Poets

Sometimes I wear a beret and a black turtle neck. I write poems called things like "return to the womb". Instead of clapping I snap my fingers. I have a cigarette holder but I don't smoke and when i sit down i cross my legs like a woman, not like the half cross leg, man way. I grew up in an upper middle class neighboorhood, but i have seen it all. My perspective is colored by my experiences in this rough cold world. While my parents paid for my college i protested fur, the political strife of the under represented and petioned for more vegan friendly items at the university cafeteria. I have seen discrimination, I have never experienced it but this one time this shop keeper gave me this look like are you going to steal something? and when I paid for my stuff I looked at him like I should have stolen something, but i didn't. I like to sit in parks with my leather bound journal. I just sit and observe, sketching and writing. Sometimes when my parents aren't home I drink their wine and think of the plight of migrant workers and the inequalities that we as human beings all face. I sympathize with the struggling poor, I can see me in them, in their hardships and the way the world has discarded them. When I go to bed at night I refuse to use my down comforter so I can experience the cold nights in the city. My mom gets mad at me, she says I will catch cold but she just doesn't understand my suffering and my empathy for the human race. When i read my poems i emphasize the words for dramtic effect and pause for uncomfortable amounts of time before I blurt out something really profound like PSYCHE MURDERER!!, here is one of my latest poems I will try and ennunciate correctly so you get the full effect of my superior poetic skills. It's really not the same as seeing me though, you won't get the poses i strike while I pause before my next stanza, my arching of my body as my poem rumbles to its beautiful crescendo. There will be no smoke swirling in a dimly lit coffee house, the smell of espresso mixing with the urban hippies and artsy artisans. So this is a poem called Devil's tooth pick they loved it at my last open mic, but they got the whole show, i can only hope the beauty of my words can transcend the distance between us. At certain parts of the poem you should caress your goatee and then emphasize the words dramitcally. SOme critics say that my poems are non-sensical, they just list random images but they don't get what I am trying to say, aren't we all just random images, huh? aren't we? I think you know the answer. If the dim witted do not appreciate my work I feel bad for them. besides i sepak for the disenfranchised, the poor, hungry and rejected. I am the voice for those who have none, I express their pain as my onw and share the cruelness of this world with all. I think my poems are fairly straight forward, rich in meaning and they say something important. So here is my poem.
Devil's toothpick by Braydon Greyson the III
falling Ap-ples bring me Doown
Gravity is NOT my FRIEND
swirling stars eat the moon
while the germans march forward
marching marching AND MARCH-ING....
I am a morbid clown
my makeup runs like a RI-ver
TASTE my tears, my sad
it tastes a lot like HAp-py
Orange parakeet in metal cage
race warrior sips his TEA..
DEath is WHi-te my pain is reeed
cosmic trumpets play our song
just DANCE, dance, dance.....(crumble to the ground and curl up into a ball at the end)
This is my third version of this poem, I take lots of time when I work with my craft, you can't just pick any random images, they have to feel right. I workshop and workshop with my other artist friends. Since we are all unemployed it is easier for us to meet up at the cafes and talk shop. I feel like we are a group of expatriates living in France, outside the establishment, but sometimes the starbucks gets too crowded and we have to get away from all of the business people and soccer moms. We are trying to organize a visual art installation, something profound, something that will shake the world consciousness. We ran through several ideas but my favorite was one person in a cage, to represent the masses menatl state, while someone stands next to them waving a flag with the word liverwurst on it. For the music I thought we could just record some moaning or dogs humping and then for costumes i thought the best would be a british soldier, you know the red guys and the peron in the cage could wear an orange clown wig with stilleto heels and a fake beard. i think that would effectivley get our message across. We argued for hours about the title of the piece though, I voted for sodomy but they settled on violent irises. I like both ideas. I have been working on another poem maybe I'll try it out here. It's tentativley titled "mildew cabinet."
Mildew cabinet by Braydon Greyson the III
dead frog sipping butter
goulash is your home
we are not on tapa the whirled
decaying monkey carcass lights the fire
the blaze burning the villages of the rocks
paper napkin blowing in the wind wipe your mouth
there is mustard on your face
the mustard of your denial, ketchup stains of conformity
my heart is covered in shag carpet, my soul is hardwood
mocha kalediscopes color the land in decaf
my bones are frshly cut grass, they smell of summer
we are all popcorn shrimp
I know it still needs a little work but the last line really brings home the message, don't you agree? I know that I am destined to be a great poet, I have the costume and everything, I know my suffering will end when everyone discovers my geius and the awakening i will create when my work is widespread. If only every child could read my poems this world would be better. I have an interview at GAP tomorrow, until people discover my art, my parents say that I should get a job. I tell them I am a struggling artist and that being unemployed helps me be creative. They just don't understand, my mom refuses to cook me vegan food so I have to go out to the natural food shop or consume her home made meals. Since they lowered my allowance I usually end up eating with them, but i let them know that I do not approve of their carniviourous ways. Last night i tried to read them some of my poetry and they just nodded while they watched the apprentice. One day my craft will be world reknowned, my hardlife will only fuel this craft. I am a struggling artist a true poet, the voice of my generation. You just wait.....you'll see