Hüt B'olé Surfers

Completing and revising projects I left here a while ago. Considering posting other poetry here as well.

[surfersofbole]

Surfers of Bolé

Last edited October 1st, 2017, I think. Also, I'm pretty sure I already posted most of this except for the last 4 lines.

Southeast part of Florida, there’s a township on the sea.

This suburb of Hütt Bolé was envied for its beauty.

A Xanadu protected from noisy costal highways;

Our Shangri-La perfected by a steady summer blaze.

In the neighborhood of Soledad, in the town of East Bolé,

Lived those from Monroe County – which is seated ‘pon the cay.

Too, the people of Peace River lived on the thoroughfare.

On that street, Tawasentha, there lived Sole to breathe the air.

I came from dear Arcadia, the home I had too much loved,

T’ follow dearest Soledad, whom I held ten times above.

‘twas there on Tawasentha where I fawned over the sun,

But I lied down without her, m’ solitude not undone.

Near the beachfront property, a mile or so in distance,

There’s a ranch-styled home which has long become my residence.

‘twas Soledad’s insistence, once the housing bubble burst,

I lower my resistance and I claim this place mine first.

This world, that seems uncleansed and dirtied, hid a beauty I have seen:

Resplendent, gulf-coast waters; grand, majestic, purple scenes;

Wavering fronds on unperturbed, still, tranquil royal palms;

Luscious leaves ‘f forest beings hanging silent in the calm.

Oh, I recall Arcadia – that world from well long ago.

I came from dear Arcadia – a place I will always know.*

I found there was a feeling too familiar at the start

That I rightly so deserved. It warmed me in my heart.

’d dreamt of mangrove forests when – in the days that I was young –

I wandered in my wonders ‘mongst the Spanish moss that hung.

I found a fabled gator there – in the entrenchment near –,

And saw that fabled gator there before it disappeared.

[surfersofbole]

3 Summer Songs Prepared for a Song Writing Competition.

Last edited in my drafts on September 3, 2018. It’s fucking cringe. Don’t read this shit.

The following were written for an r/GameOfBands Summer Song competition, but I ultimately submitted nothing as work started halfway through the competition. The first song was being prepared before the competition started, but was rejected by the group. The second was an attempt to write something that was a bit more fitting for the two other members of the group, but it was rejected by the musician in our group, who then gave me a track to which I could write. That resulted in the third song. All songs were half written by the time the competition ended, and I’ve completed these songs well after it finished.

Summer Days*

[Crazy summer days,

wished them all away.]

Lazy summer days,

piss them all away.

Everyone’s gone

to do their thing

a ways away, always.

All my dreams were shelved up high,

go to sleep and later try.

“Something’s wrong. What’s going on?”

It just seems like the birds sing

a great heap. I don’t know why.

Crazy summer days,

spent them all, I’d say.

The river ran its course;

of course, it went to sea.

[On th’ dray, I stay all day.]

[“You know that I fear it will

live so long, I’ll hope it dies.”**

Mothers say as babies break.***

’nd you know what, I’ve had my fill.

Lived so wrong I’d crystallize.]

Oh, and how I’d freeze

at festivities.

Naivety

just has a way

to go, be known and shown.

I had stood near to the edge;

in moments, pushed by a pledge.

My mistake was when I’d stay

near a wooden branch fate lay.

Two lone ents and this one’s dredged.

How I should have drowned,

for I had been downed.

Being saved by far-gone brethren

‘s not better when I am forgone by them.

[Strife stifles striving lives.]

[Wrap up with portion about sleep paralysis and hospital bed].

A Break in the Life

Dead with the midnight oil burning.

Liquor on my mind as the headache's churning;

hangover in the midst is looming.

Lover left for water, I'm assuming.

Head in my hands 'cause I stopped learning.

Love comes back and, my hair, she's grooming.

Oh, exams are such a bummer.

Oh, I'm waiting for the summer.

Carefree, I have dreams on my shoulders.

One day, they'll be worth their weight in gold.

Sisyphus stopped rolling boulders

as his legs began to fold,

and today I drop the folders

as springtime turns too old.

Tropical Utopia

When I woke up in the morning,

I made a small mistake;

I fell asleep until the evening time.

Even then, I was forced awake.

All the dreams that never stayed

returned to me in a summer rhyme.

All the ones that went astray

left without a warning. But no mourning

about the days that passed away;

all I do is drink my limeade

as I'm paid for wait time

and my thoughts fly bye. Alright.

I love the coastal scenes.

I follow a pretty thing;

if she offers to take my name,

I'm liable to sing. (to start singing)

And if she'd kiss

my ugly mug

I would only be

a little smug.

As I walked up the edge of an ocean blue

and stalked the ledge of an ancient cliff, I knew

there had to be someone who'd share this place

with me and run their feet through the sands and waves,

but I'd never leave

the hidden cove

or the open beach.

I would have to grieve

nature's last trove

as it does beseech (me).

*Alternatively, ignore the portions in brackets. **Reference to The Kinks’ Strangers. ***Reference to the Pixies’ Hey.

[deadhrat]

never take advice from someone who's falling apart 🗡️🖥️

(click the photo for sharper quality (⁠ﾉ⁠◕⁠ヮ⁠◕⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠*⁠.⁠✧)

[surfersofbole]

I wrote a poem based off of this image.

(click Keep reading for the stupid poem 💩)

fumes fill the room

damned aged electronics

frumulous me

basilisk

if you spoke

of degenerating

rods and conic

sections I would not follow

your line of reasoning

there'd be no point

so I gave you one

in jest I digress

for I cannot reflect

wholly on the minutiae

not tired but exhausted

though I see it in the glass

and you see it on my face

pleated cascades of

cold comfort and rodentless

board um room

key and sword

no monitor

lizard sweat and breeze

art brut

hotel zhivago

[surfersofbole]

8-Minute Realization

If twenty thousand years it took for light

to reach the surface climbing from the core,

then how’d the sun permit it stay so bright,

that ray of shine that fell upon the floor?

Perhaps the sun acts like the great approver,

and if its light has waited to mature,

then how is it that fate would let maneuver

that radiance upon some cow manure?

But, for that light to reach these eyes, this fellow

knows not disgust but terrible relief,

for without sight, I’d walk on through the meadow;

this poem would be a limerick, all too brief.

Such brilliance spills upon some piled shit

and all the pasture that will grow from it.

[surfersofbole]

Poem written after taking 4 melatonin gummies

Stay slightly cross-eyed, I'm gonna take you down with me.

Dying, ancient city with a backdrop of the moon,

blurring double vision lets me see your yellowed sclera.

Four mellies and a Cuba Libre? No, I'm not drinking tonight.

Same nightly boss fight, time's gonna wear you out swiftly.

Would you express yourself if I don't deliver? Bitch, keep me posted;

y'know I can't sleep unless you tell me to...

Stay slightly cross-eyed, I'm gonna wear you out swiftly.

[surfersofbole]

Say, speak stranger sounds.

I fell victim to a cult of noise:

indistinct, promising

hours of conversation poured

minute dialogue.

Glean this: only you grieve

how you're too lonely to leave.

Wrote this while at a coffee shop; I was reading when it got quite busy. I kinda just winged it since it was noisy. Edited it just some minutes ago.

Was basically just me feeling an exaggerated eh about how loud it was. There was a gentleman who was waiting for someone before he got a call that things were delayed; I can't recall if that happened before or after I wrote the second sentence.

[quietdissidentlyricist]

If my life must/be shed

(Into or beyond)

I’m not trying to take on too much

For all these leaves may just dry up

I’m branching out,

Just not to far

Why do so much it dies?

The fall’s not what terrifies

It’s failure to establish roots

And how to identify

My purpose, role,

My sought-for fruit

By chasing what’s not mine….

[surfersofbole]

If my life be shed,

I could bear a strong facade,

but all in me would perish

lest you put your truss in me

to give structure to my roof.

[quietdissidentlyricist]

If my life be shed

I’d set a foundation

Anchored deep in Jest

Far Enuff to support additions

(To top rhymes wit)

…

(Thanks for dropping by with a w-inking!

Out of curiosity-

Are you still on that potato, or did something happen to it? 🥔 🤔 )

[surfersofbole]

If all in me distends

and I tear as I should bend

like snakeskin slipped from form,

I'd hope that's not the norm.

And if my life must shed

like fur upon a bed,

I'd lie there with my friends

and strangers in the end.

Nope, got rid of that phone and upgraded. If you're talking about my main blog, it's LittleWaterMusic now.

[quietdissidentlyricist]

If my life must/be shed

(Into or beyond)

I’m not trying to take on too much

For all these leaves may just dry up

I’m branching out,

Just not to far

Why do so much it dies?

The fall’s not what terrifies

It’s failure to establish roots

And how to identify

My purpose, role,

My sought-for fruit

By chasing what’s not mine….

[surfersofbole]

If my life be shed,

I could bear a strong facade,

but all in me would perish

lest you put your truss in me

to give structure to my roof.

[surfersofbole]

An attempt at elegiac couplets

Open lips caked in dust coated with blood speak silent words: mother, father, or maybe God? Who is to listen to you?

Breaks the heart: enemies pierce skulls--destroy lives, hate without love--with blades of grass, bullets of sweat… Never hesitate to care.

I had hopes to include this poem in a collection, but it's not forming properly as elegiac couplets. I'll probably come back to this form--and I may come back to the topic in this poem--but I feel uninspired with what I've produced here.

[surfersofbole]

Feeling kinda sad...

might write a poem

if words move like nutrients

through a plant's vascular system.

[vasilinaorlova]

Oh to be

A small stone

In the avalanche

[surfersofbole]

Cascade away

today, tomorrow, in the

month of May.

[surfersofbole]

Drinking for Repair

This seltzer drink will now compose

a man that started turning ill.

Meandered streams of drunkard woes,

they're oft expelled post-wild throws

and kill the mood of mild thrill.

This seltzer drink will now compose

orchestral pieces - water flows;

the urinal shall have its swill:

meandered streams of drunkard woes.

While lost in thought, recant, propose,

and close it up; it all will spill.

This seltzer drink will now compose

a man who never really knows

the slow barista and the bill.

Meandered streams of drunkard woes:

a thought of you in the wind blows.

I know it's you that cannot still;

this seltzer drink will now compose

meandered streams of drunkard woes.

A boring villanelle on my most recent trip to a bar.

[surfersofbole]

Poems on "Drinking for Despair"

Limerick

Full in the bladder and wasted, he filled up a mug and embraced it. The bartender waited. "It's decarbonated; it's warm and -" "It's piss that you've tasted."

A night for getting... I find them comforting (vodka and rum): one dulls my senses and leaves my face numb. One lifts the spirits before they are downed; double shots with karaoke: unsound. Floating to coughing to struggling to swim, I barely hang on by the edge of the rim.

Inspired by MeatCanyon's Yokai Bob the Builder

Drinking for despair fills the house of disrepair. Splayed upon a carpet, consumption's on the docket. I have been disowned: the walls have warped and groaned, the home fell with its frame and the land has been reclaimed.

Notes

I only took an hour or two to write this, so it may read unpolished (or like some of the old crap I used to write).

I wanted to start with something serious, especially something to do with floating, but then panicking, breathing under the surface, coughing, and drowning. I quickly got lazy and jumped over to writing a limerick (half of which I had written, but needed to reorganize). I was going to write a follow up about drinking from the tap, but I figured a poem about that would go overboard.

I struggled to come up with something to kick off the second poem, and eventually got the first line. I wanted it to be kinda sing-songy and filled to the brim with double meanings.

The third poem is meant to be my attempt at being serious. I figured it'd be in the spirit of the video to add it.

[surfersofbole]

Going to Fall: What will you do?

This is the fifth installment in my “Going to Fall” series, which is based on Bob Dylan’s “A Hard Rain’s a-Gonna Fall.”

What will you do?

Here, your father must now mention if God has seemed unjust, unkind, then, have you paid him no attention? Our sins are many, of great kinds; punishment ‘s held with retention

not unlike the water vapor within the clouds above the world. All the clouds won’t harm a scraper, but rain upon a cardboard home turns the walls into soaked paper.

I can sense your apprehension, and I can sense your broken pride. Do you have some great dissension? Well, now, just take your small asides to relieve any contention.

Some of us find things enlightening when we must live in heavy dark. Lightning rods control the frightening and brightening flash of the short night. Umbrellas keep th’ tensions tightening.

You would think there’d be prevention - that God himself would take the lead. God wants no Earthly dimension and so he goes ahead, concedes rain must fall without suspension.

What will you do, my blue-eyed son? Somethings are hard to answer. Some… What will you do, darling young one? Think you that I should know this thing? Morning comes now with the bright sun.

Going back out before the rain starts falling

I wake up scared as hell that things are going wrong. Why? I was not quite sure of what was going on. My mind was in a cell. I lie down quietly. The motionless allure of a ceiling, empty...

A day begins anew. Will I ever arise? A thunder I have heard; the skies will be disguised. The rainclouds now accrue. I’m scared to leave this place; though, maybe I’m absurd, and I should go/make haste.

I’ll walk the beaten path; I know it will be short. All the small excursions other souls couldn’t afford... I'll face the wanton wrath because the world will fear I am leading an incursion with my mouth that all’ll hear.

The depths of the deepest, black forest

Electrified air climbs to clustered cotton fluff; screams turn to grumbles.

Some schwarzwald sunshine prawns prowl blister-black water - ice of a night sky.

Sharp whistles whittle brittle branch and bark, bitter for the burning blight.

Hollow trees topple. Then, forests from dying flames born of detritus.

The people are many, their hands are all empty

Xerotic mouths agape, facade of night entreats a dreamer thirsting not the light, "neglect a cleanly state and state that you ordain the rain to fall as it is due."

Disguising no intentions with delight, obsessed with obfuscating appetite, come cumulating nimbus clouds above haranguing with each lightning strike thereof.

In time, hard rains again will lift the plight and everyone will be an acolyte lest all the clouds they see move out of sight.

The pellets of poison flooding their waters

(The vending machine hums softly. A whirring and some clinking kick off a habit, and I press a button. A quarter? I try again. In the mechanism, it moves. Thunk. Mother's approval.)

Someone's swimming in the pool.

Crystalline medium with waving surface dances the light upon the ceiling.

Diving at the deep, he sinks into the bottom for the longest moment until he is diluted by the dark.

I sit beside the edge, staring.

No manacles bind us to the station we submit.

Someone's swimming in the pool, but I've a job to do. "Refill the canister with two chlorine tablets. Lock up and leave."

The home in the valley meets the damp, dirty prison

I walk to where the sidewalk ends en masse, past the concrete's blend with grass and the footstep-muddled pastures.

I found the last spot God had cried: an oasis that has dried in the desert of this life.

The rain is not the coldest where the trees have met the forest and the mountain meets the valley.

The executioner’s face, always well hidden

At mass, the priest, in his white, polyester robes, stood among pink roses.

"I say, precious Lord, look upon us and see not injustice; instead, find hope."

Among the heightened exaltations of the chorus, water came down upon us.

Back when crimes against the Lord and his people were punishable, men like Christ and Beckett, with their deaths, made leaders grovel.

King, bearing a new weight, shouldered a poor people's campaign; in his memory, we hid this struggle. In this new poor people's campaign, shall hidden faces make another man infamous?

"Do this in memory of me."

The word of the Lord makes requisite that we do things in memory of others that perhaps, through us, they could live on. Such a cause as theirs is worth perpetuating; such a love as theirs is the great communion.

"Mass has ended. You may go in peace"

Hunger is ugly, souls are forgotten

Oysters - pried apart with pearls squeezed from their soft flesh - are discarded shells that cleansed murky waterways. Layered nacre anchors banks.

Black is the color, none is the number

For the briefest second, worlds are colorful and palm fronds, like percussion sections, fill the wind with scratching sound. As raindrops themselves drive through darkness into broken asphalt, thunder-crash!                        The crack in night, it vanished while a youth in leather shoes and wetting socks went running to a covered walkway. Hole-filled pockets bore some grimed receipts, old notes, worn cards, and damaged pictures in a wallet that was drawn up. She inserted plastic; as the m'chine slow- processed four fast digits, vehicles blurred past and disappear until, at last, a menu let her check the balance. Black in text, a zero showed up. Buzzing lights then flickered; rain felt bitter/harder.

Tell it, think it, speak it, breathe it

False flags on steel poles; you find their real goals cause hard heads to feel soles as reeled votes steal polls. Loss is a hand that's doled to thoughtless card holders; well oiled, pristine political machines need propaganda's grist cleaned and shoveled on the screens. Greed - democracy's splotch - fills you with the scotch blues; when the night is botched, sit back up to watch news. Feel cold and say burr under a cedar tree, or passover seder with Sam Seder, see his angered, sabered tongue work hard/labor long; hundreds of lungfuls from racist uncles tapered off. Like flaming fungal masses on crumpled paper, scoffed arguments hindered turn to cinder; try not to join the splintered dense blocks of tinder, dry rot. "Freedom isn't free, son..." some person breathes on as a prison's breeze comes; truth in neon: "Freedom isn't free, and it isn't freedom." Jaime Peck 'n' Michael Brooks wait with bridled facts on homicidal cops and Congress' idled acts. The left's best anchors, hosts of the Majority Report, unveil the languor of neofascist authority.

Reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it

Guinness in my system at a Regal cinema; someone said, "I miss him." Liquor mixed with cinnamon makes my throat feel dry; is that why I'm stifled? "On everyone's behalf, when we heard you laughing at Dave Rubin's gaffes, all our sides were halfing." Why am I nervous before the final curtain? "He did the world a service, that I say with certainty." "I want to drink, alright, rather than think all night; pour shots until bar fight hour is a starlight tour." Drink my Tennessee whiskey and Hennessy briskly in backgrounds of dim-lit rooms. As this dim-wit reflects, chances look slim; the future's a grim skit. Pillow to my head and sink in like lead, a stone carelessly embedded in the river bed alone.

Stand on the ocean until I start sinking

When one recollects that the keystone oft sank in the sand before standing aloft among clouds on a mountain so solid of faith and devotion, it's then that a false step compels men, "Recover!" I noticed thrombosis had felled the calm warrior, that saint among saints that is Archangel Michael; the champion of men and proponent of justice inspires l'avant-garde to claim in it's crawling a victory not pyrrhic but won with empiric- al knowledge against an- tithetical sirens that draw men towards hatred with bigotry, envy, and greed. So, surrender your voice, but renounce not your thoughts, and remember the message borne by a colossus that called out to Lazarus, "Come forth."

Know my song well before I start singing

Cantos coming soon to a year near you!

Notes

This is the order in which the poems were written: 2, 1, 4, 3, 6, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12. I plan for poem 13 to be a series of cantos based on my time walking through a park in my home town.

What will you do?

This poem was written months ago while I was still a Tumblr poet and is the introduction to the final section of the Going to Fall collection of poems I've written. The next poem will be posted when I figure out where I saved it.

The depths of the deepest, black forest

I thought I had a poem for this portion of the final section of my "Going to Fall" poetry collection, but I couldn't find it. Luckily, the haiku challenge issued for November prompted me to write this in place of the imagined poem.

The people are many, their hands are all empty

There were two prompts for this poem. The first is an obscure words poetry contest that I volunteered myself, in which I received the prompt "Xenodochial" (which means hospitable or kind to strangers). The second was from a challenge I made [for] myself [...] I had been stuck on this particular portion for months now, so I'm glad to have something appropriate and fitting.

The pellets of poison flooding their waters

Perhaps I put too much thought into a story about a guy closing up after a hallucination. The stuff in the parenthesis was typed last, but I only put it in because I could find no better way to add that the narrator is thirsty. I was going to write a twelve poem collection on this prompt, based on monthly news stories of people making the world a worse place, but the poems were scrapped. I do hope to revisit the idea under a different title.Perhaps I put too much thought into a story about a guy closing up after a hallucination. The stuff in the parenthesis was typed last, but I only put it in because I could find no better way to add that the narrator is thirsty. I was going to write a twelve poem collection on this prompt, based on monthly news stories of people making the world a worse place, but the poems were scrapped. I do hope to revisit the idea under a different title.

The home in the in the valley meets the damp dirty prison

I had the first two lines stuck in my head for a couple of days. This is the result.

Hunger is ugly, souls are forgotten

This is just a poem comparing oysters and people.

Black is the color, none is the number

October 11, 2020 corrections: *line 4 - "And" -> "As" *line 7 - "." -> "," *line 8 - "Thunder-crash!" -> "thunder-crash!" and line split. *lines 13-16 - "Hole-filled pockets - dirty, wet - hold paper/plastic cards and damaged pictures in a wallet. It is" replaced with current version. *lines 18-21 - "plastic; as the machine processed four fast digits, vehicles dove on past and then they disappeared. At" replaced with current version.

Three Poems for the Great Progressive

This poem came together from the following stanza that I spit out a couple of nights ago: Passover seder with Sam Seder under my cedar tree. Say burr, see his sabered tongue labor long. Hundred lungful's hinder cindered minds. The tinder finds a racist uncle's baseless tongueful like dry rot: the fungal waste is erased from space. Try not It includes one line I wrote a few years ago: "I drink my Tennessee whiskey and Hennessy briskly." The poem is basically about listening to the news all the time because you're sick, feeling restless, going out to the movies and bars, and finally going to sleep. July 20, 2020 update: Completed in honor of Michael Brooks. Also, I wrote the following poem soon after I heard the news, but did not put the time into it that I would have liked. The ground is dry and leaves grow thin. When the new moon is out the fuses trip, the grid's offline, and the world stands too still, I look to the sky as the gold flecks fly; ember is ash. A chill climbs up my spine; stomach can't dip lower. I cannot scout a star within the restless sky. August 11, 2020 update: I saw a contest early morning and wrote the first stanza of the third poem. The second stanza was written after I returned from work. The prompt was the first line from the Beatles' "A Day in the Life".

NOTE: This is the title for “Tell it, think it, speak it, breathe it,” “Reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it,” and “Stand on the ocean until I start sinking.”

[surfersofbole]

Poems posted in the Spirit of Halloween

The first poem is my response - a tanka - to Woshibai’s “Pupa.” The second poem is a new version of a poem I posted here in August 2018. It includes a four line introduction (inspired by The Doors’ “Riders on the Storm” that is to be read in a tone different from the rest of the poem. The third poem is an edited copy of an old poem posted here in February 2016. It has a new, final stanza.

On sexing & desexing and on flowering & deflowering

I plucked flowers from the bramble and ate the fruit. Spring is unsung. This blackberry bush - thick with foliage - grew to wither.

The Shriek (Version II)

I closed my ears all filled with fright. There was a croaking through the night. It was a bloated toad each breath it’d draw. Upon the shoulder of a road ahead I saw the beast that rapes the virgin ear and child-soul which came up dressed with tattered stoll; that gave a hatred all wanton, served with curdled blood; whose shriek unnerved those filled with dread as fountains bled a pumping, squirting, bright, hot red; which goosbumped my shriveling skin and took away my next of kin; that severed a head/curtailed a spine and festers in these thoughts of mine. It came and went with one short breath and seemed near human, but came from death.

The Black Writing: The Gluttonous Feline (Version II)

The belly of the beast has gurgled, all diseased. To say it’s pretty fat understates the obese cat; it feels a constant need to feed and feed and feed. It’s got food coating its whiskers.

Let’s note the very least, this beast eats Fancy Feast leaving none for swarming rats. There is little that distracts a consumer with such greed that feeds and feeds to feed. Is this all it ever wished for?

As the vultures swarm the creased folds of fat (well greased), and the buzzards, peckish at eyes and ears, the gnats - in larval form - will feed and feed and feed, indeed. Hear its dying whispers.

Labored breath has ceased in a carcass all diseased. Nature’s lengthy spats for scraps and skin detached settled; I concede that death did not exceed this role that it’s equipped for.

PS: All these poems or versions of these poems were first published on AllPoetry. I do plan on eventually porting my poems over from that site (and Reddit, but I want to complete old projects that I never completed for this site.  Anything meant to come here will be posted at least two weeks after it’s first posted on AllPoetry.

[surfersofbole]

A Walk on a Cool Winter Night (Reprise)

Two strangers to me.

But intact -

In this long race -

My failures:

No dreams for us three.

They met at

The coasts of Thrace,

Travelers.

Forever they shall be

Feeling that.

In love embrace

Two strangers.

[surfersofbole]

Former Blog Description*

This blog is dead... Hah! I bet I kinda got you there. It's only socially dead. I'm not posting work to be seen for the time being, but I am boasting works for those keen to be reading. If you're seceding to your will to be leaving, leave no flowers,...

*This must have been written months to a year ago. I’m not entirely sure.