Crisp brown

Allen Ginsberg, Artist's Hands, Autumn, Barry Comer, Barry Comer Artist, Dr. Ph. Martin's Radiant Concentrated Watercolor, drawing, dreams, Fall Leaves, Hand Made Paper, Sculpture, Sculptured Sketch, Self Portrait, selfie, Selfies

COOL

The wind is stirring my dirt, with rain and scents in crisped and brown. You are here, time wound, now sprung. Floating delivery, you brought me here.

Hollow howl

Allen Ginsberg, America, artist, Badass Artist, Barry Comer, Barry Comer Artist, beat poetry, Hollow Howl

Howl

I’m the hollow howl, the 50 hour week, with a cavity filled too deep. Just feelings with no complaints. My haunch tickles and guess I took it.

Never mind the bollocks, here’s the antibiotics

Allen Ginsberg, Antibiotics, drawing, dreams, Music, Tooth Extraction, Wisdom Tooth

hands and pills

Lightning strikes me baby;

oh man, it does.

All tapered strings and

such light moves.

Downward licking –

the voltage makes

me high.

Give me shake and

push me raw –

I want to

hurt down low –

so down.

Your shrill voice

in one dimension –

does nothing.

In realtime, like rocks to brains.

You touch my toes;

give more than all could after.

I predict.

Your men admire your tumble,

the reach of

tongue and your

tap of shoes.

Look at you, see with eyes so closed.

You wow the crowd.

Heaven from lungs

just two,

silenced me,

didn’t it?

Fuzz Fuzz Fuzz and

feedback thrills.

Chill me while my teeth lay – clenched.

You never fail to raise my bumps.

Don’t go, please, stay.

Go now.

2012 Barry Comer – Illustration 2015

An underwater vision of the ground

1960s, Addiction, Adoption, Allen Ginsberg, America, Art, Ashley Lily Scarlett, Australia, beat poetry, Poetry, Shame

shame copy

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 – Illustration 2015

Leviticus ’65

1950s, 1960s, Allen Ginsberg, Illustration, Jimi Hendrix, Leonard Cohen, Paris, Pen and Ink, Pen and Ink Illustration, pencil drawing, Protest, Religion, Summer of Love

1969 copy

Buzzing street lights in ‘65, while riding down broadway, I saw him raise a fist and knock on air, giving honorary mention, on a sidewalk, with licorice aromatics and things to come; a riot in mind and lost roads yet to try; I was driving down the hours, until the great eruption, the beautiful hydrogen plume, that turned my earliest stages to glass; of misunderstanding.

I chose deep coma puffs for months; hoping for a big bang difference, but saw more of the same, those political chants and the binge melody; spread my head from ear to nose, and dripped to a kneeling pose that hurt the knees; that he created.

There were buses choked with cigarettes and little fires that fumed high on revolution; I inhaled the moment, spiritual avenues of peace, ambience for a dime and phony masters of ‘68, who passed good karma as market produce, picked for it’s grace maybe taste; remembering a twisted paste, twirled around a pipe; I found his holiness smeared with rosin, powdered and heated in delicious spice.

Banging down the hours, in the hallway and on the walls, the musicians in the park, the harmonica boy and a licorice man who posed like Cleopatra, a fist pumped high, finding power far from the action, the corner vacation it had become; one year late and an intersection erupting intolerance; a fascist dialect foaming at the mouth.

It’s murder man, the sacrifice for love’s survival, the astute grew grumpy, coyly taking savage steps for attention, a smiling Buddha danced mediocrity, and the breeze cleaned the streets of licorice lice.

I pledged to mystic beasts, the iconic gods, who gave us head while swaying beads, killing rice cake hero babies, then slurped the carnage. That was the rise in ‘69, the fall of all, you young men, robed preachers; who stole the show. We worshipped your footprints, discovered nothing, but eased each in; so wild were our mouths.

The cold floating fogs in ‘71, let’s drive the dark, close our eyes, seeing cars in stars, luck was far from there, it was over. Time to surrender, the freedom, the ravished femmes, the man with junk, singing ancient song, who lived in trees, who coasted hills, whose licorice taste, his heavenly dreams; visit my nighttime history, and the years we lived.

2010 Barry Comer – visit Black Cat Poems.com

Illustration – 2015