The Gnashing of the Brain Stem
Posted: January 18, 2013 Filed under: Aesthetics, Misc., POEMS, Psychology | Tags: brain stem, David Gottfried, phlegm, sages Leave a comment
Even my e mails are poetry
Electrical fillips that tingle the brain
And you will never ascertain
The leonine logic of my disdain
There is in every heart a stain
Of blood so blue its freezing cold
You know the story it’s been told
How sadness, evil, grows enfolds
The mediocre people polled
The mendacity, prized, enthroned
The wisest men pilloried, stoned
The sages true quietly groaned
The last line’s trite you telephoned
The sad descent of this a poem
Not premeditated, phlegm
But visceral pangs from my brain stem
Copyright, David Gottfried, 2013
Read my Prose
Posted: January 18, 2013 Filed under: Aesthetics, POEMS, Psychology | Tags: David Gottfried, English rose, Poetry Leave a comment
When will someone read my prose
More succulent than the English rose
All they read is my poetry
Scribblings of obscurity
When will someone heal my woes
A ghoulish thing that hatefully glows
The anode and cathode of my battery
Are rusted and weary and I cease to be
This verse approaches daily new lows
Debauchered as a man in pantyhose
When I rhyme, the meter is wee
When I’m rhythmic, rhyme has no glee
So open your mind and just enclose
My essays where the north wind blows
And sweeps aside the fallacy
And phantoms and fools of calumny
What will I relate, disclose
When will mountains be meadows
What truth torn to heresy
What lie will rise to verity
I will write and I won’t pose
I’ll shout my sermon in bellicose blows
With tenacity and temerity
I stalk the gang plank to mortality
Copyright, David Gottfried, 2013
My Angry Poetry
Posted: October 22, 2012 Filed under: Aesthetics, POEMS | Tags: aesthetic, David Gottfried, Poetry Leave a comment
My Angry Poetry
Pardon me if I reject a poetic norm
Appear didactic, not too warm
My interest is my brainy storm
Not a sweet aesthetic form
Oh I’ll give you meters rhymed
But my quatrains are assigned
To espouse ideas divined
To this purpose I’m consigned
An exposition rather rude
Follow the root; look at the nude
Over the beastly I will brood
Do you have the fortitude
Or will you simply turn away
Pretend you’re on some holiday
Subsist on art that will not bray
As meek as children’s harmless play
Copyright, David Gottfried, 2000
David Bowie
Posted: October 18, 2012 Filed under: Aesthetics, POEMS, Psychology, Sexuality | Tags: David Bowie Leave a comment
I hear David Bowie’s voice playing with my cock
He strokes it, and he provokes it
And his raspy, shaved white skin
Gives it a vicious tickle
But he’s Betty Davis in Of Human Bondage
He’s a fucking bitch
And the tentacles of his spiderman sophistry
Suddenly squeeze my balls
And bind them to a leper messiah
Multiplied to the tenth power of perversion
Galavanting Godiva, Seer of the Sissies
His steeds charge into orifices everywhere
Expanding and revamping in his own image
And thirty years later all the hordes of bleach blond boys
Radiating their own special brew of highly combustible faggotry
Spiked with speed and salivating for success
Make David Bowie seem pitifully tame.
Copyright, David Gottfried, 2005
Just Fooling Around with Words
Posted: September 17, 2012 Filed under: Aesthetics, Humor, POEMS, Sexuality | Tags: elance, France, mesalliance, seance Leave a comment
TERMINAL ANGLOPHILIA
(Inspired by the “chance, dance” rhyme scheme in “Get it On,” a song by the rock group T Rex)
It was quite a mesalliance
To be wed to Frothy France
For the Prussians they will prance
Upon Paris in a trance
We must thwart their advance
And Assume a stoic stance
With a dagger and a lance
We’ll quash their entrance
And When we charge we dance
In underwear by elance
The penile glans is in the manse
And we dare to take a chance
With a very haughty glance
Like a seer at a séance
We’ll avoid happenstance
And wear the tightest pants
Copyright, David Gottfried, 2012
I am the Lord Iambic
Posted: September 16, 2012 Filed under: Aesthetics, Humor, POEMS | Tags: Iambic, Lord Iambic, Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds Leave a commentI am, I am, I am the Lord Iambic
I’m big, I’m broad, I’m mesomorphic strong
My words, denuded, the essence of the sonic
Like Rock, the rhythm is holy wrong
It’s measured, metered, precise as Math
Skewers, puts in sewers, that unaesthetic drool
And it does it so it feels like hell’s wrath
No, it never suffers the fool
It’s English, it’s bourbon, it’s beef and scotch and smoke
It’s satin, so satin — so satin it is sainted
Raise your glass, drop some acid, come and take a toke
It’s cool, fucking cool and you almost fainted
It’s Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Verbal hallucinations of lemon custard pie
Like Lennon knew Byron on a distant planet
These, the words, my master takes me high
Copyright, David Gottfried, 2012
Hope and Poems
Posted: September 15, 2012 Filed under: Aesthetics, POEMS, Psychology | Tags: comet, gold karat, Lillian Hellman, sonnet Leave a comment
I wanted to write a sonnet
That singed like a comet
Dramatic, screaming damn it
Worth fourteen gold karat
I wanted to write a play
Be the Hellman of today
My scenes would inveigh
And sear and scorch and splay
I wanted to write a polemic
Pummeling and prophetic
A prince of the heretic
With an acid hot aesthetic
I’d write a manifesto
A brazen, furious bellow
As sonorous as a cello
As fresh as springtime’s meadow
But all I write are quatrains
That every teacher disdains
But my sentiments are not feigned
The pain is true and engrained
Copyright, David Gottfried, 2003
For Writers LIke the Psychoanalyst Erik Erickson
Posted: September 12, 2012 Filed under: Aesthetics, POEMS, Psychology | Tags: Erik Erickson, Psychoanalyst Leave a commentFOR WRITERS LIKE THE PSYCHOANALYST ERIK ERICKSON
You do not speak to communicate
You speak to deride
To stylishly savage and strangulate
To that end, you abide
You do not write to edify
You write to intimidate
Every word an urbane lie
Sophistry is your signal trait
The prose is regnant and richly endowed
Supercilious, smug and very proud
It need not speak in a voice that’s loud
It deafens by strewing a heavy shroud
Sometimes its voice is only a purr
But it leaves our dreams a dying ember
Something to archly chastise, inter
Read some more and this will recur
It proceeds with infallible argument
As true as a Papal pronouncement
A stern and solid impediment
Like a bleak and hard tenement
Innuendos, asides, are airy and snide
Defenses you swiftly erode and debride
Bursting with blithe, insufferable pride
Your essay’s complete, and heart you’ll elide
Copyright, David Gottfried, 2003
Learning to Hate Culture
Posted: September 11, 2012 Filed under: Aesthetics, POEMS, Psychology, Sexuality | Tags: Brooklyn College, Jackie Kennedy, punch and judy Leave a comment
When I was six My Mother enrolled the two of us
In a course in BrooklynCollege.
“Mothers and children learn French together”
How faggy can you get
So she ripped me out of the womb
of Saturday Morning Cartoons
And pretended that she was Jackie Kennedy
(My Father and JFK had just died)
Having Pate on a Bagel in Flatbush
And when She practiced French
She sounded as if she were having a bowel movement
Her vowelled histrionics urging and purging
Regurgitating like a parody of Edith Piaf
Compensating for constipation
Exhaling aroma of goyische French cheese
All day long
The final consonants were like little kids
To be seen and not heard
Looking pretty, languishing at the end of a sentence
While four vowels:
A blooming bellied pregnant O
A fallopian U
A busty A
And an engineering E
Got together and made one vociferous roar
And then it was time for the babies to sing:
After mommy and her fat pals had an hour of
Voweled hallelujia Catharsis
We children were supposed to sing
Something called Frarer Jocker
That’s the best spelling I can think of
I didn’t know what a Frarer was
But I could tell he was a Fairy
Then the babies came to the City to See Culture
Something silly and frilly like Caroline in a fluffy
White Dress in Hyannisport
A punch and judy show
Where we were supposed to believe the puppets were real
To cry and go ooh and ah for a wrinkled, tattered cloth
To suspend all logic and act
Like a little girl
And I never could tell why the audience had to pay
To be forced to keep quiet
While Actors got to have temper tantrums on the stage
Their Loud make-up glaring at me like neon signs
The actresses a tribe of loud witches
The actors underemployed castratos who learned to sing
Frarer jocker
But nothing was as horrible as Opera
Viking vowelled Empresses Marching from Berlin
Or Rome, or some other place where they killed Jews
They hold a note for seventeen excruciating seconds
Screaming: Suffer and keep on suffering we won’t let you go
(Nu, so what’s intellectual about this)
And so I learned to hate all forms of culture except
The written word
Copyright, David Gottfried, 1999