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

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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 , , , , , , , ,

Her Breath Greases Grip

Hair sweet movement – stops and starts

while breath fixing down, way down –

she hangs to life.

Oh, she sees no end in sight.

Poor baby lost in lust, an addiction to

white boys and servants.

This is final she kids him not.

No more, no less – just right.

A sweet serving and pass the salt.

Arms fixing hair while hands hang on.

Tight.

Her breath greases grip.

She held tight.

This doesn’t mean much if

you weren’t there to see.

If you were and she was – colored

paper rang all the news.

She sees no end in sight, so

she left her grip.

She fell six inches deep.

Canyon standards.

I say.

Posted in God, Hope, jack kerouac, Jacques Prevert, leonard cohen, prayer, Song, Spirituality | Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

The Lounge (once more)

Such a polished act,

“who you mean”,

your obscenity
and crawling nails,
they scratch the sidewalk,
we lost all hope for You
and walk with dark eyes;
thrown from Your arms.

You held the tickets,
of children whose dreams
and whose tune…
feet with pepsi caps,
the smiles of night.

“really?”

Willingly plundered
in dark brown or kool-aid lime,
holding the smokes
and shivering puffs,
that pass from lip
to mouth.

We look 6:30 in the morning;
we are your Lounge.

“yeah I know, it’s voodoo”

Our paper dryness and
shaking palms,
we high and low,
ritual blows,
who work the Lounge,
who adore your obscenity,
the comedy, the pages of scribble;
our perspectives of absurd value.

We adore you and
that sketch, stubbled erasings
in the Lounge.

“you mean the voodoo lounge?”

“yeah!”

2010 Barry Comer – visit litkicks.com

Posted in alcohol, beat, cohen, dreams, love, music, Allen Ginsberg, America, Beat Comedy, beat poetry, bible, Black History, God, Gypsy, jack kerouac, Jacques Prevert, leonard cohen | Tagged , , , , , , ,

Travels Much Whimsy

37 points geographic,

a plan – they say so in French.

48 feelings matched by same or less equal

sentiments, of feeling lost by winded breath.

Drop point here and travels much whimsy.

Learn the new peculiar with abandon.

Strengths becoming, decision fleshed,

two feet resting, top, crossed – table with furnished

sediment.

Faster, faster, fast aim – take shot.

Both feet sludge slowly backwards,

counting the 49th.

2012 Barry Comer

Posted in Allen Ginsberg, beat poetry, bible, jack kerouac, Jacques Prevert, leonard cohen, Neal Cassady, Paris, Poetry, prayer, sentiments, Song, Spirituality, tom waits | Tagged , , , , , , ,

Dancing Hands

This life perilous and tantalizing – angels

yawn fables of dreams.

Let me see a peek and show your side

of heaven.

Give rhythms and dance – just show me.

How rushed our time plays and how dreams are made, just

built in hours. Save me from myself, feel me ripe and

grow.

Our harvest.

Allow sights unseen and tease me dark. A glimpse of

sparkles high and light.

Give me rhythms and dance – just lead me.

Tear the shades and blind – touch and tear – beat my rhythm.

Go girl go.

Harnesses and clocks, kisses and spice – dancing hands.

Take me down with giggled sweat.

Your eyes see the dipper and the belt.

Your heaven is mine today, for the hours.

Show me more, peel back fold – whispers and whispers

and riddles.

Sweet afternoon, warm afternoon – breathe me

love.

2012 Barry Comer

Posted in alcohol, beat, cohen, dreams, love, music, Allen Ginsberg, Arthur Rimbaud, jack kerouac, Jacques Prevert, leonard cohen

Garbage of Song List Memory

She walks with dead in her eyes and

speaks of dead in her throat – that

lovely woman with cigarette forests in ashtrays

and swirling ravens for hair.

Where are you going sweet one, dearest fawn

of darkened pathways at noon.

You were laughs of lunch, you the stuff –

so much for that.

Nighttime driving seeing double dippers and naked romps –

so much for wildings – they count for nothing now.

Garbage of song list memory. Rotten the secret twinkle and

lost, are you to me.

Shoo Bop Shoo Bap

Barry Comer 2012

Posted in Albert Camus, Allen Ginsberg, beat poetry, jack kerouac, Jacques Prevert, Ogden Nash, Paris, tom waits | Tagged , , , ,

Color My Dreams and Hue My Light

Everybody rides the wave of time.
Some ride fast and others, perch slow.

All make book for the end of light, for the
ride of demise where day is left, unwritten.

Peaceful playground, my imagination, this
zoo of misfits who color my dreams and hue
my light.

Focus of clarity sees through my window
and history is made, but yet be blended; my time,
the time and my reality.

We ride the train, where merciful stories puff so slowly.
I guest with an owner, we write together, we share
the ingredients, our dreams.

Puff a wave, feel the sensation of melange
and fingers making beat to time, in me.

2012 Barry Comer

Posted in alcohol, beat, cohen, dreams, love, music, Allen Ginsberg, America, beat poetry, jack kerouac, Jacques Prevert, Neal Cassady, Ogden Nash, Paris, Serge Gainsbourg, Spirituality, tom waits | 2 Comments

The Curious See

Streams of light

continue understood –

of life and before.

The curious see.

People know –

they don’t talk.

The stars tell all

at five in the morning.

They show the end

and the beginning.

Constant beam,

to me, to you – to

heaven.

Barry Comer 2012

Posted in Albert Camus, alcohol, beat, cohen, dreams, love, music, beat poetry, jack kerouac, Jacques Prevert

America the Beautiful (a second look)

… the beginning.

With purpled haze and showered stars, the crowds heaved toward heaven, and bared their chests, with savage eyes that screamed alarms, who played with notes and placed hypnotic words, into colors embracing their nightly rage. I dreamed this rape, when all soothed purple; in mysterious beat, that stalked our moment in time; at the edge of our enlightenment.

America! America!
God mend thine ev’ry flaw,
Confirm thy soul in self-control,
Thy liberty in law.

These apparitions danced, while the crowd drummed black, and with jungled code they conversed, lashing fiery tongues, until our black faced angels; loosened their hold. Oh worshippers, it was his vulgar-ripped hands, who captured our hopes, who demonized our little tap dancer; the Sermon Dream.

And it was replaced, our faith, our faith, our faith; with marbled bodies morbid, with murderous overtures, and hooligan priests, their despicable acts, the white barbarism. I saw these heavenly angels, who drank us drunk, les foules fâchées, je prie pour nous; poor mobs of seer poets, who lived in filthy hotels, with the distracted ghost of Madame Rachou.

Among the ancients, the artists, the Egyptians, injections of brutishness, and smoke from burning testaments, our moment reflected black to back, that found us huddled under hair, that warmed our skin with naked lightning, thrown from one hit peddlers, the movement went downtown with snickered grins and bust line pimps who fed us our chocolate dust. We ate their scraps and drank their piss, sipping to salvation, without the blood from He, who is never coming.

… the acts of violence, unspeakable joy.

The Angel birthed a disciple to wait, to sip his grace then dance below, to visit our tombs, and pray for He, whose second act, a delayed departure, flashes Broadway’s darkened corners.

The showered stars, the rancid thoughts, the hollowed chests; tracks of pity and fallen words, naked on porcelain lambs, cracked with hope that someone scratched; the King of hearts, the purpled belief, the tap dancer’s Dream.

Our faith, our faith, our faith; our bodies become the overture, the awkward rhythm, the Blood and Bread, the grace from He; who dreams of armageddon, then pleasures Himself with hymns of praise.

… the waters encroach.

Our fingers plug the desert, while waters gently pour; we lap dance grunt, panting to the written testaments; in mud, in blood, on the skinned infants who lost their chance.

We danced with a beat or three; to the rolling blankets; the humanity lost, and the gentle touched, by cold and rigid toes; crossed for the Calvary and furious charge.

The priests of marble, who prayed to Him; were found holding the lanterns, sweet trinkets, fast bullets and fresh water boogie; while the dark was lit, as a guide to His arrival. Hallowed by The name whose eyes openly screamed, who played with notes and fed the words, into colors embracing our nighttime rage.

God shed His grace on thee,
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!

2010 Barry Comer

Aside | Posted on by | 1 Comment

Winter Scents a Kill

Little urges and
somber fears –
play outs across
the cage.

Yes this, and maybe that;
my snorts of owl-packed – a dream.

Hardly wise.

The eaten crawl and
rub my skin, panting chords –
such rhythms.

A dream to toasts and
cheerful memories.

Twisted and confused,
that lyric not remembered.

The title in recluse –
no peace of mind.

Something fused and
someone grazed.

Winter scents –
a kill.

 

2012 Barry Comer

Posted in beat poetry | Tagged , ,

Dip Your Hair in Me

She swirls her fingers

along the straw

and draws, the puddles

among the shapes;

the foolishness

whose strings

don’t attach.

Her hair and poses.

For whom?

I saw her smile and

dance those steps.

Backwards touching toes

and swirling lips;

feeling breath, touching eyes.

Dipping and forming shapes;

of softness and color.

Dip your hair in me.

Tiptoe my neck and gently bruise;

my arm, my sight in dark.

I heal.

Barry Comer 2012

Posted in Allen Ginsberg, beat poetry, jack kerouac, Jacques Prevert

Whispered Kisses and Memories

Misty river flows along an ankle and feels of falling,

of blue jays swirling and whispered kisses and memories,

hushed quiet.

Flight my feathers of floating trails, among the leaves who fall.

Give me wind and vivid dreams tonight.

Infuse my memories.

Posted in beat poetry

Midday Fun

Skinny-scenting, sensual and drums,

quiet times in memory,

touch my taste and odor;

beat my burns until they heat.

 

My trapper of felines whose legs part,

more and more, sensual  in blue,

hot in black, nails dark,

at noon and half-past six.

 

Pull them tight, together; make them smoke.

 

Sunflower praying, heating up with

cooked-up fun – such sauce.

 

Breathe oil and grease; midday fun.

 

 

2012 Barry Comer

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in French Poetry, jack kerouac, leonard cohen, prayer, sentiments, Serge Gainsbourg

Filling Holes and Collecting Soul

Leg-wrapped and anxious, she flies with swirls. She touches and presses,
she blows; senseless seams of sky.

Give her wide and distance the passage. Marking next, filling holes and
collecting soul.

Patterns of light and the mystique of rhythm; images left, but replaced tomorrow.

Graceful and thoughtful, she swirls in beat, in wings of collection.

Quiet – senseless seams of sky that in dark, are filled to the beat.

Posted in a very lucky boy, alcohol, beat, cohen, dreams, love, music, http://laeyeworks.typepad.com/photos/laeyeworks_gets_exposed/contacts.html, Montmartre, Neal Cassady | 1 Comment

So We Live and Die Until Dark

Harsh land they say, so we live and die until dark and beaten we
pray our way to heaven.

Bodies angelic flailing about with haunches round; tilted upward.
They don’t pray, these gilded principals. They are the extravagant; taken with themselves.

Wild thoughts we have and exhibitionists we call – darlin’ press
me hard, squeeze me blond; be the skin between the skins and
pressed sheets.

Scream for us heaven and hear our words. Are you capable or are you
touching haunch to haunch gleefully playing it out?

Where are you dream a dream; screaming balls? Withering corona, our
rambling prince. Die a little more, touch not me.

2011 Barry Comer

Posted in beat poetry, bible, devil, Drug Abuse, God, Gypsy, Hope, Poetry, prayer | Tagged , , , , ,

Your Deep As Fathoms

Oh – I am listening to a memory and long shadow cast-wide nets.

I hear my collective history, my rhythmed slide-shoe beat and
feel.

Back to me, appear – and be tangible, be where I left you,
be light for tonight’s quiet and slip me, rub me;
the guided touch of your fingertips. Oh –

I can touch your trail, your deep, fathoms in shimmered,
thousand miles of current. Oh –

I hear and smell your scent. I feel your hunger for survival.
I see you coming home. Oh.

 

2011 Barry Comer

Posted in beat poetry, Hope, Poetry, prayer, sentiments, Song, Spirituality | Tagged , , , , ,

Little Striped Suspenders

It isn’t my imagination that floozy shoes and
little striped suspenders are worn at all.

Be someone; and those shoes just dance for you.

 

2011 Barry Comer

Posted in beat poetry, Poetry, prayer, Song, Spirituality, tom waits | Tagged , , , , ,

An Underwater Vision of the Ground

We were walking through
the grass singing song,
we were talking in the breeze
singing song.

We were dragging feet
along the freezing stones
and you were laying cold and
pressed as if;

to drown, a drowning,
an underwater vision of
the ground;

above – below – the walking through
is practice for the song –
of songs – in ground;

we talked our way to steaming,
heaping sounds.

We were talking ways of seeing
what’s so loud –
in clouds – in sun – in clear –
our bodies;

our mindful ways of singing
just our sound.

2011 Barry Comer

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

Backward Movemaker

Sitting on a hole in the sky – she flies – my mind drapes arms reaching –
up the chute and down the even temperament; look below, the flow, the flow, the flow – the numb-horsed tropia – while the ringmaster whips.

Catch the flow, catch the flow – downward sweat drips; crack, crack, crack.
The eyes cupped by hands, the heads bent low – fly me, fly, fly.

Sitting in the hole, not knowing rush or down – seized parts too gone
for this backward movemaker.

 

2011 Barry Comer

Posted in beat poetry, Paris, Poetry, prayer, sentiments, Song, Spirituality | Tagged , , , , , ,

Forgotten in Light

Pull back from clouds and air-top beats,

of hearts and allowances – tidy whispers and fragrant wishes.

Leave now rowing, winds warm, waves flat – so moisture permeates –

and dry air drowns.

Pull back sweet lover, push back, tuck head – snuff whispers cold –

tingle hands warm.

Pull back now and all will be forgotten in light.

All will be remembered – shaded dark.

 

2011 Barry Comer

Posted in God, Hope, Neal Cassady, Paris, Poetry, prayer, Song, Spirituality | Tagged , , , , ,

It Is The Baring Of Wild-Eyed Tensions

Missed hair-curls and pucker-mouthed girls. Quit fooling sweet labels with wet-me licks.

Look here – Look here – Look here. Follow my throat – my cleared pipe.

Smoke just for me but wipe the resonator; make the sound of furls and lemon-drop shapes. Go ahead, grab it, strike it and spare no giggles.

Sweet tasting girls; pucker-mouthed gumdrops and cherry lips. Where do you store it? How do you feel me with feathered hair or with warbled throats?

Gosh my pets, it is the baring of wild-eyed tensions – so much to push and shove, to pull back and be pushed forth.

And the verse rests in open palm, “He that sacrificeth unto any god, save unto the Lord only, he shall be utterly destroyed.”

Play tunes and march backside – scream baby cry me down. Look here – Look here – Look here. Follow my throat – my cleared piper.

 

2010 Barry Comer

Posted in beat poetry, bible, devil, Drug Abuse, God, Gypsy, Hope, jack kerouac, Poetry, prayer | Tagged , , , , , , ,

Enhanced Storytellers

Oh splendid bird – you wing across my shadows and flirt remembrances, within my light and actions.

Pieces of flight and characters who boast their stories, enhanced storytellers some, who squeeze more of life, when one was enough.

One life, one beat, one patterned cutout is for empty vessels – as I gorge and give life to explosive volumed, twined loose-fit and honey; I got some big-time sugars.

Splendid bird – with wing-wind flight – dart my paths silhouette, aping and crowing – bird take light and actions – winged victory.

Force of nature these stories of enhancement – all drift silent once set in dark.

 

2010 Barry Comer

Posted in alcohol, beat, cohen, dreams, love, music, beat poetry, God, Hope, Paris, Poetry, prayer | Tagged , , , , , , , ,

Angel Fleet by My Shoulder

I languished over a cup of coffee, felt up and down my thighs for muscular-electric pulses and seethed along the cold roads of Cherokee.

Furthermore I witnessed for god, observing a silent jogger; most hushed and gentle. She swept by with lack of sound ordinary shoes; tap, tap, tap – scrape the pavement. Angel fleet by my shoulder and brush my feathered skin of Greek and scents; of winter come.

J’envoye avec les letters humide dans le penses sucre du mon vie et l’aperitif du terroir grace.

Adieu love most cherished; my hands take flight in formation with the geese. Sweet wings who prey on winter and carry such lovely leaves one by one, until spring.

Wither wind of morning, dear life. Sound your trumpet for me. I have furthered my cause for restful sleep. In case I die or pass you by, remember me – sing praise unto lord the wind and our passage of time.

2010 Barry Comer

Posted in Albert Camus, Allen Ginsberg, America, beat poetry, God, Hope, Paris, Poetry, prayer, Spirituality | Tagged , , , , , , , ,

Scrape The Skin

Breeze on a back, push and tickle –
fingers that scrape skin and bloody the scalp.

Give pause to moments clear, perceptive
and grateful.

Broken wind to face, shutter forehead growl –
locomotion and waves for vision, heat
and lips – and sour tastes.

 

2010 Barry Comer

Posted in alcohol, beat, cohen, dreams, love, music, beat poetry, bible, God, Hope, Paris, Poetry, prayer, sentiments, Song | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Slapped Thighs, Bound Wrists

Free floating along the barbs and green, leafy plants –
where have we taken you, what have we done?

Fair blond – we loved you so, we worshipped your
feet and toes. What have we done, where did
you go – please tell us – gather and compose.

In the dark and on a trail of swirling dust and heat –
rays so bright – filter, intertwine – leafy plants, fern and dew –
doo bop doo.

Clop de clop, scuffle along – seek us now – we lost
you dear, we suffocate. We kneel – we fear –
slapped thighs, bound wrists – suffer quietly among
the light – my moon.

2010 Barry Comer

Posted in Allen Ginsberg, America, beat poetry, French Poetry, God, Gypsy, jack kerouac, leonard cohen | Tagged , , , , , , ,