Sound, Be.

I want to write about galaxies and sound interesting

or artsy or avant-garde

or whatever it is that people want these days.

 

I don’t mean to sound cynical,

but how many people in their early twenties

truly relate to roman phrasing and cocaine abuse?

 

I wonder how much of what I write in my lifetime

will be written to get me laid or paid—

how much of it will be real?

 

Truthfully, I’m too scared to ever do a line

or write one that’s honest. But I’ll try:

I’m going to die an insurance salesman in a town I hate.

 

No one wants to read that.

So I’ll spell out misery

in every way I can,

 

pray to Aphrodite for tits and love

sing to the stars in lingerie

and be interesting.

 

-Lu Terlikowski

12 comments

  1. Thanks, Lu. Such a deeply depressing thoughtline…I was smiling at halfway and grinning huge by the end. I think you hit this one out of – and into the next – park. Shall repost to both blogs even though one supposedly is haiku-ish.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. what you wrote, interesting
    yet not about space, or stars
    nor the roar of motor cars
    not for me at all depressing

    life is what you want to make it
    or what others make it for you
    nah, you do what you want to
    what err you do, don’t fake it

    you will, you know you will
    you’ll have your sad downs
    and happy ups, no frowns
    accept, and life’s a thrill

    from dawn, to following morn
    rock it, rave it live it, chilling
    and if you pull how thrilling
    you, your life no more forlorn

    Liked by 3 people

    1. I want to drive my life
      but she is wild–
      the ocean in a storm,
      the wind in late December.

      And still she is good
      and painful
      and wonderfully
      unexpected.

      We sit together,
      holding hands on the wheel.
      You pass us by
      and remind us to let the top down.

      The breeze is good.

      Liked by 2 people

      1. Now, this, accomplishes much. Thanks for the timetravel and wonderful juxtapositioning. See the first seventeen sides at once and remember to look behind the breeze. You almost make me want to climb out of my haiku hole earlier than I had unplanned. Poetry for now shorhand inner eyelid movie treatments” requiring no butter, no popcorn and no audience nor critics but wet pens and waiting paper upon the morrow – of if you are extremely disciplined a willing wakeup and reach for said pen and paper. Always, you can sleep to unbeaten heart’s content later. Write, write, write. Right? You give good grin.

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    2. Lu: glad I went back to read this again: Mick E. Talbot is worth the listen – the man is astonishing. And his praise is worth keeping your sense of incompletelessness as an artist-on-the-strive, but fail not to notice some really neat people thank our for the arriving and the striving.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. Lu: went back to re-read an especial line or two from “Sound, Be,” and found a little quibble: maybe from my term as grammar grinch….but I did enjoy muchly the maneuver I imagined you used to link two desperate elements….Truthfully I too scared to ever do a line
    or write one that’s honest….” when taken in context with the previous verse, I am agog with goodworkness. But the quibble: Might I suggest completing the infinitive – read it this way and see….” Truthfully, I am to scared ever to do a line/ or write one that’s honest. The second verse’s reference to cocaine brought about the teacup brouhaha about the unfired gun until I just superimposed my own quirked nature on your following stanzas. And when you write like this and I want to brake out my chainsaws, scalpels and rubber mallets and mauls and awls and such I am tickled to repaint your words across my innerness. For that and else, thank you so much. J

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Traitor fingers can not spell worth a fecal. Cannot even transcribe faithfully! “Too scared,” not To Scared…but the capper was “I want to brake our my chainsaws…” Break? But on a reread mayhap the fingers knew better and like the dirty sock left on a deliberate floor in order to camouflage the deer carcass air-drying in the rafters, “Brake” mayn’t be so bad. And with more storms a-risin’ I will go on about my bidness and perhaps hope to hold an okra harvest before the next big blow – and, no, that was not entendred. I must get on with the chores today hath sent before I recall errant check-dating means a return trip downtown and more time ‘puting: thus a good thing twists that short snarl I found upon looking at the check’s dateline into a grin at Dame Serendip, even if she’s an IsLand. Later, Lu. Be well and may you need to refill your pen and grind more trees into pulp for our reading pleasure.

      Like

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