seeded the ground,

that planted stories told;

from generation to single child.

 

The paths we take and roads

walked long, my pitch pipe

organ amuses.

 

Bellow the bloat and waste

the lamb.

 

2013 Barry Comer 

Posted in beat poetry, Boulevard Saint-Germain, jack kerouac, leonard cohen, Love, Paris, Sex, Song, Spirituality | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Once More for Making Sure

Release the heat and

lick my soul with

cleansing flames.

Once consumed,

I will be free of earth

and space.

Onward sentimentalities;

give our embrace tonight -

is certain.

Turn the dial and

etch the settings.

Once more for making

sure.

My ash flows upward.

My scent becomes earthbound

and my soul is freed.

I am free.

Barry Comer 2013

Posted in Albert Camus, alcohol, beat, cohen, dreams, love, music, Allen Ginsberg, Arthur Rimbaud, beat poetry, Boulevard Saint-Germain, Dreams, environment, expatriates, French Poetry, God, jack kerouac, Jacques Prevert, leonard cohen, Lost Generation, Lucifer, ocean, Paris, Sex, Song, Spirituality, Surrealism, tom waits, Women | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Blushed Romance and Foreign Lip-Lock

We sail smooth

runners iced and swelled,

in teas of black

with Chinese talk-talk.

 

Lay your hands on me,

such smoothness tickles;

my fuzz and temptations -

you feel.

 

It’s our room on

Boulevard Saint-Germain

where hush-hush is

our language of

blushed romance

and foreign lip-lock.

 

Les femmes de la noir -

tenez ma queue et tordez.

 

We watch the sky

and count the drops and

swirl our fingers over cups

and sculptured hair.

 

Saturday afternoons on

Boulevard Saint-Germain.

 

2012 Barry Comer

Posted in alcohol, beat, cohen, dreams, love, music, Allen Ginsberg, Arthur Rimbaud, beat poetry, Boulevard Saint-Germain, Dreams, expatriates, God, grief, Hope, Lost Generation, Love, Lucifer, Paris, prayer, Sex, Song, Spirituality | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Twinkles of Stars

We turn around

and find  pinholes,

water streams of light,

from stars

who swallowed

and took our lives.

 

With sounds of snorts

and whiskered,

bully throats.

 

Whose heart

am I searching,

in this season of

hello goodbyes?

 

We look

upon them long

into night,

such twinkles,

of stars

that stole our loves -

their sweet

tender smiles.

 

Give back our dreamers.

 

Lend to us more – for years

into years.

 

2012 Barry Comer

Posted in America, beat poetry, Dreams, God, grief, Hope, Lucifer, Poetry, prayer, Song, Spirituality, Surrealism | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Peckered Inch That Dangles for Nothing

Here we goes,

the trip begins

and in back,

so black

to the crowd,

someone yells -

“go baby go”.

 

Let’s put this machine

to the test and

grind it out with redline fire

and give it some all the way

heroics.

 

We’ll insert the

Southern sounds.

 

Sure, a little monkey

meat and some all out

flat-out!

 

That’s how we get

some love and

holy man.

 

Lay some skin on me man.

Why you move so fast?

 

This place is high -

only separated by

others and another.

 

They will say “not worth it”,

and will answer mambos,

“you piece, me that”,

and to “that and that

and that”.

 

The wind still blows flat,

while it weaves me

cold and nothing but

nothing will slow

us down.

 

Our tests will pass she

grinds and grins

and will play pelvic

fun and nighttime

rhythm.

 

Why we move so beat?

 

Because it is monkey

rare and all out,

flat-out, but that’s how

we get some love -

to there.

 

Why we move so fast?

Because the time draws

near.

 

It chases fast and

finds the slow, the peckered

inch that dangles

for nothing.

 

 

2012 Barry Comer

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in alcohol, beat, cohen, dreams, love, music, America, beat poetry, Disco, Hope, leonard cohen, Pecker, Sex, Teenager, tom waits, Women | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

We Plant and We Plant

My eyes are clenched.

 

Throat-scorched with car pipe fumes

and with rusted sounds

from last week.

 

The trip was wrong and

the news worse.

 

We plant and we plant.

 

I hear muted sounds of

cries and wish I could open

my heart and pour its life

- a drink of god.

 

Lend my body, make it

fertilizer and give my

eyes to see ahead.

 

Touch warm. Feel cold.

 

The ground is cold and

smiles fade brown.

 

Sleep and dream of blue birds

and cloud-shaped

boats.

 

We plant and we plant.

 

2012 Barry Comer

Posted in Allen Ginsberg, bible, devil, God, grief, Hope, jack kerouac, Jacques Prevert, Love | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Time Drips Down and Down

Abbreviated love this afternoon,

until light strikes clouds

and hours roar near.

I think it often while extending

moments and ticks, until my sun

who shimmers; circles along

my chest.

Happy is the word and content for

hands; that touched and stroked.

The silence after, beats loud

in song, as she whispers

words that penetrate.

Nothing more for now.

Nothing need be carved to

time and beats.

My body floats

among the waves and

time drips down

and down.

2012 Barry Comer

Posted in Albert Camus, alcohol, beat, cohen, dreams, love, music, Allen Ginsberg, America, Andre Breton, Arthur Rimbaud, beat poetry, bible, devil, God, Hope, Jacques Prevert, leonard cohen, Love, ocean, Ogden Nash, Paris, Poetry, prayer, sentiments, Serge Gainsbourg, Song, tom waits | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Tears and Sentimentality

The ocean is licking the wounds

of sadness and desperation.

Each day as the tide flows out -

with tears and sentimentality.

2012 Barry Comer

Posted in Allen Ginsberg, beat poetry, environment, God, Jacques Prevert, ocean, Poetry, prayer, Spirituality, tom waits | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Hold Me Hard

Angels who walk me past,

and show the sights,

but never ask.

Don’t let this pass -

this trail of hot

blooded cries.

I will tell and let you know -

just how it feels.

Even sliding and hurting

upside down, I’ll beg

the prayer for

slow me down.

Giggle angels

at my malady

and hold the

trip wires taut.

Some perverted and

few line up and cough, cough, cough -

eat the scrapes.

Hold me hard

dear flutter flies.

Just hold me.

2012 Barry Comer

Posted in Allen Ginsberg, beat poetry, God, jack kerouac, prayer, Spirituality | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Beat of Our Dreams, Sweet Thoughts

We climb to the stars baby -

the stars’ ladder.

We are those stars of charts

and meanderings through

the crystal skies,

the jet-plane paths and

blue oxygen.

How far I climb is up to me,

but all I see in front are

paths and forks,

with shiny points -

pinned points.

Behind is my death of things

that memory won’t serve,

that flamed out until

sterling snaps and rustles -

left to burn.

Dearest, the imaginarium calls wild.

Do you hear?

It is sharp and planed,

existence defined by us  -

the skaters who climb our

stars and our ladders, reaching

longitudes, more or less

defined by us.

We draw our breaths

and heave our chests.

Do we breathe?

Do we blow?

We snap our fingers

like little flickers.

Beat of our dreams, sweet thoughts -

dearest hopes.

 

2012 Barry Comer

Posted in Allen Ginsberg, beat poetry, God, jack kerouac, Jacques Prevert, leonard cohen, Paris, prayer, Spirituality, tom waits | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Where Are We Snatched in Time

We stopped what we were doing

and went down west.

Outdoors marching among the steel or within

the wooden cities – we prayed escape,

while running to big trucks of green,

two-seater furnace runners

and American steel.

Gone and rid of papers, pushing men aside and

grasping hands for adventure.

Young women with pocketbook poems

and cheap guitars follow.

Remember.

Laying awake in tunes of voice and

among the feminist

feel good.

Lay Lady Lay, kick off your boots and unroll your

tongue.

Dispense my prize.

Two hours near and twenty minutes there -

hardly  satisfaction nor tight of tunnel.

Fires yonder, our group and friends.

We played map board strategies

with futures and bought pound

after pound

to continue our

infinite circle puffs.

We still had glitter from wasted LP grinds.

Nobody could have told us different; our band

of Youngs and Jims. Where are we

snatched in time.

We are stolen souls still seeking fires of life.

Hey guy in green and motor head truck grease.

Red haired Anglo wait for me.

Gone. Invisible faces who took

to the road.

2012 Barry Comer

Posted in alcohol, beat, cohen, dreams, love, music, bible, despair, devil, Hope, jack kerouac, Paris, Poetry, prayer, sentiments, Song, Spirituality, tom waits | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

I Tap and Dance Your Beat

Where you go,

I will follow,

in tune

and in time.

Yes in dark,

of course.

Yes to all.

Because,

I believe.

If shadows pull

my curtains down

and a northern breeze

prevails,

I will follow.

Your song.

No distraction will

prove reliable,

no distance out of

realm.

I tap and dance your beat,

because I am me.

 

2012 Barry Comer

Posted in Arthur Rimbaud, God, Hope, leonard cohen, Ogden Nash, Paris, prayer, sentiments, Song, Spirituality, tom waits | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Fuzz Fuzz Fuzz and Feedback Thrills

Lightning strikes me baby;

oh man, it does.

All tapered strings and

such light moves.

Downward licking -

the voltage makes

me high.

Give me shake and

push me raw -

I want to

hurt down low -

so down.

Your shrill voice

in one dimension -

does nothing.

In realtime, like rocks to brains.

You touch my toes;

give more than all could after.

I predict.

Your men admire your tumble,

the reach of

tongue and your

tap of shoes.

Look at you, see with eyes so closed.

You wow the crowd.

Heaven from lungs

just two,

silenced me,

didn’t it?

Fuzz Fuzz Fuzz and

feedback thrills.

Chill me while my teeth lay – clenched.

You never fail to raise my bumps.

Don’t go, please, stay.

Go now.

 

2012 Barry Comer

Posted in beat poetry, bible, God, Hope, jack kerouac, leonard cohen, Montmartre, Paris, Poetry, Song, Spirituality, tom waits | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

My Grump and Grind Act is Back to Feast

Back like baboons -

full of grumps to grinds;

my pleasures are theirs.

They obey my commands!

You guessed it old world,

my new world troubles.

The monkey house riots,

are back in town.

Here little monkey with

feed-song screech.

Claw my legs, all split and open.

Smooth girl, smooth.

Your lounge act screams

and glitter-up nostrils -

squeak toy breath

Tell us more lies.

Uh huh.

Late at last night,

the crowd smell does die -

given rumble up pleasures.

Observe no rules.

My grump and grind act

is back to feast.

Lounge act, lounge act, lounge act.

Monkey pit drinks spill even tonight.

 

2012 Barry Comer

Posted in Albert Camus, alcohol, beat, cohen, dreams, love, music, Allen Ginsberg, America, Angela Yvonne Davis, Arthur Rimbaud, beat poetry, bible, Black History, devil, French Poetry, God, Gypsy, Hope, jack kerouac, Jacques Prevert, leonard cohen, Paris, Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment