"Fool's Paradise"
Wise men have diarrhea of the ears and constipation of the mouth.
Fools have constipation of the ears and diarrhea of the mouth.
What is a piticism?
Witticism's criticism?
Piticism to the poor fool who's following a Nirvana's song.
What was blown?
Weed or Kurt Cobain's brain?
Digging on earth.
The soil is rich and so is an irrigation ditch.
The farmers who fertilize it.
I watch the garden grow and realize that is the world's very own.
Like many farmers, I enjoy losing money and finding it in the lost and found.
But I hope never to end up in the lost and found.
Like the bad soil found in this world's ground.
The colors of our clothes fight with each other and run in a wash.
Some are twins and the others different from one another.
I drank a gin fizzy and drove in the tin lizzie.
By Jonathan Billet 06.25.14
Sunday, June 29, 2014
The Missing Moon
"The Missing Moon"
A man is driving
in his van.
The overcast
clouds serve
as an electric
fan.
He is searching
for the lost moon.
Maybe it is
leaning against
a garbage can.
By Jonathan Billet 06.27.14.
A man is driving
in his van.
The overcast
clouds serve
as an electric
fan.
He is searching
for the lost moon.
Maybe it is
leaning against
a garbage can.
By Jonathan Billet 06.27.14.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Noses Of Styrofoam
"Noses Of Styrofoam"
Teeth of fool's gold.
Plenty to the load.
A monocle's prisms.
Part of a dog's dream.
In heaven's steam.
Up in the inner space above us.
Pus coming from a cloud.
God's bad breath ejaculations.
Afraid of premature minds' sensations.
Photographed in the press.
What a mess.
Like a crazy express off a track.
Better get back.
To where you belong in a song.
She was as tall as he was long.
Framed in a classical painting by Van Eyck.
To paint for the New York Times' patrons.
They must have been drunk.
Tanked in the suds.
Smells like a dead skunk.
By a rose's dead beat poet -
named Jonathan Billet.
06.21.14.
Teeth of fool's gold.
Plenty to the load.
A monocle's prisms.
Part of a dog's dream.
In heaven's steam.
Up in the inner space above us.
Pus coming from a cloud.
God's bad breath ejaculations.
Afraid of premature minds' sensations.
Photographed in the press.
What a mess.
Like a crazy express off a track.
Better get back.
To where you belong in a song.
She was as tall as he was long.
Framed in a classical painting by Van Eyck.
To paint for the New York Times' patrons.
They must have been drunk.
Tanked in the suds.
Smells like a dead skunk.
By a rose's dead beat poet -
named Jonathan Billet.
06.21.14.
Scratch
“Scratch”
Sometimes my peanut’s penis rubs me wrong.
Like a beautiful song.
Shake, bake, rattle, and roll, and I’m only six years old.
I’m always searching for new ideas but they have all already been done.
Like everything under a sun.
No fun getting a butterfly net and trying to catch ideas when there are none.
They should be thrown in jail for playing jokes.
The jokes smoke coke through a straw.
Straws in my drawers.
Romulus et Remus pugnabant.
So was all of Rome.
That’s why I try to quote a decent poem.
Use jelly foam’s steam to make buttered cream.
Everything fails to be what it tries to dream.
It is not what it seems to deal.
In wet dreams.
Only screams.
That float in a mind’s silver screen's streams.
The forests are seared by fire water’s smoke.
No joke.
But done before the dawn.
On the wet front lawn.
It’s really sick but reason will do the trick.
Two to five for minding the business’ business.
Look, who makes amends meets in the streets.
Someone who has to walk beats.
Remembering even a new reality with all of its mentality.
The beep, beep, of an alarm’s car.
Always blasting but never casting a shadow on my day.
There’s nothing more to say.
But ideas don’t cost, they pay!
By Jon Billet -06/24/2014
Sometimes my peanut’s penis rubs me wrong.
Like a beautiful song.
Shake, bake, rattle, and roll, and I’m only six years old.
I’m always searching for new ideas but they have all already been done.
Like everything under a sun.
No fun getting a butterfly net and trying to catch ideas when there are none.
They should be thrown in jail for playing jokes.
The jokes smoke coke through a straw.
Straws in my drawers.
Romulus et Remus pugnabant.
So was all of Rome.
That’s why I try to quote a decent poem.
Use jelly foam’s steam to make buttered cream.
Everything fails to be what it tries to dream.
It is not what it seems to deal.
In wet dreams.
Only screams.
That float in a mind’s silver screen's streams.
The forests are seared by fire water’s smoke.
No joke.
But done before the dawn.
On the wet front lawn.
It’s really sick but reason will do the trick.
Two to five for minding the business’ business.
Look, who makes amends meets in the streets.
Someone who has to walk beats.
Remembering even a new reality with all of its mentality.
The beep, beep, of an alarm’s car.
Always blasting but never casting a shadow on my day.
There’s nothing more to say.
But ideas don’t cost, they pay!
By Jon Billet -06/24/2014
Love Is Blue
"Love Is Blue"
You are loved by many... appreciated by few.
Misunderstood by many... loathed by them too.
Tomorrow will be full of hate and sorrow.
So give your brother man a helping hand.
Don't stick your head in the sand.
Let's celebrate what we once had.
It shouldn't grow wrong or bad.
Just a passing fad.
Sad and not at all glad.
It's not real.
A surreal feel.
It's touched.
It has no score.
It won't be living anymore.
In through a magical door during a tropical downpour.
The soaked floor is dried by the sun.
Sunny mirrors reflect my stay in this June's hot day.
The world is revolving and rotating in a strange way.
It almost feels like a day's pay!
Say que?
By Jon Billet 06.24.14.
You are loved by many... appreciated by few.
Misunderstood by many... loathed by them too.
Tomorrow will be full of hate and sorrow.
So give your brother man a helping hand.
Don't stick your head in the sand.
Let's celebrate what we once had.
It shouldn't grow wrong or bad.
Just a passing fad.
Sad and not at all glad.
It's not real.
A surreal feel.
It's touched.
It has no score.
It won't be living anymore.
In through a magical door during a tropical downpour.
The soaked floor is dried by the sun.
Sunny mirrors reflect my stay in this June's hot day.
The world is revolving and rotating in a strange way.
It almost feels like a day's pay!
Say que?
By Jon Billet 06.24.14.
Heaven's Bliss
"Heaven's Bliss"
Clairvoyance is the key to unlock life's mystery.
If you're in tune with nature you can communicate with the world.
It's mental mesmerism.
Time itself in its space in a mystical place.
It has no face.
Belonging only to a new race.
Without eyes it has no sight.
No musical ear to hear.
Only the deafening chirping of the birds in tropical jungles.
No kiss ever missed in this orderly bliss.
Should you decide to run away there will be nowhere to hide.
Like a garden of Eden with only us in the nude.
Heaven is love and love is bliss.
This is the kingdom of heaven.
I love it and you.
Love is always new.
So do onto others as you would have them do for you too.
-- Jonathan Billet
From My Dream Diary
"From My Dream Diary"
"Everyday was yesterday but yesterday's
tomorrow's are today."
From a recent dream I had. As spoken
to Bill Beans, a c.c. I had at on Lake
Winnipesaukee in the sailing journey.
"Everyday was yesterday but yesterday's
tomorrow's are today."
From a recent dream I had. As spoken
to Bill Beans, a c.c. I had at on Lake
Winnipesaukee in the sailing journey.
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