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Martin Narrod Aug 2017
Anything All of the Everything

Events of Summer quickly ensue, it takes hold of you quickly, while the police drive thru. You cannot find it half-way into the night, you could hold up on a park bench or lay your blanket on the slough. Perhaps when your dreams kick, your asterisks will come, build a map of your defense and then head for the sun. Some foe outwit the wounds of life, furry blister-like faces, when they take up the star dust diamonds, the trail guides take after hurrying up paces.

The festivities of fear are living oaths inside of marbled starve rocks, they harvest shoots and ladders, and keep tabs on wild beasts and livestock. There's no match throughout the campgrounds. There's no matchbook light to find us. If you're quick enough with your 70s, then perhaps you'll follow the nightness that's arrived us.

In aide of her lift-gate, shredding pensive miens and speeding mimes, taking ward of one thousand fathomed depths, assumes courageous anti-hate isms. She can come quickly with a syzygy, her van packed with fresh woes of Sunday, then around Monday humbly hides her stuff in the small hems of her bed linens. You can't outwit the governess who preys on handicapped children's thrift finds. She makes clothes and keeps her hands to bed. She bares new graves for time's new roman epithets and moving pictures. She  unplugs her bleeding tongues under some new sone for her monarchic archetypical audiophile party.

While the umberphiles sleep, nyctophiliacs stalk grizzlies. Mosquitos quaff at human blood, while their offspring keep drinking. The idle bugs throes, misanthropic and useless, teach electric lusters' mouths to grow into fiery hoops with which to slip past all the clueless.  The arachnids might dance, the haunting verbs they might fray. The Egyptians at first glance, try to hide their heroine pyramids away.

So hush little violet dormant flowers, fake your fertility and keep your skeptic drink. Keep each one you might meet, within one hundred feet of where you sleep. Keep your arms length's supine, your supplies out of reach, practice wrapping yourself up inside boxes where the souls can sleep.

If you only once catch a fool, avoid the plague-speak certain lips might tell. Each uttered word commanded with too much ******* across the bandwidth. Mortal courses can't be taught, human voices can't keep the draught, ferocious abstract engineered humanity has escaped this truant absence and immorality. You, you catch a fool, she could preach hurts and djinns, it could dot the I's of when, and unfurl the sighs of men. Berthed earthlings that the **** ascribes, hurts the worthless and sours true purpose widths of curfews and its curses, all these biomes perfervidly reserve the fury for their furtive perversity, elements to obscure the telemetry that has coddled such a dark conflagration of immensity, it's the cluelessness of these transgressors that forces the abhorrence towards all-white-everything professors.
While sitting in Grand Teton National Park at the entrance to Spalding Bay.
Carl Halling Aug 2017
O how
Ruefully I pine
For mi pueblito perdido,
What I wouldn’t give,
To be young again,
And happy as I was back then.

Maria, full of peace,
Do you remember
Francis Albert softly keening
O Amor Em Paz,
And other songs by Jobim,
Happy as you were back then?

O for
That wide-eyed
Impression of yours,
Paquita (la de Murcia),
Of your beloved Mary Lyn,
Happy as you were back then.

O how
Ruefully I pine
For mi pueblito perdido,
What I wouldn’t give,
To be young again,
And happy as I was back then.
Spain, Happy, Sinatra, Murcia, Young
In Seville

My lock is like a wheel
that treasures the land
with strands of sand now an inroad to soul
in times of grain this platitude of health ahead of tides

the salt on shore implores unfinished deeds
as art deplores any nurturing of needs
with stars out this race beyond the chariot again

and proves that this orient has rightly won a gathering if seed roaring in a stream of catchment nigh
where these overtones are songs
and round about the fields along the Guadalquivir.
Carl Halling Jun 2017
One summer’s eve in Spain,
I fled through an open window,
Butterflies aflight
In the very pit of me,
And I tramped the streets,
My heart abrim
With such a love,
But a love now long gone.

With my final matches,
I forged a heart
At that maiden’s doorstep;
I was like a thief,
On that torrid night,
My heart abrim
With so much love,
But a love now long gone.

And what of the maiden in azure?
O! What an inferno raged
Within my soul for her,
But that love
Never bloomed beyond a dream,
My heart abrim
With such a love,
But a love now long gone.
'But a Love Now Long Gone' was written in late June 2017 as a translation of a song, originally penned in French around 2013, itself based on an earlier - autobiographical - song dating from when I was about 19.
C Apr 2017
It is ironic, Salvador, because
I am afraid of many things in the world and when I am with you I feel safe,
Yet your company is the one thing I am afraid of most.
I know that I love and need you more than you will ever love and need me and that
One day you will be free
With another woman and I will be
Left paying for my sins against God and
My rights against the state.

I thought that our love would have no limits;
You said that I am a Christian storm but
I know that you can brave this tempest and
Save me from myself.

I am a poet, Salvador, but
Whenever I sit down to try to write a poem about you,
Or even just how I feel about you,
I am unable to because
I am lost for words.
I can no longer express myself.  

I remember the beach.
We would lie there for hours
And on its sand we would kiss not just with our lips but
With our eyes.
The water will miss our visits,
Its body seldom taken by another-
As opposed to being constantly engulfed by two artistic lovers.
I have received my seaside medicine
-Via touch of tongue
And word of hand-
But have come to the realisation that you have in fact
Poisoned me.
I shall never be cured now.

The smoke from silent guns has already risen but
I am severed from the call to a fight with myself;
A conflict to choose between God
and you,
Despite the fact that you are the same.
You distract me from every focus-
Even though we are miles apart;
Even though you have replaced my words with your art,
You have broken me, yet
You make me
Whole.

Where is your warmth now, Salvador?
I am alone by the sea trembling with the cold
That you swore I would never feel again.
The winter will devour me as a result of your failing to relight the fire that is supposed to
Ignite me.
You promised me life with a portrait machine
But in all honesty
What I really want to be
Promised with is your faith,
In me.
A L Davies Jul 2012
red tile roof ...
whitewash balcony in romanesque cemicircle ,
fridge full 'f
                        1 litro bottles Alhambra cerveza --
clawfoot tub, coldwater (couture)
$1000/week:
(i could live on that)
lucky strike spirals in spanish summer,
bare feet on the railing upturned to sun beaming on pearly albayzin of granada.
afternoon mojitos with a new woman ev'ry week. (reading magazines)

spend
75 drunk nights ( reading ,   smoking ,   swilling gin )
&
typewriter whirring out pages (underwood airbus laissez-faire)
flamenco on a record player back in the house
one of those spanish girls slipping off a white dress (which falls like a soft breath of cloud down to the ground and sits there
still as death)
as she gets into the jacuzzi.
&
spend
75 high days throwing change into fountains, hand
up skirt of my carmen-du-jour.
climb drydust hills with guinness tallcans in plastic borsa
drinking dark beauties as golden orb hung in clouds keeps on grinning heatwaves.

(feelin' like maybe perhaps possibly i be free)
more RAW than R.A.W.
requiEM Mar 2017
Valencia Oranges
A yellow coated dream
Mustard-colored-tiles-are-much-colder-than-they-seem
Swimming in a sweatshirt
Watery-eyed and rosy cheeked
Music playing faintly
Curiosity is peaked
I imagine waking up
To humidity and cream
In my coffee, jingle my loft key
As I walk my way upstream


Sunglasses tint
All the oranges red
Valencia enters my veins
Rouged and widespread
No rush of the bulls
filled these narrow cobbled streets
where tradition and
songs sounded over pinxos,
and stories of San-Fermin.
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