Time drips down and down

12-step, Addiction, Alive, Art, artist, Artist's Hands, Badass Artist, Barry Comer Artist, beat poetry, Cafe, Coffee


Abbreviated love this afternoon,

until light strikes clouds

and hours roar near.

I think it often while extending

moments and ticks, until my sun

who shimmers; circles along

my chest.

Happy is the word and content for

hands; that touched and stroked.

The silence after, beats loud

in song, as she whispers

words that penetrate.

Nothing more for now.

Nothing need be carved to

time and beats.

My body floats

among the waves and

time drips down

and down.

2012 Barry Comer

Not ever

anger, Art, Artist's Hands, Badass Artist, Barry Comer, Barry Comer Artist, beat poetry, Dr. Ph. Martin's Radiant Concentrated Watercolor, drawing, Hands, Pen and Ink, Pen and Ink Illustration, Pencil and Pen Drawing, portrait, Rejection

not ever

Not ever. Don’t touch or graze against my skin. Don’t feel at liberty to comment on my feelings, especially my heart.

Gave myself a quickie

American Illustrator, Barry Comer, Barry Comer Artist, beat poetry, black, Handmade Paper, line art, Quickie, Self Portrait, selfie


Uh huh.

Thank you Rebecca (http://www.thepaintedpear.com) for inspiring me to try something just with line and form. After looking at your site today, I definitely grew hungry to do a selfie with a more accurate interpretation of self. Of course accurate and interpretation may not balance to all, but to me they are inclusive and as real as it gets.

Anyway, no color necessary and a welcome adventure into the black, using my handmade paper. Yes, it was a quickie for me.

A couple of hours ain’t nothing.


Hollow howl

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

Fall whips

American Illustrator, Art, artist, Badass Artist, Barry Comer, Barry Comer Artist, beat poetry, Dr. Ph. Martin's Radiant Concentrated Watercolor, Fall Colors, Fall Leaves

fall copy

Happy to feel cool in the air with whip-around limbs and breaths of chill. My coffee will be plentiful and steam my glasses opaque.

“Come gather around”, as the poet sings. Piles upon piles – gold to red. Dry will come.


Whine the wind for another tale

beat poetry, Cemetery, Flowers, Illustration, Lilly, line art, Pen and Ink, pencil drawing, Summer Heat, Urban Sketching


Trickling some laughs and rippling steam,
allow my hands to palm the curve,
and smell my sense and shake the salt.

Ears and waves her boiler-room shy,
trust the touch; the experience of age.
Smell your sense and shake it hard.

Dance toes on scratch-grass roads, feel
the boil, touch the lip – don’t leave me alone.

Touch the sense and push it through.
Tap dance girls all smell the same.
Goofied smiles, such nervous sounds –
skin-squealed up like boards of steel.

Whine the wind for another tale.
Just some love for Summer, just
pickled stuff.

2010 Barry Comer – Illustration 2015

This land of which we speak

Apple, Apples, banana, Bananas, beat poetry, fruit, Fruit bowl, Limes, oranges


Yeah I am gonna like this one because it’s full of beat and rhythm no matter how or why – as the man said to me earlier today “there are plenty downtown, go there” and wondered what he meant and how he meant it. No difference to me since I hear too many pieces of counsel and advice known as friendly and natured – but find them intrusive all the same. Last week was a little bird who said – ”you want to know what I think” – not really – but I can get around to a small discussion once they have my brand back.

So I am driving and working myself to a hotter point of expressive twitches and feel the fingertips of a stranger pull me back – my shirt is stained from wiping my mouth and sweat still clings from walking my two or three depending on how I count – which way the map is headed. It’s stranger than dreams, you know the street scene this year, this summer of heat – the women cling to sidewalks and melt in blinks of the eye. I was a very lucky to notice not being very occupied – with eyes on the road, reading signs for sale and sold or rent.

In the mirror a friend of mine is a face of all things French and all foods that make the mouth sigh heavy. There always is food for memory and drink of the street – so stains cling – I don’t care. They are scars of memories – experiences and little beats – the heart, the heart – fusion reaction, no? This is the rhythm today – winds tear the beads of sweat – dripping stains on pavement. Sweet beats of prey who watch from windows at the corners of mouths that eat and cough – bits of paper napkins – late night people with hands-down belts who watch the road and the killers.

The people who beat to death, a funny way of expressing love, huh? Somewhere in this night which crushes all expectation – sometime in this evening which beats down, beats down – I find the little coin that has a flip-sided tails and gives good heads. It shines and twinkles of storied mythologies, famous foot in mouth for bold and lousy truth-telling – stories that match the hyperactive hawks that circle, circle and circle.

I dive under and swim the beat, pulse the rhythms of famous tidbits – the dreams, the expected demise of promised honey, this land of which we speak – so often – so mute.

2010 Barry Comer – Illustration 2015

Her breath greases grip

beat poetry, head, Self Portrait, selfie, Selfies, Urban Sketch, Urban Sketcher, Urban Sketchers, Urban Sketching, Watercolor

me copy3.

Hair sweet movement – stops and starts

while breath fixing down, way down –

she hangs to life.

Oh, she sees no end in sight.

Poor baby lost in lust, an addiction to

white boys and servants.

This is final she kids him not.

No more, no less – just right.

A sweet serving and pass the salt.

Arms fixing hair while hands hang on.


Her breath greases grip.

She held tight.

This doesn’t mean much if

you weren’t there to see.

If you were and she was – colored

paper rang all the news.

She sees no end in sight, so

she left her grip.

She fell six inches deep.

Canyon standards.

I say.

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

American Steel

Ashley Lily Scarlett, beat poetry, Bourbon, Old Caddy, Old Cadillac, Old Cars, St. Christopher


Hang on st. christopher through the smoke
and the oil
Buckle down the rumble seat
let the radiator boil
got an overhead downshift
and a two dollar grill
got an 85 cabin
on an 85 hill
Hang on st. christopher on the passenger side
open it up tonight the devil can ride
hang on st. christopher with a barrel house dog
kick me up mt. baldy
throw me out in the fog
tear a hole in the jack pot
drive a stake through his heart
do a 100 on the grapevine
do a jump on the start
hang on st. christopher now don’t let me go
get me to reno and bring it in low, yeah
hang on st. christopher with the hammer to the floor
put a hi ball in the crank case
nail a crow to the door
get a bottle for the jockey
gimme a 294
there’s a 750 norton bustin down january’s door
hang on st. christopher on the passenger side
open it up tonight the devil can ride
hang on st. christopher now don’t let me go
get to me reno got to bring it in low
put my baby on the flat car
got to burn down the caboose
get ’em all jacked up on whiskey
then we’ll turn the mad dog loose
hang on st. christopher on the passenger side
open it up tonight the devil can ride

Tom Waits