The Poet

The Poet

Sunday, March 5, 2017

Are You My DADA ?; March 6, 2017 © by Ronald S Porter ©2017

Hello my Friends,

Let's get serious. This installment is dedicated to the "Dada" artistic movement that started in Europe after World War I. It is one of my favorite artistic eras and, to me the most fun of the twentieth century. Okay, so quickly, what is DADA?

"Dada was the first conceptual art movement where the focus of the artists was not on crafting aesthetically pleasing objects but on making works that often upended bourgeois sensibilities and that generated difficult questions about society, the role of the artist, and the purpose of art." Pretty cool huh. In addition Dada"...forced questions about artistic creativity and the very definition of art and its purpose in society".

Well that certainly appeals to me as, I am irreverent and rebellious by nature. Furthermore "Dada was designed to be ghost-like and short-lived. An intransigent and inconsequential mockery of the vain conceit that cultural monuments stood for something immortal, something ever-lasting". To me this means that DADA was a movement that sent the message "Stop taking yourself so seriously". To me the movement epitomized Shakespeare's insistence that all of the human experience is filled with "...sound and fury, signifying nothing".

 In keeping with that spirit I have published a selection of poems that reflect the Bard's words. Not all are pure DADA, some lean more toward surrealism but, all are little tales told by an idiot*. I hope 
you enjoy! And, hey don't look for any meaning; you won't find any.
Ronald S Porter

* Does not apply to poems by guest poets

Bears And Rain And Such by Ronald S Porter ©2017

I saw a bear wearing designer sheets;
he was sitting in a twelve step meeting.
Dude had great big grizzly paws; 
He could smash your skull with no effort.
A lot of nightmares live in my hat
and, my heart bleeds ancient tears
but, I don't snitch and, will pitch a bitch
if the media tries to exploit my fears.

My brother drove over to get a ride
because, he'd decided to bar-be-que.
He needed to go pick up some booze
and aluminum foil, in the rain.
Taxes go up quick as crack hos go down
and, music still soothes my breast.
I understand the bear; the rain and; tears
and, try to make sense of the rest.

In A Galaxy Long Away And Far Ago by Ronald S Porter ©2017

there is a metaphor at my door
selling girl scout cookies
i'm taking princess lay ya
out to a play.... ja!
then back to mein haus
for some milf and wookies
if things should fall apart
it will not break my heart
because i happen to knowa
that princess lay ya
(or so they say, uh)
is also called princess blow ya

Aimless Plot or Plotless Aim? by Ronald S Porter ©2017

day flung upon day filled
with inactivity dead time
killed a meaningless death
piled like perused pages
of a manuscript the book
no one will ever read
ONCE i believed i was
the author of the tail
i am not nor ever
paper, ink or pen
merely a device of the plot
undeveloped going nowhere

I'm Off The Cross-Have Some Firewood by Ronald S Porter ©2017

Memories come creeping,
Like lizards skittering
Down corridors of time
In my mind,
Bearing tears and fears,
and long dead pain
Like gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.

Imprinted visions of love,
Martyred on romance crosses,
point the way from angelic hosts,
Proclaiming  the birth of new love,
To anxious, angry, agony
Anchored on instruments of crucifixion,
Out on some lonely hill.

Well, take it all away!
I ain't nobody's savior;
That cup has passed away
I'm finally getting loved and, laid, again
And, no one can ever convince or force me
To wear a goddamned crown of thorns!

Pro Wrestling Vermin by Ronald S Porter ©2017

The rats and roaches have to much
time on their hands; they watch TV
Mostly Raw and Smackdown, they
have developed a fondness for WWE
Now, they practice all over the house-
figure fours, RKOs; what a sight to see!
I must it admit it makes me smile
to watch two roaches take down
an alley rat with a DDT.

Truest Of True Confessions by Ronald S Porter ©2017

Oh! I would to dance like Narziss
in the midst of the plague.
Or eat anchovies with prostitutes,
abed, abroad, in the Hague.
I am as confused as if in a meat
market, and I was a blind dog.
Why does Plague rhyme with Hague 
yet Prague pronounces like hog?
Such observations I find to be
for me very much didactic
Just to conform to the general norm
I believe it would be Prague-matic
To evade detection of the skew
in my way of view, I employ this tactic.
Thus I'll avoid being stopped
then questioned and, locked
in the attic of some insane asylum.

A Traditional Classic Love Poem by Ronald S Porter ©2017

We tried to build a lovers' dream out of
broken hope, escape and, fast food fantasy. 
But it seems the road always led too far
and, our automobile was old and battered.
We sang songs filled with promise still,
we missed some road signs along the way.
I will never hurt you you said as
you dragged jagged blades through my flesh
I will never desert you was my sacred pledge
while I tied on my get-away shoes and fled.
Broken angels with crippled wings
reaching out for each other as we pulled apart.
What a story we two could have been together
if we had only known when and where to start.

Tomorrow's Battles Fought Yesterday by Ronald S Porter ©2017

chased through dreams by robot humans
nazi soldiers from the Alley Cat bar
along the winding course weaving
through streets of long ago
dead ends and switchbacks at
kingdom hall playing hide and seek
among memories of forgotten places
the enemy close enough to see
and hear always just out of sight
past the ancient monument that
could be a temple plucked 
from egypt's archaic sands of just
ruins of deserted lodges of prince hall
at last, at last, i came to rest
in a valley of ghetto fences and doors
there my pursuing foes are found
trapped surrounded by the loyal poor
and we slaughtered them every one
just as dead as the two dispatched
that set off the mad pursuit

The Love We Never Shared by Ronald S Porter ©2017

You once said:
My dreams are like a TV in my head.
I said do they come with a remote?
You didn't think it was funny.
I laughed so hard I peed.
So you ran away to the circus
Low pay, high wire, 
single wide trailer home but, you got
all the popcorn and hot dogs you could eat.

They let you ride the elephants;
you were content.
I've never been contented; I don't allow it;
I think contentment is for cows.
And that is no bull.
You wrote and said you were coming back,
to seek reconciliation.
I said we never were conciliated to start-
How could we do it again?

You hitched a ride during off-season,
with twenty-three clowns, in a VW bug.
The car broke down in Rockford, Illinois.
I have some distant relatives there
So, I drove down to lend a hand,
because of the theory of relativity. 
I figured I'd murder an avian duet
As long as I had me one stone.

I found you at the side of the road
in a construction zone on Route 45;
They been repairing that strip of road
since back in nineteen fifty-sex.
You were painted in stage makeup,
Standing twenty-first in line.
I bought you a ticket to Omaha
I headed to Washington AC and DC
(For very current rock and roll)

I think about you now and then,
and never forget to remember,
Our romance will always be, in memory:
TV stations; bus stations; destinations;
all our reservations; and you, stranded
on US Highway forty-five,
in a tiny car full of clowns.
... Thank you; thank you vera much
Elvis has never been in this building
That motherfucker is dead.

That's About The Size Of It by Ronald S Porter ©2017

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dette
fired up another cigarette
then walked a country mile
down the king's high way.
said Tweedle Dee
it occurs to me
(as onwardly he plodded)
there is nothing left to do and say
when all is said and done
Tweedle Dette simply nodded.

Surrealistic Theory; Esoteric Reality by Ronald S Porter ©2016

Psychic bunny rabbit hit-men plane my demise;
So I'm eating chocolate peanut butter bars,
in a tree house just south of Kankakee.
Babes in toy-land; babes in arms, they are
all babes in the woods you see.
Lambs, among the wolves, run rampant;
The hens have invaded the fox-house now!
And, all your crying won't do no good,
somebody plays a violent violin , somehow.
Oh, the wily raccoons are subverting;
On the borders, soldiers are deserting;
While walking dead talking heads are spurting
lies that they themselves believe true.
All the temples they desecrate 
and, cures the red, the white and, blue.
All the proctors and priests pontificate,
While the democrats mentally masturbate.
And these things just prove it is true-
Procrastination is just like masturbation
The only one you fuck is you!