Bay Is Burning Societe Poetique

Quandary... which is better??

Original:
    To see her after so many years
           and think of the intimacy they shared
as She passed by him on the street
    the lips, those green-blue eyes he had know so well]
those perfect breasts he has loved so much-
   
How he used to run his fingers through her hair
   then trace her areolas and down
         her abdomen
    the sweet delicious
  bellicose beauty of her lips the passion they shared made his heeart
                       swell
            then ache
        as she walked by without even seeing him
two strangers passing in the night.

Version 2:
To see her after so many years
     and think of the intimacy they shared
   as she passed by him
          on the street.
The lips, thick pinkish petals of cranberries
     those green-blue eyes of languid depth and sentimental desire
he had known the tides of the moon in them
Breasts of canteloupe, perfect as he caressed
    her hair
Traced
     her areolas
               down
          her abdomen
Sweet
      derlicious
Bellicose
     beauty of her
After so long the lustre of her lips passion they shared heartswells breath stopping
Ache in the stomach throb of remorse
            regret
                      recompense
Reconnection
     as his head is dizzy from proximity from the diaphanous shock of the moment
She passes the other way
        a slight twitch of a smile but no recognition
Not even a backward glance
   two strangers pass
              in the night.
Dustin Q Platt

NAKED

NAKED
I like to drink my coffee naked
     Bare, raw, uninhibited
I drink and draw
    Drink and think
            Drink and create without bounds
In these lounges of pure passion
     These leopard-skin armchairs
     And red-velvet couches
            With Jazz and Blues
             The only naked forms
Of music-
          playing on the stereo
My thoughts wander aimlessly
      Undistracted by the glitz and glamour of the corporate
              BEHEMOTH

Every one here is naked
Their minds wandering to their hearts content
Immersed in Synthesis      in Chronicle      in Amourante
In Liberte

Artists
       Poets (musicians of words)
Our work is not graded
                        not rated
it just is.
NAKED.

Dustin Q Platt

TUFF

She’s got it real Tuff.

     Bass is thumpin’, trunk is bumpin’

     Newpolishedmagskillin’ boys she’s trumpin-

Oh, Yeah! She’s got it Tuff

     Flashin’ those Oakleys, squeelin’ those wheel-ies

     Flashin’bigdaddeezbuckswherevershedamnpleez-

In a slammed down 4X

     Damnshecanfly, tuffin it-Ruffin’ it

     beat the light, partyallnight

Never gets busted  cuz  man-

           She can cry!

Yeah man, you heard me…she got it Tuff-

     Coppin’ that attitood likeshefromthedamnhood

     Fakinitwhenmakinitcuzthereaintnoboythatgood

Damn, man, like ah said; Girl’s got it Tuff.

Yo, man. He’s got it tough;

     Kickin’ that backpack, Rollin’ with the flack, Jack

     Bustin’ ass Two jobs, Beatin’ school rich snobs

     Makin’ money for his kids, get degree and time bids

     Going deep into debt, prejudice rampant

     Got no car, he rides the bus; dealing with a lot of fuss

Trying hard, can you feel? Whose the one, the real deal?

You know it, man…He got it Tough.

Dustin Q Platt

Evaporation

She was luscious to the touch
      And in her
              I sought deeply
For that illusory Ideal
       That intangible notion:
Of true love…
            And I thought I found it…
In her, deep.

So concrete to the touch that
        I wept,
                  Deep in my heart

              As we shuddered rhythmically together
In the deepest elation I had ever known…

         So deep,
                 So concrete,
                So real…
But for her there was no conception…
         Of Love…
It evaporated …
          That solid, burning emotion like molten lava,
As real as her succulent, supple breasts,
        As real as her firm thighs,
                     Gripping like a vice;

Her velvet lips caressing…
                  her flickering tongue…
That feeling evaporated into oblivion. 
The Tantalizing elation I thought I had found
          Deep within her
Evaporated
          like the sweat
               From our intertwined bodies:
      The steam from a cup of coffee
Like a mirage in the Arizona Wastelands,
It evaporated in her lascivious moans of ecstasy.

Revolution

I wrote this piece in 2002 after seeing a Mettalica Cover band. I have dusted it off toshare with some very politically focussed friends (not that I’m not).

The Sandman Cometh (A nursery Rhyme)

The sandman comes through your T.V.

Saying “Buy this stuff and you’ll be free!

Sleep the night away in perfect bliss

As you spend more dough (on useless shit)

Surround yourself with magic toys

Bigger, and Better, now faster, my boys…

Come buy, Come Buy, yes purchase this

And then you’ll know what security is…

This car will bring you happiness

These clothes, they are the way you should dress,

A house is a home (a castle of foam)

Then you’ll live perfectly (in your own pleasure dome)

Don’t worry about monsters hiding under your bed,

They’re all far away (or just in your head)

The sandman will guard you, and nuke them away

”Trust in your uncle," the Sandman will say

“I’ll send in the marines, they’ll make those towel-heads pay

as long as we have our gold rings and petrol,

The American dream can be had by all…”

The Sandman, he lulls you, he puts you to sleep

And buries you in lies, and stuff ever so deep

You wake to find that you’re bound to your bed

While the sandman, he robs you, then Stomps on your head!

Dustin Q Platt

Santiago, Chile

I was talking with two co-workers yesterday who have lived in South America… One of them was telling me about the House Pablo Neruda lived in, with his third wife, and the Medusa painting by Dali… and how she hated it. Would you hate a picture done of you By Salvatore? Even if it is Medusa? I had to remind him that Medusa did not turn people to stone because she was ugly, it was the power of her eyes that did it. So what did I do this morning? I read United fruit co to my son this morning, in English and Spanish.

VERTIGO

The colors jumping off the   brush
 Are clinging to the page
The Reds and Blues are vivid, confused
 As I’m setting free my rage
Brush stroke here, a stab right there
 This feeling- so intense
it’s the only way to free my mind
Emotion to dispense
The Canvas is my sounding board
     The Brush it is my SCREAM
And nothing else exists for me
Inside this living dream
The Colors are the words I use
Flung from deep within
While every single Bristle-mark

Decries man’s fatal sins

The Reds of Sunburnt mountainsides
The Yellow of the flame

The Black of ashen brush and stump

The

Orang

that became

The background, which once was hills of Green

 The Purple of the rain…

But here I pause-

       Consider this-

                Will they think I am insane?

It matters not, as Black I strike

      Spread all across the sky

Smoke from fires and wars of old
 That never cease… we die…
My hand- it now has lost control
 I fall into a daze
A witness to this magic art
  I’m seeing through a haze

I fall into a dizziness

Drums throbbing in my mind
Lightning cuts my canvas through
Beyond my own design
My Brush, it goes for Green- again?
As through the smoke it throws
A splash of Blue, what can I do, it ends with…
VERTIGO