Tuesday, September 24, 2013

On her Left Breast was Tattoo

On her left breast was tattoo under green leafed trees she parted her blouse
Garden of this French cafe on Lexington Avenue I had brought some girls
Looking through glass window onto streets their backs facing I saw delight
Well to do mongers menu in hand as I greeted waitresses with a ca va ca va
Brooklyn girls rule I breathe them - who am I Johnny Cash made me king
Oh how my eyes followed her around the roundabout wherever she came
Was a glorious afternoon when we dismembered our chatter to friendship
What had I found among these pigeons – beggars banquet love supreme
A forest ceremony lay central could it be Botticelli kept goddesses here
White skinned pink moisture an air of jubilee any rocker would beg for
In this stature I made it known no nonsense – should I ever be perverted
Win her away from the wretched blond coiffeured punks chain smoking
Chokers on their necks black boots black lipstick black dye leather pants
She had been alone then but soon taken away by waves of golden gossip
Pop popular – tall and stark making gestures with her body – oh sexing
Electric muse waiting on cafeteria boys who did everything not touching
With words hot mouths breaking wind shooting the sure shit hipsters do
Puss in my vein watching like clockwork at all hours I made interventions
I walked her down Park Avenue walk ways in her futuristic trench coat
Brigitte Bardot from Bensonhurst stick figure chalk marked pastel doll
Breathtaking view on steps of Metropolitan Museum this art kingdom
Call me the African Godard – call me the African Truffaut – oh shout
Let these fortuned figures wearing Calvin Kleins hail me as Koslowskie
So then for all girls who wiped me off their tongues I chose her as model
Never once did a woman sit before me while I took turn with tight fingers
Oh this particular act – oh this sweet surrender beats any Brooklyn orgy
On her left breast was tattoo dark skies looming light fell on her breast
Half parted supple gothic - what memories I have of the bra she wore
Could she possibly have tormented me again – not in that French cafĂ©
Music so swell sugar sweet cappuccino I brought these lavender girls
What was seduction dreamt up in circles I painted portraits on paper

Friday, September 06, 2013

Kofi Fosu Forson's 10 Rules of Writing

1. I met T. C. Boyle at B&N and asked him for advise as a creative writer he said "Read, always read..." As a child invest in reading books other than those meant for children.

2. Before developing a writing talent take interest in the other arts, music, dance or the fine arts.

3. Dont invest time in How To Writing Books. Find an author you like the most a...nd read him or her extensively.

4. Always know what type of writer you are. After further investigating know whether you are either a novelist, short story writer or poet.

5. Treat language as a lover. Make love to your words.

6. Writing groups are fine but avoid writing retreats.

7. Write for yourself but edit with the conscience of a surgeon.

8. Vices are never important onto themselves but be aware of them and never romanticize them.

9. Know the difference between writing and performing. Know the difference between your desk and the stage.

10. There are three voices to every writer, the literary voice, your speaking voice and your reading voice.

Thursday, September 05, 2013

Scandinavian Blue Blonde

Oh who are you Scandinavian blue blonde sitting among pajama parties?
Under this circled sun alone in dark glasses mid riff top belly button piercing
Eyes abound all that I see is it Nico in purple dress smashing a tambourine

Shadows at night cigarette lighter flickers he reads a poem by Robert Lowell
Raging darkness people do pass under subway leaving behind their histories
Lessons learned they were told we come from Melville beneath the ocean

Cities left undiscovered share among us your bones and fossils palm reader
Redeem me from this future I cannot afford - I refuse to be anthropological
Oh rescuer of lost poets Munch goddess how you saw into my vocabulary

I dream classical Mona Lisa before my eyes is Romeo’s blue blonde Juliet
Much the same a dream rock and roll each time she sits alone Norwegian
Eyes abound all that I see is it super model Rosie Vela - her music machine

Oh who are you Czechoslovakian teenager imitating Jim Morrison groupie?
Through my eye camera lens I am voyeur – you brush your hair with fingers
Turn your cheek three fourths in profile summon the photographer’s flash

One day when students gathered at leisure I found myself in her company
I had been watching her in wonder not knowing the sound of her voice
She spoke ever softly confessing she was just a typical girl from Brooklyn

That accent ever should reveal what had eluded me all this time I marveled
Fell into conversation within this ceremony of strangers and familiar birds
Circling as if choreographed with whimsy - exceptional natural expectation