The Gnashing of the Brain Stem

 

 

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

 


Ode to the Mind

 

 

To cerebrate, to ideate, to while away the hours

To reduce and deduce the flotsam into gems

To irradiate and penetrate with cognitive powers

Marching forward from ape-ish brain stems

 

To conjure, connote to fabricate a fashion

Of flowers, of parasols, of lanes of pennied plenty

To transform delusion into righteous reason

And make stale reason patent heresy

 

To twist, to torture, every twig of facts

To make a dead leaf ripple like the sea

To take separate branches and weld them into pacts

And build and burnish the most majestic tree

 

Metaphors are Petit fours the mind loves to eat

Sugary sensations that makes the dull retreat

To turn A to B is the elemental passion

So furious, so foul, my nuclear fission

 

Copyright, David Gottfried, 2013


Read my Prose

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

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

I 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