Gone — by Katsuo Mifreki

My sister the Ganguro girl
who wanted the baby
more than anything else
when she was 15
just to have something (and not someone) to cuddle.

Grandmother Naoki
who, as a young girl,
went to Place Vendôme looking for Elsa
but never met her
and came back with a silk scarf.

My schoolfellow Takeshi
who once went to Milan
and spent everything on those shoes
then lived for a week
on bananas.

My neighbours Shiro and Kohaku,
the Aristocrat and the Gothic Lolita,
macabre and light-hearted aesthetics clashing
wearing skulls and eating Hello Kitty lollipops
under the cherry trees.

Gone under the rubbles
Gone under the debris
Swallowed by the ruins

Maybe floating on the surface of the Pacific Ocean
in an island of rubbish
swirling
whirling
twirling
travelling far away from me.

Gone.


(km)

Proposed by Dandyakuza on Thursday 05 May 2011 at 05:15 PM · Permalink · Comments (1)

Amie — by Daniel Area Wakahisa

Once, not twice
I fell in love
Amore mio
And everything was perfect
You and me like
Adam & Eve.

At one point, not two
Our picture fell apart,
All that was left
Was a grain of sand
Which I kept locked
In my heart.

And time passed—
Like wind
From one place to another
Like clouds,
And just like the clouds
I bled tears.

Not one but many,
I rained until
I was left with nothing
Nothing but one memory
Which I no longer
Remember.

These tears have landed
Here on Earth
This wonderful place
You cannot imagine,
Where everything
Is pure sand.

And where I unlocked
My heart so that
I could collect
That one grain of sand
And give it back to you,
Amore mio.


(daw)

Proposed by Daniel Wakahisa on Thursday 07 April 2011 at 01:38 PM · Permalink · Comments (2)

A Wearable Song—by John Tortora

Male songbirds
Improvise melodies
Enchanting hot honey girlbirds
I’m, the one that you want”

And so we sing
A song of wearing.
A pre-emptive triumph
Of fertility and virility.

A call of visual lust and love
Sublime notes of folded cloth. 
An orchestral sculpture in motion.
Exposing our silent dream.


(jt)

Proposed by Dandyakuza on Tuesday 05 April 2011 at 09:42 PM · Permalink · Comments (0)

The Untouchable — by Barbara De Franceschi

Brio-girl in a lipstick dress
smears herself over the dance floor,
club music bounces
with chicken-fillet breasts.

She knows where the DJ is coming from
as he rubs the turntable with itching intent,
one of many who covet the glossy slide
between hip and knee.

Arms screw the air,
buttocks rotate on an urban beat,
each move brings her closer
to the consummation of fashioned heat.

Her reputation is spicy detail
dripping from underarms in the lavatory gossip pit.
They say she will flunk her degree,
build crumbling altars from pills and spiked drinks.

Contradiction pouts her lips beyond the Botox prick,
performance is knowing tenacity,
she protects her body against animal ambush
with a thermal shield of slinky sateen.


(bdf)

Proposed by Dandyakuza on Friday 18 March 2011 at 11:58 AM · Permalink · Comments (0)

Red — by Barbara De Franceschi

Everyone says it is my colour –
enhanced by olive skin, dark hair.

Silk woven or pure cotton,
the impact is the same,
there is spite in my aura,
pique itches, limbs snarl.

And yet, despite the distaste, I cannot resist
a good buy of coagulated folds.

Red bargains fly from my bedroom rafters,
(kicked and flicked in a frenzied strip-off)
some are enmeshed with dusty webs,
others have a newish furl. Odd looking banners/
floppy arms clutching at beams to avoid crucifixion,
frilly things with fasteners undone fornicate
with down-lights switched on in a scarlet haze.

I often think about taking a ladder to paint
each discarded item with national emblems –
circles and stars, vertical stripes,
half moons, lions upon shields.
Then at night I could listen to righteous voices
lag ceiling vents in a bloody ooze of anthems
while I am snared in crimson tulle.


(bdf)

Proposed by Dandyakuza on Friday 18 March 2011 at 11:50 AM · Permalink · Comments (0)

Helka’s Sleigh Ride — by Judson Hamilton

Prophetically it began to thaw
on the day
you entered this world

at the end of a winter
the likes of which
no one could remember :

month after month
the snow had fallen
white on white

as though the heavens
were heralding the arrival
of something

bright
&
new


(jh)

Proposed by Dandyakuza on Wednesday 09 March 2011 at 01:37 PM · Permalink · Comments (0)

Curt Scarlet Coat — by Judson Hamilton

she stands in a curt scarlet coat 
fashioned from the plumage of a thousand cardinals.


at the sound of him, she turns from the window
(dark damp ringlets of hair
swollen charcoal marks beneath each eye – black lipstick)
at the edge of her coat,
the smudge of a dark inverted triangle between her thin thighs


a metal crank protrudes from her temple and she begins to turn it in slow, laborious revolutions
yawning in accompaniment
mouthing plumes of musical notation 
the music reaches a brief pause in its cycle - -
her torso splits and twists away 
a duplicate slips from her skin, in an identical coat of infectious red,
the same swollen rings, ebony marks & smudges
a disturbing symmetry which only intensifies
as she, too, begins to crank the handle at her temple
invoking yet another generative cycle


(jh)

Proposed by Dandyakuza on Wednesday 09 March 2011 at 01:05 PM · Permalink · Comments (0)

Number (N)ine — by Daniel Area Wakahisa (Courtesy of GREY Magazine)

        Then there's this label who won't be showing this season nor the next, it's beat

it's dust scattered across an old record, a coat hanging on the cross—breathless,

        an empty skin unzipped, a shadow on the wall reminiscing the silent poet,

        a divine number

Then there's this feeling, a closed feeling, no longer weeping the mystical back alleys in Harajuku

        where broad stripes and bright stars conquered the tempered heart,

forged in jewel steel engraved with the words: 村正

the demon blade

Then there's this hotel room in Alaska, no witnesses, no nothing,

        where isolation desolation exclamation

invoked the spirits of those folks whose strings resonate deep within

        the land of the free and the home of the brave,

the eternal scream, the nuclear weapon, rhythm and rhymes:

        rock and roll

Then there's this collection whose price was never tagged for it was higher than our digits,

        our exchange rates—our cool, a precious moment, so loud it shattered bones and skulls,

speechless masks walking on their burying ground—the last moment,

        January twenty second two thousand and (n)ine, the vanishing light

        reverence and fear

Then there's this feeling, a sad feeling, that keeps asking was it suicide or was it murder?

        (Ask my brain. I don't know)

the record stopped playing, FATHER the hipsters ran out of coins OR was it the jukebox

        who ran out of tunes, who couldn't count past (n)ine,

        who devoured Americana

until it's needle wore out, scratching the snow white facade of the nation

        floating on overtime, overclocked, overpriced

Then there's this vehemence to conserve, to dry clean only and vacuum pack all the remnants,

        dry freeze every stitch with cryogenic devotion, a cellar a wardrobe

where all numbers combine yet none equates to the absolute value of Takahiro Miyashita, 宮下貴裕

        Taka the oyster, the silent poet,

         ask my brain

Then there's this thirst, a wind blowing from the desert, dry and dusty eyes shut glooming

        wide-open uneasy progressive philosophy resonating in the minds and memories of all,

        what the future will hold,

The Redisun, Time Migration, Standards, The Modern Age, Nowhere Man, Touch Me I'm Sick—A New Morning, Dream Baby Dream, Give Peace a Chance, Night Crawler, The High Streets, Axel Rose, Noir, About A Boy, Love God Murder, Birds, My Own Private Portland, The Lonesome Heroes,

A Closed Feeling

        The ninth sense disbanded

Then there's this letter, a sad letter, Dear friends and supporters,

where dear friends and supporters are given the announcement—the adjournment

        or is it punishment (You shall not make for yourself an idol)

the eighteenth show a closed interval thank you to all but keep looking, keep shopping,

        keep up with appearances

It's past (n)ine and I don't know what to wear

It's past (n)ine and the beat is dead, circumscribed to collectors—we are all collectors now, collecting

        an infinite number of fragments in time, of time, running out of time,

playing the old Beatles song that keeps spinning past the last groove,

        perpetually

Number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine

Number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine

Number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine

Number nine, number nine, number...

(grey)

Proposed by Dandyakuza on Thursday 07 October 2010 at 11:26 AM · Permalink · Comments (0)

Eyes — by Federico Cabrera (Gilles Et Dada)

ARE THE GREY CLOUDS

THE ONES YOU LIKE

THE SAFE POINT

YOU ALWAYS WANTED

THEY MAY BE BRIGHT

BUT NOT ENOUGH

NEVER ENOUGH

TIE YOUR TONGUE

SO YOU WONT REGRET

WHAT YOU NEVER SAID

YOU WONT LOSE

YOU WILL BE SAFE

WILL YOU EVER SEE

IT`S RIGHT THERE FOR YOU

THE MOMENT WHEN THE SILK SLIDES

AND THE PETALS SINK LIKE KNIFES

FOR YOU TO FINALLY FEEL

THE AGONY THAT EARNS YOUR RIGHT

TO OPEN THOSE BRIGHT BLIND EYES


(gd)

Proposed by Dandyakuza on Saturday 25 September 2010 at 06:37 PM · Permalink · Comments (0)

12 x 12 — by Federico Cabrera (Gilles Et Dada)

LONELY WALKS IN THE MONTH 144

LIFE SEEMS NEW AND SO OLD

IS THE DARK CORNER AT 12

THE BANK IS CLOSED BUT THE SERVICE IS OPEN

STAIRS OF JUNKIES AND QUESTION MARK TATTOOS

IS IT ON TONIGHT

THE CAR ARRIVES AND THEY RUSH IN

I AM NOT SURE WHERE TO START

OR WITH WHO

WAS THE NEXT MORNING WHEN SUPERMARKET BAGS

SEEMED MORE OF A HOME THAN THE CAGE I WAS

AND SO IT WENT THE 5 BLOCKS MOVE OUT

TRAIN STATION, STINKY PAPER BAG

SHAKY HANDS AND LOST EYES

IT DIDN’T TOOK LONG TO REACH THE TALL HOME

WALLS FILLED WITH HOLES WILL CATCH YOUR EYE

ENDLESS LABYRINTHS OF LOST CHARACTERS

BABIES CRYING, MOTHERS HUMMING

DADDIES BREATHING, WHORES FIXING

THAT’S WHAT THE 12 MEANT

IF THAT WAS NOT A BEGINNING

MIDNIGHT IN THE EMPTY COLD FELT LIKE IT

NOW I AM, I THOUGHT

NOW I AM FREE TO LIVE OR DIE

QUICK THOUGHTS OF THE MONTH 144


(gd)

Proposed by Dandyakuza on Saturday 25 September 2010 at 06:36 PM · Permalink · Comments (0)