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HarryLime wrote:
Will-Dockery wrote:
Left Handed Summer.
Left handed Summer,
Alias Uncle Hugo,
I step out into this night.
Those parasites know of the light that failed,
imploded in the center of op bop,
in this shadow made by blooming springtime.
In this shadow, next to this last temptation,
I walked into your door,
will I never see her no more?
I see two little red boxcars, I think of her,
I hurt inside, a hallowed ache.
Games people play,
one game on the house,
dark angel in green.
Every little trick she plays, scarecrow straw Janie,
there are three names now for Lady Katherine,
I saw the way...
remember the living lotus in her paste up hell,
I am the clown on the hill,
she still plys her trade in the sportin' house
grocery.
I read the bio of her husband, the ogre,
his world, his fame, his flame.
And I think of: star money, secret star, sweet Jane,
superstar.
Star mama, some glad morning you are my sattelite soul
mate.
On Vinegar Hill, mariage a la mode, a case of need,
the bottom line, in deep Summer,
endless horisons.
We hunt the spirit mammoth somewhere below the salt.
This is the story of a secret state, in this left
handed Summer,
in this valley of vines,
sweet Lasher went swimming,
in the dark river with a bad man, in the big heat,
tigers in the smoke, she rides the red dragon.
Too many cousins dancing naked in La Grange,
she's one of 7 born again virgins,
she steps out, she is lost to me,
that strange woman, she's into sould bonding, soul
bondage,
where is my red curled poltergeist, she's clocked,
boom boom in my ear.
Some Japanese thing,
Lone Wolf, I snarl at the moon.
Moonchild experiment,
watercolor in the rain ---
you poor little kidnapped angel...
my poor little clap trap angel.
My soul like riptide water,
this abundance of witches,
you living lotus b*tches.
Uncle Hugo is in Eden,
the old folks home of joy and poems,
deling with this ever present danger,
to the magic store on some blinded date.
Into her labyrinth and back out again,
sweet soul pilgrim, I know, my love,
I can hear her battle cry.
She returns to life, cries for the angels,
a word shogun,
my daddy went blind at 40
but my will is good on this glorious morning.
Bless your fuzzy little heart, baby, go sow your seed
of mischief.
The doomsday ladies hide and go seek,
as they work their science,
I asked my love, Dark Queenie,
will you talk in this left handed Summer?
Hard facts, a woman run mad,
in the caves,
on the hill,
under the sheets experimenting with the moon.
I keep the search light burning.
Face to face with the misty tiger in the smoke,
she rides the red dragon,
orphan daughter of the philosospher,
for common good,
a fiend in need, she is a perfect whirlwind.
Inhuman condition, I am alone for days,
I am nothing to her now,
the ongoing silence is driving me mad.
Her mirror mirror on the wall,
my fingers in her soft places,
her modern methematics,
her pager number,
I light the candle for her
and this big old world of people.
Silver leopard led astray from a magnificent destiny,
I am the foolish virgin with my magnificent obsession,
law of the lion, I'll find her.
Bright feather, hot leather,
magicians of night and sittin' ducks,
loaded dice,
she is there in that secret shadow valley,
sweet adultery under the moon.
The Dark Queen's gift, a riddle.
Please speak to me before the sun goes down,
the children of the rainbow do the dark dance.
-Will Dockery, 1998
****
The previous comments show that this poem has met with some harsh criticism from AAPC members in the past.
It is, however, a prime example of the late 20th-early 21st century poetic movement known as Fragmentism.
Fragmentism had been first identified as a movement in 2019, as evidenced by the AAPC post reprinted below.
I'm certain that its applicability to the "Left Handed Summer" poem will be self-evident:
THE FRAGMENTIST POETRY MOVEMENT
COLUMBUS, GA is the fastest-growing cultural center in the U.S. (dare one venture in the world?), and two of AAPC's most active members are the driving force behind it all. Will Dockery and George "Stink" Sulzbach are well known throughout Columbus for the street poetry, artwork, music concerts, "indie" publications, underground films and television shows; but their greatest impact on the art world is through the new poetic movement they've established -- Fragmentist Poetry.
Fragmentist Poetry combines Imagist Poetry with Minimalism to create what they describe as a "montage" within their readers' minds. Fragmentism pares Imagism down to its barest essentials, i.e., to a series of memory fragments describing persons, places or things. Narrative is abandoned. Form is nonexistent. Mood, message, emotion, tone and theme are barely, if at all, present. English grammar and composition are irrelevant as language exists solely to convey the image fragments.
Fragmentism concerns itself only with recording a series of thought-images in a stream of consciousness style. Fragmentism is based upon image association (much like word association wherein individual words have been replaced by two- and three-word descriptive passages):
Bottle bled dry,
Dogs lapping vomit.
Coffee stained fingers,
Fate constrained by stars.
One reason that Fragmentist Poetry has taken the literary world by storm is that anyone can write it. No education (other than a fourth grade level vocabulary), philosophical insight, imagination or compositional skill is required. This is street poetry in its most literal incarnation. It is the voice of the common man (and woman), evoking images that everyone can relate to.
Fragmentist criticism is equally minimalist, often comprising no more than a thimbleful of words ("Outdamnstanding," "One of your best," "Me likee likee," & so on). An in-depth critique seeks only to identify the topic -- as the topic and the poem are necessarily the same. And this, so the Fragmentists argue, is the point. A poem should not be a barrage of words and punctuation attesting to the poet's erudition and grammatical expertise. A poem is the images it evokes.
And their argument finds strong support in the field of psychology, which maintains that our unconscious mind is non-verbal and therefore only able to communicate with us through dream symbolism, or imagery. In replicating the dream experience, the poet is directly addressing the non-verbal aspects of our psyche -- our sub-conscious and unconscious selves.
Critics have long held that poetry is a dying art form; but that is because they seek for it only in its traditional outlets. The poetry of tomorrow will not be found in the academic journals, but at the truck stops, dive bars, hobo camps and homeless shelters.
So let's all pour ourselves a glass of MD 20/20 and raise a toast to the visionary, literary trailblazers in our midst. Zorro!
Will-Dockery wrote:
HarryLime wrote:
Will-Dockery wrote:
Left Handed Summer.
Left handed Summer,
Alias Uncle Hugo,
I step out into this night.
Those parasites know of the light that failed,
imploded in the center of op bop,
in this shadow made by blooming springtime.
In this shadow, next to this last temptation,
I walked into your door,
will I never see her no more?
I see two little red boxcars, I think of her,
I hurt inside, a hallowed ache.
Games people play,
one game on the house,
dark angel in green.
Every little trick she plays, scarecrow straw Janie,
there are three names now for Lady Katherine,
I saw the way...
remember the living lotus in her paste up hell,
I am the clown on the hill,
she still plys her trade in the sportin' house
grocery.
I read the bio of her husband, the ogre,
his world, his fame, his flame.
And I think of: star money, secret star, sweet Jane,
superstar.
Star mama, some glad morning you are my sattelite soul
mate.
On Vinegar Hill, mariage a la mode, a case of need,
the bottom line, in deep Summer,
endless horisons.
We hunt the spirit mammoth somewhere below the salt.
This is the story of a secret state, in this left
handed Summer,
in this valley of vines,
sweet Lasher went swimming,
in the dark river with a bad man, in the big heat,
tigers in the smoke, she rides the red dragon.
Too many cousins dancing naked in La Grange,
she's one of 7 born again virgins,
she steps out, she is lost to me,
that strange woman, she's into sould bonding, soul
bondage,
where is my red curled poltergeist, she's clocked,
boom boom in my ear.
Some Japanese thing,
Lone Wolf, I snarl at the moon.
Moonchild experiment,
watercolor in the rain ---
you poor little kidnapped angel...
my poor little clap trap angel.
My soul like riptide water,
this abundance of witches,
you living lotus b*tches.
Uncle Hugo is in Eden,
the old folks home of joy and poems,
deling with this ever present danger,
to the magic store on some blinded date.
Into her labyrinth and back out again,
sweet soul pilgrim, I know, my love,
I can hear her battle cry.
She returns to life, cries for the angels,
a word shogun,
my daddy went blind at 40
but my will is good on this glorious morning.
Bless your fuzzy little heart, baby, go sow your seed
of mischief.
The doomsday ladies hide and go seek,
as they work their science,
I asked my love, Dark Queenie,
will you talk in this left handed Summer?
Hard facts, a woman run mad,
in the caves,
on the hill,
under the sheets experimenting with the moon.
I keep the search light burning.
Face to face with the misty tiger in the smoke,
she rides the red dragon,
orphan daughter of the philosospher,
for common good,
a fiend in need, she is a perfect whirlwind.
Inhuman condition, I am alone for days,
I am nothing to her now,
the ongoing silence is driving me mad.
Her mirror mirror on the wall,
my fingers in her soft places,
her modern methematics,
her pager number,
I light the candle for her
and this big old world of people.
Silver leopard led astray from a magnificent destiny,
I am the foolish virgin with my magnificent obsession,
law of the lion, I'll find her.
Bright feather, hot leather,
magicians of night and sittin' ducks,
loaded dice,
she is there in that secret shadow valley,
sweet adultery under the moon.
The Dark Queen's gift, a riddle.
Please speak to me before the sun goes down,
the children of the rainbow do the dark dance.
-Will Dockery, 1998
****
The previous comments show that this poem has met with some harsh criticism from AAPC members in the past.
It is, however, a prime example of the late 20th-early 21st century poetic movement known as Fragmentism.
Fragmentism had been first identified as a movement in 2019, as evidenced by the AAPC post reprinted below.
I'm certain that its applicability to the "Left Handed Summer" poem will be self-evident:
THE FRAGMENTIST POETRY MOVEMENT
COLUMBUS, GA is the fastest-growing cultural center in the U.S. (dare one venture in the world?), and two of AAPC's most active members are the driving force behind it all. Will Dockery and George "Stink" Sulzbach are well known throughout Columbus for the street poetry, artwork, music concerts, "indie" publications, underground films and television shows; but their greatest impact on the art world is through the new poetic movement they've established -- Fragmentist Poetry.
Fragmentist Poetry combines Imagist Poetry with Minimalism to create what they describe as a "montage" within their readers' minds. Fragmentism pares Imagism down to its barest essentials, i.e., to a series of memory fragments describing persons, places or things. Narrative is abandoned. Form is nonexistent. Mood, message, emotion, tone and theme are barely, if at all, present. English grammar and composition are irrelevant as language exists solely to convey the image fragments.
Fragmentism concerns itself only with recording a series of thought-images in a stream of consciousness style. Fragmentism is based upon image association (much like word association wherein individual words have been replaced by two- and three-word descriptive passages):
Bottle bled dry,
Dogs lapping vomit.
Coffee stained fingers,
Fate constrained by stars.
One reason that Fragmentist Poetry has taken the literary world by storm is that anyone can write it. No education (other than a fourth grade level vocabulary), philosophical insight, imagination or compositional skill is required. This is street poetry in its most literal incarnation. It is the voice of the common man (and woman), evoking images that everyone can relate to.
Fragmentist criticism is equally minimalist, often comprising no more than a thimbleful of words ("Outdamnstanding," "One of your best," "Me likee likee," & so on). An in-depth critique seeks only to identify the topic -- as the topic and the poem are necessarily the same. And this, so the Fragmentists argue, is the point. A poem should not be a barrage of words and punctuation attesting to the poet's erudition and grammatical expertise. A poem is the images it evokes.
And their argument finds strong support in the field of psychology, which maintains that our unconscious mind is non-verbal and therefore only able to communicate with us through dream symbolism, or imagery. In replicating the dream experience, the poet is directly addressing the non-verbal aspects of our psyche -- our sub-conscious and unconscious selves.
Critics have long held that poetry is a dying art form; but that is because they seek for it only in its traditional outlets. The poetry of tomorrow will not be found in the academic journals, but at the truck stops, dive bars, hobo camps and homeless shelters.
So let's all pour ourselves a glass of MD 20/20 and raise a toast to the visionary, literary trailblazers in our midst. Zorro!
Again, you should be working for Mad Magazine, Pendragon.
EfOe
HarryLime wrote:
Will-Dockery wrote:
HarryLime wrote:
Will-Dockery wrote:
Left Handed Summer.
Left handed Summer,
Alias Uncle Hugo,
I step out into this night.
Those parasites know of the light that failed,
imploded in the center of op bop,
in this shadow made by blooming springtime.
In this shadow, next to this last temptation,
I walked into your door,
will I never see her no more?
I see two little red boxcars, I think of her,
I hurt inside, a hallowed ache.
Games people play,
one game on the house,
dark angel in green.
Every little trick she plays, scarecrow straw Janie,
there are three names now for Lady Katherine,
I saw the way...
remember the living lotus in her paste up hell,
I am the clown on the hill,
she still plys her trade in the sportin' house
grocery.
I read the bio of her husband, the ogre,
his world, his fame, his flame.
And I think of: star money, secret star, sweet Jane,
superstar.
Star mama, some glad morning you are my sattelite soul
mate.
On Vinegar Hill, mariage a la mode, a case of need,
the bottom line, in deep Summer,
endless horisons.
We hunt the spirit mammoth somewhere below the salt.
This is the story of a secret state, in this left
handed Summer,
in this valley of vines,
sweet Lasher went swimming,
in the dark river with a bad man, in the big heat,
tigers in the smoke, she rides the red dragon.
Too many cousins dancing naked in La Grange,
she's one of 7 born again virgins,
she steps out, she is lost to me,
that strange woman, she's into sould bonding, soul
bondage,
where is my red curled poltergeist, she's clocked,
boom boom in my ear.
Some Japanese thing,
Lone Wolf, I snarl at the moon.
Moonchild experiment,
watercolor in the rain ---
you poor little kidnapped angel...
my poor little clap trap angel.
My soul like riptide water,
this abundance of witches,
you living lotus b*tches.
Uncle Hugo is in Eden,
the old folks home of joy and poems,
deling with this ever present danger,
to the magic store on some blinded date.
Into her labyrinth and back out again,
sweet soul pilgrim, I know, my love,
I can hear her battle cry.
She returns to life, cries for the angels,
a word shogun,
my daddy went blind at 40
but my will is good on this glorious morning.
Bless your fuzzy little heart, baby, go sow your seed
of mischief.
The doomsday ladies hide and go seek,
as they work their science,
I asked my love, Dark Queenie,
will you talk in this left handed Summer?
Hard facts, a woman run mad,
in the caves,
on the hill,
under the sheets experimenting with the moon.
I keep the search light burning.
Face to face with the misty tiger in the smoke,
she rides the red dragon,
orphan daughter of the philosospher,
for common good,
a fiend in need, she is a perfect whirlwind.
Inhuman condition, I am alone for days,
I am nothing to her now,
the ongoing silence is driving me mad.
Her mirror mirror on the wall,
my fingers in her soft places,
her modern methematics,
her pager number,
I light the candle for her
and this big old world of people.
Silver leopard led astray from a magnificent destiny,
I am the foolish virgin with my magnificent obsession,
law of the lion, I'll find her.
Bright feather, hot leather,
magicians of night and sittin' ducks,
loaded dice,
she is there in that secret shadow valley,
sweet adultery under the moon.
The Dark Queen's gift, a riddle.
Please speak to me before the sun goes down,
the children of the rainbow do the dark dance.
-Will Dockery, 1998
****
The previous comments show that this poem has met with some harsh criticism from AAPC members in the past.
It is, however, a prime example of the late 20th-early 21st century poetic movement known as Fragmentism.
Fragmentism had been first identified as a movement in 2019, as evidenced by the AAPC post reprinted below.
I'm certain that its applicability to the "Left Handed Summer" poem will be self-evident:
THE FRAGMENTIST POETRY MOVEMENT
COLUMBUS, GA is the fastest-growing cultural center in the U.S. (dare one venture in the world?), and two of AAPC's most active members are the driving force behind it all. Will Dockery and George "Stink" Sulzbach are well known throughout Columbus for the street poetry, artwork, music concerts, "indie" publications, underground films and television shows; but their greatest impact on the art world is through the new poetic movement they've established -- Fragmentist Poetry.
Fragmentist Poetry combines Imagist Poetry with Minimalism to create what they describe as a "montage" within their readers' minds. Fragmentism pares Imagism down to its barest essentials, i.e., to a series of memory fragments describing persons, places or things. Narrative is abandoned. Form is nonexistent. Mood, message, emotion, tone and theme are barely, if at all, present. English grammar and composition are irrelevant as language exists solely to convey the image fragments.
Fragmentism concerns itself only with recording a series of thought-images in a stream of consciousness style. Fragmentism is based upon image association (much like word association wherein individual words have been replaced by two- and three-word descriptive passages):
Bottle bled dry,
Dogs lapping vomit.
Coffee stained fingers,
Fate constrained by stars.
One reason that Fragmentist Poetry has taken the literary world by storm is that anyone can write it. No education (other than a fourth grade level vocabulary), philosophical insight, imagination or compositional skill is required. This is street poetry in its most literal incarnation. It is the voice of the common man (and woman), evoking images that everyone can relate to.
Fragmentist criticism is equally minimalist, often comprising no more than a thimbleful of words ("Outdamnstanding," "One of your best," "Me likee likee," & so on). An in-depth critique seeks only to identify the topic -- as the topic and the poem are necessarily the same. And this, so the Fragmentists argue, is the point. A poem should not be a barrage of words and punctuation attesting to the poet's erudition and grammatical expertise. A poem is the images it evokes.
And their argument finds strong support in the field of psychology, which maintains that our unconscious mind is non-verbal and therefore only able to communicate with us through dream symbolism, or imagery. In replicating the dream experience, the poet is directly addressing the non-verbal aspects of our psyche -- our sub-conscious and unconscious selves.
Critics have long held that poetry is a dying art form; but that is because they seek for it only in its traditional outlets. The poetry of tomorrow will not be found in the academic journals, but at the truck stops, dive bars, hobo camps and homeless shelters.
So let's all pour ourselves a glass of MD 20/20 and raise a toast to the visionary, literary trailblazers in our midst. Zorro!
Again, you should be working for Mad Magazine, Pendragon.
EfOe
Whether the above article is serious or humorous depends entirely upon the reader's p.o.v.
I consider it, when taken at face value, a serious analysis of what you and the late, unlamented
Will Dockery wrote:
Left Handed Summer.
Left handed Summer,
Alias Uncle Hugo,
I step out into this night.
Those parasites know of the light that failed,
imploded in the center of op bop,
in this shadow made by blooming springtime.
In this shadow, next to this last temptation,
I walked into your door,
will I never see her no more?
I see two little red boxcars, I think of her,
I hurt inside, a hallowed ache.
Games people play,
one game on the house,
dark angel in green.
Every little trick she plays, scarecrow straw Janie,
there are three names now for Lady Katherine,
I saw the way...
remember the living lotus in her paste up hell,
I am the clown on the hill,
she still plys her trade in the sportin' house
grocery.
I read the bio of her husband, the ogre,
his world, his fame, his flame.
And I think of: star money, secret star, sweet Jane,
superstar.
Star mama, some glad morning you are my sattelite soul
mate.
On Vinegar Hill, mariage a la mode, a case of need,
the bottom line, in deep Summer,
endless horisons.
We hunt the spirit mammoth somewhere below the salt.
This is the story of a secret state, in this left
handed Summer,
in this valley of vines,
sweet Lasher went swimming,
in the dark river with a bad man, in the big heat,
tigers in the smoke, she rides the red dragon.
Too many cousins dancing naked in La Grange,
she's one of 7 born again virgins,
she steps out, she is lost to me,
that strange woman, she's into sould bonding, soul
bondage,
where is my red curled poltergeist, she's clocked,
boom boom in my ear.
Some Japanese thing,
Lone Wolf, I snarl at the moon.
Moonchild experiment,
watercolor in the rain ---
you poor little kidnapped angel...
my poor little clap trap angel.
My soul like riptide water,
this abundance of witches,
you living lotus bitches.
Uncle Hugo is in Eden,
the old folks home of joy and poems,
deling with this ever present danger,
to the magic store on some blinded date.
Into her labyrinth and back out again,
sweet soul pilgrim, I know, my love,
I can hear her battle cry.
She returns to life, cries for the angels,
a word shogun,
my daddy went blind at 40
but my will is good on this glorious morning.
Bless your fuzzy little heart, baby, go sow your seed
of mischief.
The doomsday ladies hide and go seek,
as they work their science,
I asked my love, Dark Queenie,
will you talk in this left handed Summer?
Hard facts, a woman run mad,
in the caves,
on the hill,
under the sheets experimenting with the moon.
I keep the search light burning.
Face to face with the misty tiger in the smoke,
she rides the red dragon,
orphan daughter of the philosospher,
for common good,
a fiend in need, she is a perfect whirlwind.
Inhuman condition, I am alone for days,
I am nothing to her now,
the ongoing silence is driving me mad.
Her mirror mirror on the wall,
my fingers in her soft places,
her modern methematics,
her pager number,
I light the candle for her
and this big old world of people.
Silver leopard led astray from a magnificent destiny,
I am the foolish virgin with my magnificent obsession,
law of the lion, I'll find her.
Bright feather, hot leather,
magicians of night and sittin' ducks,
loaded dice,
she is there in that secret shadow valley,
sweet adultery under the moon.
The Dark Queen's gift, a riddle.
Please speak to me before the sun goes down,
the children of the rainbow do the dark dance.
-Will Dockery, 1998 (c)2004
Will-Dockery wrote:
HarryLime wrote:
Will-Dockery wrote:
HarryLime wrote:
Will-Dockery wrote:
Left Handed Summer.
Left handed Summer,
Alias Uncle Hugo,
I step out into this night.
Those parasites know of the light that failed,
imploded in the center of op bop,
in this shadow made by blooming springtime.
In this shadow, next to this last temptation,
I walked into your door,
will I never see her no more?
I see two little red boxcars, I think of her,
I hurt inside, a hallowed ache.
Games people play,
one game on the house,
dark angel in green.
Every little trick she plays, scarecrow straw Janie,
there are three names now for Lady Katherine,
I saw the way...
remember the living lotus in her paste up hell,
I am the clown on the hill,
she still plys her trade in the sportin' house
grocery.
I read the bio of her husband, the ogre,
his world, his fame, his flame.
And I think of: star money, secret star, sweet Jane,
superstar.
Star mama, some glad morning you are my sattelite soul
mate.
On Vinegar Hill, mariage a la mode, a case of need,
the bottom line, in deep Summer,
endless horisons.
We hunt the spirit mammoth somewhere below the salt.
This is the story of a secret state, in this left
handed Summer,
in this valley of vines,
sweet Lasher went swimming,
in the dark river with a bad man, in the big heat,
tigers in the smoke, she rides the red dragon.
Too many cousins dancing naked in La Grange,
she's one of 7 born again virgins,
she steps out, she is lost to me,
that strange woman, she's into sould bonding, soul
bondage,
where is my red curled poltergeist, she's clocked,
boom boom in my ear.
Some Japanese thing,
Lone Wolf, I snarl at the moon.
Moonchild experiment,
watercolor in the rain ---
you poor little kidnapped angel...
my poor little clap trap angel.
My soul like riptide water,
this abundance of witches,
you living lotus b*tches.
Uncle Hugo is in Eden,
the old folks home of joy and poems,
deling with this ever present danger,
to the magic store on some blinded date.
Into her labyrinth and back out again,
sweet soul pilgrim, I know, my love,
I can hear her battle cry.
She returns to life, cries for the angels,
a word shogun,
my daddy went blind at 40
but my will is good on this glorious morning.
Bless your fuzzy little heart, baby, go sow your seed
of mischief.
The doomsday ladies hide and go seek,
as they work their science,
I asked my love, Dark Queenie,
will you talk in this left handed Summer?
Hard facts, a woman run mad,
in the caves,
on the hill,
under the sheets experimenting with the moon.
I keep the search light burning.
Face to face with the misty tiger in the smoke,
she rides the red dragon,
orphan daughter of the philosospher,
for common good,
a fiend in need, she is a perfect whirlwind.
Inhuman condition, I am alone for days,
I am nothing to her now,
the ongoing silence is driving me mad.
Her mirror mirror on the wall,
my fingers in her soft places,
her modern methematics,
her pager number,
I light the candle for her
and this big old world of people.
Silver leopard led astray from a magnificent destiny,
I am the foolish virgin with my magnificent obsession,
law of the lion, I'll find her.
Bright feather, hot leather,
magicians of night and sittin' ducks,
loaded dice,
she is there in that secret shadow valley,
sweet adultery under the moon.
The Dark Queen's gift, a riddle.
Please speak to me before the sun goes down,
the children of the rainbow do the dark dance.
-Will Dockery, 1998
****
The previous comments show that this poem has met with some harsh criticism from AAPC members in the past.
It is, however, a prime example of the late 20th-early 21st century poetic movement known as Fragmentism.
Fragmentism had been first identified as a movement in 2019, as evidenced by the AAPC post reprinted below.
I'm certain that its applicability to the "Left Handed Summer" poem will be self-evident:
THE FRAGMENTIST POETRY MOVEMENT
COLUMBUS, GA is the fastest-growing cultural center in the U.S. (dare one venture in the world?), and two of AAPC's most active members are the driving force behind it all. Will Dockery and George "Stink" Sulzbach are well known throughout Columbus for the street poetry, artwork, music concerts, "indie" publications, underground films and television shows; but their greatest impact on the art world is through the new poetic movement they've established -- Fragmentist Poetry.
Fragmentist Poetry combines Imagist Poetry with Minimalism to create what they describe as a "montage" within their readers' minds. Fragmentism pares Imagism down to its barest essentials, i.e., to a series of memory fragments describing persons, places or things. Narrative is abandoned. Form is nonexistent. Mood, message, emotion, tone and theme are barely, if at all, present. English grammar and composition are irrelevant as language exists solely to convey the image fragments.
Fragmentism concerns itself only with recording a series of thought-images in a stream of consciousness style. Fragmentism is based upon image association (much like word association wherein individual words have been replaced by two- and three-word descriptive passages):
Bottle bled dry,
Dogs lapping vomit.
Coffee stained fingers,
Fate constrained by stars.
One reason that Fragmentist Poetry has taken the literary world by storm is that anyone can write it. No education (other than a fourth grade level vocabulary), philosophical insight, imagination or compositional skill is required. This is street poetry in its most literal incarnation. It is the voice of the common man (and woman), evoking images that everyone can relate to.
Fragmentist criticism is equally minimalist, often comprising no more than a thimbleful of words ("Outdamnstanding," "One of your best," "Me likee likee," & so on). An in-depth critique seeks only to identify the topic -- as the topic and the poem are necessarily the same. And this, so the Fragmentists argue, is the point. A poem should not be a barrage of words and punctuation attesting to the poet's erudition and grammatical expertise. A poem is the images it evokes.
And their argument finds strong support in the field of psychology, which maintains that our unconscious mind is non-verbal and therefore only able to communicate with us through dream symbolism, or imagery. In replicating the dream experience, the poet is directly addressing the non-verbal aspects of our psyche -- our sub-conscious and unconscious selves.
Critics have long held that poetry is a dying art form; but that is because they seek for it only in its traditional outlets. The poetry of tomorrow will not be found in the academic journals, but at the truck stops, dive bars, hobo camps and homeless shelters.
So let's all pour ourselves a glass of MD 20/20 and raise a toast to the visionary, literary trailblazers in our midst. Zorro!
Again, you should be working for Mad Magazine, Pendragon.
EfOe
Whether the above article is serious or humorous depends entirely upon the reader's p.o.v.
I consider it, when taken at face value, a serious analysis of what you and the late, unlamented
Zod isn't dead, he's alive and well and still creating art.
See the JLA Forums attachment below.
HarryLime wrote:
Will-Dockery wrote:
HarryLime wrote:
Will-Dockery wrote:
HarryLime wrote:
Will-Dockery wrote:
Left Handed Summer.
Left handed Summer,
Alias Uncle Hugo,
I step out into this night.
Those parasites know of the light that failed,
imploded in the center of op bop,
in this shadow made by blooming springtime.
In this shadow, next to this last temptation,
I walked into your door,
will I never see her no more?
I see two little red boxcars, I think of her,
I hurt inside, a hallowed ache.
Games people play,
one game on the house,
dark angel in green.
Every little trick she plays, scarecrow straw Janie,
there are three names now for Lady Katherine,
I saw the way...
remember the living lotus in her paste up hell,
I am the clown on the hill,
she still plys her trade in the sportin' house
grocery.
I read the bio of her husband, the ogre,
his world, his fame, his flame.
And I think of: star money, secret star, sweet Jane,
superstar.
Star mama, some glad morning you are my sattelite soul
mate.
On Vinegar Hill, mariage a la mode, a case of need,
the bottom line, in deep Summer,
endless horisons.
We hunt the spirit mammoth somewhere below the salt.
This is the story of a secret state, in this left
handed Summer,
in this valley of vines,
sweet Lasher went swimming,
in the dark river with a bad man, in the big heat,
tigers in the smoke, she rides the red dragon.
Too many cousins dancing naked in La Grange,
she's one of 7 born again virgins,
she steps out, she is lost to me,
that strange woman, she's into sould bonding, soul
bondage,
where is my red curled poltergeist, she's clocked,
boom boom in my ear.
Some Japanese thing,
Lone Wolf, I snarl at the moon.
Moonchild experiment,
watercolor in the rain ---
you poor little kidnapped angel...
my poor little clap trap angel.
My soul like riptide water,
this abundance of witches,
you living lotus b*tches.
Uncle Hugo is in Eden,
the old folks home of joy and poems,
deling with this ever present danger,
to the magic store on some blinded date.
Into her labyrinth and back out again,
sweet soul pilgrim, I know, my love,
I can hear her battle cry.
She returns to life, cries for the angels,
a word shogun,
my daddy went blind at 40
but my will is good on this glorious morning.
Bless your fuzzy little heart, baby, go sow your seed
of mischief.
The doomsday ladies hide and go seek,
as they work their science,
I asked my love, Dark Queenie,
will you talk in this left handed Summer?
Hard facts, a woman run mad,
in the caves,
on the hill,
under the sheets experimenting with the moon.
I keep the search light burning.
Face to face with the misty tiger in the smoke,
she rides the red dragon,
orphan daughter of the philosospher,
for common good,
a fiend in need, she is a perfect whirlwind.
Inhuman condition, I am alone for days,
I am nothing to her now,
the ongoing silence is driving me mad.
Her mirror mirror on the wall,
my fingers in her soft places,
her modern methematics,
her pager number,
I light the candle for her
and this big old world of people.
Silver leopard led astray from a magnificent destiny,
I am the foolish virgin with my magnificent obsession,
law of the lion, I'll find her.
Bright feather, hot leather,
magicians of night and sittin' ducks,
loaded dice,
she is there in that secret shadow valley,
sweet adultery under the moon.
The Dark Queen's gift, a riddle.
Please speak to me before the sun goes down,
the children of the rainbow do the dark dance.
-Will Dockery, 1998
****
The previous comments show that this poem has met with some harsh criticism from AAPC members in the past.
It is, however, a prime example of the late 20th-early 21st century poetic movement known as Fragmentism.
Fragmentism had been first identified as a movement in 2019, as evidenced by the AAPC post reprinted below.
I'm certain that its applicability to the "Left Handed Summer" poem will be self-evident:
THE FRAGMENTIST POETRY MOVEMENT
COLUMBUS, GA is the fastest-growing cultural center in the U.S. (dare one venture in the world?), and two of AAPC's most active members are the driving force behind it all. Will Dockery and George "Stink" Sulzbach are well known throughout Columbus for the street poetry, artwork, music concerts, "indie" publications, underground films and television shows; but their greatest impact on the art world is through the new poetic movement they've established -- Fragmentist Poetry.
Fragmentist Poetry combines Imagist Poetry with Minimalism to create what they describe as a "montage" within their readers' minds. Fragmentism pares Imagism down to its barest essentials, i.e., to a series of memory fragments describing persons, places or things. Narrative is abandoned. Form is nonexistent. Mood, message, emotion, tone and theme are barely, if at all, present. English grammar and composition are irrelevant as language exists solely to convey the image fragments.
Fragmentism concerns itself only with recording a series of thought-images in a stream of consciousness style. Fragmentism is based upon image association (much like word association wherein individual words have been replaced by two- and three-word descriptive passages):
Bottle bled dry,
Dogs lapping vomit.
Coffee stained fingers,
Fate constrained by stars.
One reason that Fragmentist Poetry has taken the literary world by storm is that anyone can write it. No education (other than a fourth grade level vocabulary), philosophical insight, imagination or compositional skill is required. This is street poetry in its most literal incarnation. It is the voice of the common man (and woman), evoking images that everyone can relate to.
Fragmentist criticism is equally minimalist, often comprising no more than a thimbleful of words ("Outdamnstanding," "One of your best," "Me likee likee," & so on). An in-depth critique seeks only to identify the topic -- as the topic and the poem are necessarily the same. And this, so the Fragmentists argue, is the point. A poem should not be a barrage of words and punctuation attesting to the poet's erudition and grammatical expertise. A poem is the images it evokes.
And their argument finds strong support in the field of psychology, which maintains that our unconscious mind is non-verbal and therefore only able to communicate with us through dream symbolism, or imagery. In replicating the dream experience, the poet is directly addressing the non-verbal aspects of our psyche -- our sub-conscious and unconscious selves.
Critics have long held that poetry is a dying art form; but that is because they seek for it only in its traditional outlets. The poetry of tomorrow will not be found in the academic journals, but at the truck stops, dive bars, hobo camps and homeless shelters.
So let's all pour ourselves a glass of MD 20/20 and raise a toast to the visionary, literary trailblazers in our midst. Zorro!
Again, you should be working for Mad Magazine, Pendragon.
EfOe
Whether the above article is serious or humorous depends entirely upon the reader's p.o.v.
I consider it, when taken at face value, a serious analysis of what you and the late, unlamented
Zod isn't dead, he's alive and well and still creating art.
See the JLA Forums attachment below.
I see it.
I've seen it before.
About 7 or 8 years ago, as a matter of fact.
repainting his old works?
Or did you think that no one here would remember it?
Will-Dockery wrote:
HarryLime wrote:
Will-Dockery wrote:
HarryLime wrote:
Will-Dockery wrote:
HarryLime wrote:
Will-Dockery wrote:
Left Handed Summer.
Left handed Summer,
Alias Uncle Hugo,
I step out into this night.
Those parasites know of the light that failed,
imploded in the center of op bop,
in this shadow made by blooming springtime.
In this shadow, next to this last temptation,
I walked into your door,
will I never see her no more?
I see two little red boxcars, I think of her,
I hurt inside, a hallowed ache.
Games people play,
one game on the house,
dark angel in green.
Every little trick she plays, scarecrow straw Janie,
there are three names now for Lady Katherine,
I saw the way...
remember the living lotus in her paste up hell,
I am the clown on the hill,
she still plys her trade in the sportin' house
grocery.
I read the bio of her husband, the ogre,
his world, his fame, his flame.
And I think of: star money, secret star, sweet Jane,
superstar.
Star mama, some glad morning you are my sattelite soul
mate.
On Vinegar Hill, mariage a la mode, a case of need,
the bottom line, in deep Summer,
endless horisons.
We hunt the spirit mammoth somewhere below the salt.
This is the story of a secret state, in this left
handed Summer,
in this valley of vines,
sweet Lasher went swimming,
in the dark river with a bad man, in the big heat,
tigers in the smoke, she rides the red dragon.
Too many cousins dancing naked in La Grange,
she's one of 7 born again virgins,
she steps out, she is lost to me,
that strange woman, she's into sould bonding, soul
bondage,
where is my red curled poltergeist, she's clocked,
boom boom in my ear.
Some Japanese thing,
Lone Wolf, I snarl at the moon.
Moonchild experiment,
watercolor in the rain ---
you poor little kidnapped angel...
my poor little clap trap angel.
My soul like riptide water,
this abundance of witches,
you living lotus b*tches.
Uncle Hugo is in Eden,
the old folks home of joy and poems,
deling with this ever present danger,
to the magic store on some blinded date.
Into her labyrinth and back out again,
sweet soul pilgrim, I know, my love,
I can hear her battle cry.
She returns to life, cries for the angels,
a word shogun,
my daddy went blind at 40
but my will is good on this glorious morning.
Bless your fuzzy little heart, baby, go sow your seed
of mischief.
The doomsday ladies hide and go seek,
as they work their science,
I asked my love, Dark Queenie,
will you talk in this left handed Summer?
Hard facts, a woman run mad,
in the caves,
on the hill,
under the sheets experimenting with the moon.
I keep the search light burning.
Face to face with the misty tiger in the smoke,
she rides the red dragon,
orphan daughter of the philosospher,
for common good,
a fiend in need, she is a perfect whirlwind.
Inhuman condition, I am alone for days,
I am nothing to her now,
the ongoing silence is driving me mad.
Her mirror mirror on the wall,
my fingers in her soft places,
her modern methematics,
her pager number,
I light the candle for her
and this big old world of people.
Silver leopard led astray from a magnificent destiny,
I am the foolish virgin with my magnificent obsession,
law of the lion, I'll find her.
Bright feather, hot leather,
magicians of night and sittin' ducks,
loaded dice,
she is there in that secret shadow valley,
sweet adultery under the moon.
The Dark Queen's gift, a riddle.
Please speak to me before the sun goes down,
the children of the rainbow do the dark dance.
-Will Dockery, 1998
****
The previous comments show that this poem has met with some harsh criticism from AAPC members in the past.
It is, however, a prime example of the late 20th-early 21st century poetic movement known as Fragmentism.
Fragmentism had been first identified as a movement in 2019, as evidenced by the AAPC post reprinted below.
I'm certain that its applicability to the "Left Handed Summer" poem will be self-evident:
THE FRAGMENTIST POETRY MOVEMENT
COLUMBUS, GA is the fastest-growing cultural center in the U.S. (dare one venture in the world?), and two of AAPC's most active members are the driving force behind it all. Will Dockery and George "Stink" Sulzbach are well known throughout Columbus for the street poetry, artwork, music concerts, "indie" publications, underground films and television shows; but their greatest impact on the art world is through the new poetic movement they've established -- Fragmentist Poetry.
Fragmentist Poetry combines Imagist Poetry with Minimalism to create what they describe as a "montage" within their readers' minds. Fragmentism pares Imagism down to its barest essentials, i.e., to a series of memory fragments describing persons, places or things. Narrative is abandoned. Form is nonexistent. Mood, message, emotion, tone and theme are barely, if at all, present. English grammar and composition are irrelevant as language exists solely to convey the image fragments.
Fragmentism concerns itself only with recording a series of thought-images in a stream of consciousness style. Fragmentism is based upon image association (much like word association wherein individual words have been replaced by two- and three-word descriptive passages):
Bottle bled dry,
Dogs lapping vomit.
Coffee stained fingers,
Fate constrained by stars.
One reason that Fragmentist Poetry has taken the literary world by storm is that anyone can write it. No education (other than a fourth grade level vocabulary), philosophical insight, imagination or compositional skill is required. This is street poetry in its most literal incarnation. It is the voice of the common man (and woman), evoking images that everyone can relate to.
Fragmentist criticism is equally minimalist, often comprising no more than a thimbleful of words ("Outdamnstanding," "One of your best," "Me likee likee," & so on). An in-depth critique seeks only to identify the topic -- as the topic and the poem are necessarily the same. And this, so the Fragmentists argue, is the point. A poem should not be a barrage of words and punctuation attesting to the poet's erudition and grammatical expertise. A poem is the images it evokes.
And their argument finds strong support in the field of psychology, which maintains that our unconscious mind is non-verbal and therefore only able to communicate with us through dream symbolism, or imagery. In replicating the dream experience, the poet is directly addressing the non-verbal aspects of our psyche -- our sub-conscious and unconscious selves.
Critics have long held that poetry is a dying art form; but that is because they seek for it only in its traditional outlets. The poetry of tomorrow will not be found in the academic journals, but at the truck stops, dive bars, hobo camps and homeless shelters.
So let's all pour ourselves a glass of MD 20/20 and raise a toast to the visionary, literary trailblazers in our midst. Zorro!
Again, you should be working for Mad Magazine, Pendragon.
EfOe
Whether the above article is serious or humorous depends entirely upon the reader's p.o.v.
I consider it, when taken at face value, a serious analysis of what you and the late, unlamented
Zod isn't dead, he's alive and well and still creating art.
See the JLA Forums attachment below.
I see it.
I've seen it before.
About 7 or 8 years ago, as a matter of fact.
repainting his old works?
Or did you think that no one here would remember it?
It's just one of Zod's better paintings that I have handy.
Here's another.
HarryLime wrote:
Will-Dockery wrote:
HarryLime wrote:
Will-Dockery wrote:
HarryLime wrote:
Will-Dockery wrote:
HarryLime wrote:
Will-Dockery wrote:
Left Handed Summer.
Left handed Summer,
Alias Uncle Hugo,
I step out into this night.
Those parasites know of the light that failed,
imploded in the center of op bop,
in this shadow made by blooming springtime.
In this shadow, next to this last temptation,
I walked into your door,
will I never see her no more?
I see two little red boxcars, I think of her,
I hurt inside, a hallowed ache.
Games people play,
one game on the house,
dark angel in green.
Every little trick she plays, scarecrow straw Janie,
there are three names now for Lady Katherine,
I saw the way...
remember the living lotus in her paste up hell,
I am the clown on the hill,
she still plys her trade in the sportin' house
grocery.
I read the bio of her husband, the ogre,
his world, his fame, his flame.
And I think of: star money, secret star, sweet Jane,
superstar.
Star mama, some glad morning you are my sattelite soul
mate.
On Vinegar Hill, mariage a la mode, a case of need,
the bottom line, in deep Summer,
endless horisons.
We hunt the spirit mammoth somewhere below the salt.
This is the story of a secret state, in this left
handed Summer,
in this valley of vines,
sweet Lasher went swimming,
in the dark river with a bad man, in the big heat,
tigers in the smoke, she rides the red dragon.
Too many cousins dancing naked in La Grange,
she's one of 7 born again virgins,
she steps out, she is lost to me,
that strange woman, she's into sould bonding, soul
bondage,
where is my red curled poltergeist, she's clocked,
boom boom in my ear.
Some Japanese thing,
Lone Wolf, I snarl at the moon.
Moonchild experiment,
watercolor in the rain ---
you poor little kidnapped angel...
my poor little clap trap angel.
My soul like riptide water,
this abundance of witches,
you living lotus b*tches.
Uncle Hugo is in Eden,
the old folks home of joy and poems,
deling with this ever present danger,
to the magic store on some blinded date.
Into her labyrinth and back out again,
sweet soul pilgrim, I know, my love,
I can hear her battle cry.
She returns to life, cries for the angels,
a word shogun,
my daddy went blind at 40
but my will is good on this glorious morning.
Bless your fuzzy little heart, baby, go sow your seed
of mischief.
The doomsday ladies hide and go seek,
as they work their science,
I asked my love, Dark Queenie,
will you talk in this left handed Summer?
Hard facts, a woman run mad,
in the caves,
on the hill,
under the sheets experimenting with the moon.
I keep the search light burning.
Face to face with the misty tiger in the smoke,
she rides the red dragon,
orphan daughter of the philosospher,
for common good,
a fiend in need, she is a perfect whirlwind.
Inhuman condition, I am alone for days,
I am nothing to her now,
the ongoing silence is driving me mad.
Her mirror mirror on the wall,
my fingers in her soft places,
her modern methematics,
her pager number,
I light the candle for her
and this big old world of people.
Silver leopard led astray from a magnificent destiny,
I am the foolish virgin with my magnificent obsession,
law of the lion, I'll find her.
Bright feather, hot leather,
magicians of night and sittin' ducks,
loaded dice,
she is there in that secret shadow valley,
sweet adultery under the moon.
The Dark Queen's gift, a riddle.
Please speak to me before the sun goes down,
the children of the rainbow do the dark dance.
-Will Dockery, 1998
****
The previous comments show that this poem has met with some harsh criticism from AAPC members in the past.
It is, however, a prime example of the late 20th-early 21st century poetic movement known as Fragmentism.
Fragmentism had been first identified as a movement in 2019, as evidenced by the AAPC post reprinted below.
I'm certain that its applicability to the "Left Handed Summer" poem will be self-evident:
THE FRAGMENTIST POETRY MOVEMENT
COLUMBUS, GA is the fastest-growing cultural center in the U.S. (dare one venture in the world?), and two of AAPC's most active members are the driving force behind it all. Will Dockery and George "Stink" Sulzbach are well known throughout Columbus for the street poetry, artwork, music concerts, "indie" publications, underground films and television shows; but their greatest impact on the art world is through the new poetic movement they've established -- Fragmentist Poetry.
Fragmentist Poetry combines Imagist Poetry with Minimalism to create what they describe as a "montage" within their readers' minds. Fragmentism pares Imagism down to its barest essentials, i.e., to a series of memory fragments describing persons, places or things. Narrative is abandoned. Form is nonexistent. Mood, message, emotion, tone and theme are barely, if at all, present. English grammar and composition are irrelevant as language exists solely to convey the image fragments.
Fragmentism concerns itself only with recording a series of thought-images in a stream of consciousness style. Fragmentism is based upon image association (much like word association wherein individual words have been replaced by two- and three-word descriptive passages):
Bottle bled dry,
Dogs lapping vomit.
Coffee stained fingers,
Fate constrained by stars.
One reason that Fragmentist Poetry has taken the literary world by storm is that anyone can write it. No education (other than a fourth grade level vocabulary), philosophical insight, imagination or compositional skill is required. This is street poetry in its most literal incarnation. It is the voice of the common man (and woman), evoking images that everyone can relate to.
Fragmentist criticism is equally minimalist, often comprising no more than a thimbleful of words ("Outdamnstanding," "One of your best," "Me likee likee," & so on). An in-depth critique seeks only to identify the topic -- as the topic and the poem are necessarily the same. And this, so the Fragmentists argue, is the point. A poem should not be a barrage of words and punctuation attesting to the poet's erudition and grammatical expertise. A poem is the images it evokes.
And their argument finds strong support in the field of psychology, which maintains that our unconscious mind is non-verbal and therefore only able to communicate with us through dream symbolism, or imagery. In replicating the dream experience, the poet is directly addressing the non-verbal aspects of our psyche -- our sub-conscious and unconscious selves.
Critics have long held that poetry is a dying art form; but that is because they seek for it only in its traditional outlets. The poetry of tomorrow will not be found in the academic journals, but at the truck stops, dive bars, hobo camps and homeless shelters.
So let's all pour ourselves a glass of MD 20/20 and raise a toast to the visionary, literary trailblazers in our midst. Zorro!
Again, you should be working for Mad Magazine, Pendragon.
EfOe
Whether the above article is serious or humorous depends entirely upon the reader's p.o.v.
I consider it, when taken at face value, a serious analysis of what you and the late, unlamented
Zod isn't dead, he's alive and well and still creating art.
See the JLA Forums attachment below.
I see it.
I've seen it before.
About 7 or 8 years ago, as a matter of fact.
repainting his old works?
Or did you think that no one here would remember it?
It's just one of Zod's better paintings that I have handy.
Here's another.
I've seen this one before as well.
Reposting old paintings certainly doesn't lend any credibility to your insistence that he isn't dead.
Will Dockery wrote:
Left Handed Summer.
Left handed Summer,
Alias Uncle Hugo,
I step out into this night.
Those parasites know of the light that failed,
imploded in the center of op bop,
in this shadow made by blooming springtime.
In this shadow, next to this last temptation,
I walked into your door,
will I never see her no more?
I see two little red boxcars, I think of her,
I hurt inside, a hallowed ache.
Games people play,
one game on the house,
dark angel in green.
Every little trick she plays, scarecrow straw Janie,
there are three names now for Lady Katherine,
I saw the way...
remember the living lotus in her paste up hell,
I am the clown on the hill,
she still plys her trade in the sportin' house
grocery.
I read the bio of her husband, the ogre,
his world, his fame, his flame.
And I think of: star money, secret star, sweet Jane,
superstar.
Star mama, some glad morning you are my sattelite soul
mate.
On Vinegar Hill, mariage a la mode, a case of need,
the bottom line, in deep Summer,
endless horisons.
We hunt the spirit mammoth somewhere below the salt.
This is the story of a secret state, in this left
handed Summer,
in this valley of vines,
sweet Lasher went swimming,
in the dark river with a bad man, in the big heat,
tigers in the smoke, she rides the red dragon.
Too many cousins dancing naked in La Grange,
she's one of 7 born again virgins,
she steps out, she is lost to me,
that strange woman, she's into sould bonding, soul
bondage,
where is my red curled poltergeist, she's clocked,
boom boom in my ear.
Some Japanese thing,
Lone Wolf, I snarl at the moon.
Moonchild experiment,
watercolor in the rain ---
you poor little kidnapped angel...
my poor little clap trap angel.
My soul like riptide water,
this abundance of witches,
you living lotus bitches.
Uncle Hugo is in Eden,
the old folks home of joy and poems,
deling with this ever present danger,
to the magic store on some blinded date.
Into her labyrinth and back out again,
sweet soul pilgrim, I know, my love,
I can hear her battle cry.
She returns to life, cries for the angels,
a word shogun,
my daddy went blind at 40
but my will is good on this glorious morning.
Bless your fuzzy little heart, baby, go sow your seed
of mischief.
The doomsday ladies hide and go seek,
as they work their science,
I asked my love, Dark Queenie,
will you talk in this left handed Summer?
Hard facts, a woman run mad,
in the caves,
on the hill,
under the sheets experimenting with the moon.
I keep the search light burning.
Face to face with the misty tiger in the smoke,
she rides the red dragon,
orphan daughter of the philosospher,
for common good,
a fiend in need, she is a perfect whirlwind.
Inhuman condition, I am alone for days,
I am nothing to her now,
the ongoing silence is driving me mad.
Her mirror mirror on the wall,
my fingers in her soft places,
her modern methematics,
her pager number,
I light the candle for her
and this big old world of people.
Silver leopard led astray from a magnificent destiny,
I am the foolish virgin with my magnificent obsession,
law of the lion, I'll find her.
Bright feather, hot leather,
magicians of night and sittin' ducks,
loaded dice,
she is there in that secret shadow valley,
sweet adultery under the moon.
The Dark Queen's gift, a riddle.
Please speak to me before the sun goes down,
the children of the rainbow do the dark dance.
-Will Dockery, 1998 (c)2004
Loretta Liverspots wrote:
Will Dockery wrote:
fake Dockery forged:
Left Handed Summer.
Left handed Summer,
Alias Uncle Hugo,
I step out into this night.
Those parasites know of the light that failed,
imploded in the center of op bop,
in this shadow made by blooming springtime.
In this shadow, next to this last temptation,
I walked into your door,
will I never see her no more?
I see two little red boxcars, I think of her,
I hurt inside, a hallowed ache.
Games people play,
one game on the house,
dark angel in green.
Every little trick she plays, scarecrow straw Janie,
there are three names now for Lady Katherine,
I saw the way...
remember the living lotus in her paste up hell,
I am the clown on the hill,
she still plys her trade in the sportin' house
grocery.
I read the bio of her husband, the ogre,
his world, his fame, his flame.
And I think of: star money, secret star, sweet Jane,
superstar.
Star mama, some glad morning you are my sattelite soul
mate.
On Vinegar Hill, mariage a la mode, a case of need,
the bottom line, in deep Summer,
endless horisons.
We hunt the spirit mammoth somewhere below the salt.
This is the story of a secret state, in this left
handed Summer,
in this valley of vines,
sweet Lasher went swimming,
in the dark river with a bad man, in the big heat,
tigers in the smoke, she rides the red dragon.
Too many cousins dancing naked in La Grange,
she's one of 7 born again virgins,
she steps out, she is lost to me,
that strange woman, she's into sould bonding, soul
bondage,
where is my red curled poltergeist, she's clocked,
boom boom in my ear.
Some Japanese thing,
Lone Wolf, I snarl at the moon.
Moonchild experiment,
watercolor in the rain ---
you poor little kidnapped angel...
my poor little clap trap angel.
My soul like riptide water,
this abundance of witches,
you living lotus b*tches.
Uncle Hugo is in Eden,
the old folks home of joy and poems,
deling with this ever present danger,
to the magic store on some blinded date.
Into her labyrinth and back out again,
sweet soul pilgrim, I know, my love,
I can hear her battle cry.
She returns to life, cries for the angels,
a word shogun,
my daddy went blind at 40
but my will is good on this glorious morning.
Bless your fuzzy little heart, baby, go sow your seed
of mischief.
The doomsday ladies hide and go seek,
as they work their science,
I asked my love, Dark Queenie,
will you talk in this left handed Summer?
Hard facts, a woman run mad,
in the caves,
on the hill,
under the sheets experimenting with the moon.
I keep the search light burning.
Face to face with the misty tiger in the smoke,
she rides the red dragon,
orphan daughter of the philosospher,
for common good,
a fiend in need, she is a perfect whirlwind.
Inhuman condition, I am alone for days,
I am nothing to her now,
the ongoing silence is driving me mad.
Her mirror mirror on the wall,
my fingers in her soft places,
her modern methematics,
her pager number,
I light the candle for her
and this big old world of people.
Silver leopard led astray from a magnificent destiny,
I am the foolish virgin with my magnificent obsession,
law of the lion, I'll find her.
Bright feather, hot leather,
magicians of night and sittin' ducks,
loaded dice,
she is there in that secret shadow valley,
sweet adultery under the moon.
The Dark Queen's gift, a riddle.
Please speak to me before the sun goes down,
the children of the rainbow do the dark dance.
-Will Dockery, 1998 (c)2004
Good idea, Impostor troll.
Holy hell
Loretta wrote:
Will Dockery wrote:
Left Handed Summer.
Left handed Summer,
Alias Uncle Hugo,
I step out into this night.
Those parasites know of the light that failed,
imploded in the center of op bop,
in this shadow made by blooming springtime.
In this shadow, next to this last temptation,
I walked into your door,
will I never see her no more?
I see two little red boxcars, I think of her,
I hurt inside, a hallowed ache.
Games people play,
one game on the house,
dark angel in green.
Every little trick she plays, scarecrow straw Janie,
there are three names now for Lady Katherine,
I saw the way...
remember the living lotus in her paste up hell,
I am the clown on the hill,
she still plys her trade in the sportin' house
grocery.
I read the bio of her husband, the ogre,
his world, his fame, his flame.
And I think of: star money, secret star, sweet Jane,
superstar.
Star mama, some glad morning you are my sattelite soul
mate.
On Vinegar Hill, mariage a la mode, a case of need,
the bottom line, in deep Summer,
endless horisons.
We hunt the spirit mammoth somewhere below the salt.
This is the story of a secret state, in this left
handed Summer,
in this valley of vines,
sweet Lasher went swimming,
in the dark river with a bad man, in the big heat,
tigers in the smoke, she rides the red dragon.
Too many cousins dancing naked in La Grange,
she's one of 7 born again virgins,
she steps out, she is lost to me,
that strange woman, she's into sould bonding, soul
bondage,
where is my red curled poltergeist, she's clocked,
boom boom in my ear.
Some Japanese thing,
Lone Wolf, I snarl at the moon.
Moonchild experiment,
watercolor in the rain ---
you poor little kidnapped angel...
my poor little clap trap angel.
My soul like riptide water,
this abundance of witches,
you living lotus b*tches.
Uncle Hugo is in Eden,
the old folks home of joy and poems,
deling with this ever present danger,
to the magic store on some blinded date.
Into her labyrinth and back out again,
sweet soul pilgrim, I know, my love,
I can hear her battle cry.
She returns to life, cries for the angels,
a word shogun,
my daddy went blind at 40
but my will is good on this glorious morning.
Bless your fuzzy little heart, baby, go sow your seed
of mischief.
The doomsday ladies hide and go seek,
as they work their science,
I asked my love, Dark Queenie,
will you talk in this left handed Summer?
Hard facts, a woman run mad,
in the caves,
on the hill,
under the sheets experimenting with the moon.
I keep the search light burning.
Face to face with the misty tiger in the smoke,
she rides the red dragon,
orphan daughter of the philosospher,
for common good,
a fiend in need, she is a perfect whirlwind.
Inhuman condition, I am alone for days,
I am nothing to her now,
the ongoing silence is driving me mad.
Her mirror mirror on the wall,
my fingers in her soft places,
her modern methematics,
her pager number,
I light the candle for her
and this big old world of people.
Silver leopard led astray from a magnificent destiny,
I am the foolish virgin with my magnificent obsession,
law of the lion, I'll find her.
Bright feather, hot leather,
magicians of night and sittin' ducks,
loaded dice,
she is there in that secret shadow valley,
sweet adultery under the moon.
The Dark Queen's gift, a riddle.
Please speak to me before the sun goes down,
the children of the rainbow do the dark dance.
-Will Dockery, 1998
Holy hell
HarryLime wrote:
Will-Dockery wrote:
Left Handed Summer.
Left handed Summer,
Alias Uncle Hugo,
I step out into this night.
Those parasites know of the light that failed,
imploded in the center of op bop,
in this shadow made by blooming springtime.
In this shadow, next to this last temptation,
I walked into your door,
will I never see her no more?
I see two little red boxcars, I think of her,
I hurt inside, a hallowed ache.
Games people play,
one game on the house,
dark angel in green.
Every little trick she plays, scarecrow straw Janie,
there are three names now for Lady Katherine,
I saw the way...
remember the living lotus in her paste up hell,
I am the clown on the hill,
she still plys her trade in the sportin' house
grocery.
I read the bio of her husband, the ogre,
his world, his fame, his flame.
And I think of: star money, secret star, sweet Jane,
superstar.
Star mama, some glad morning you are my sattelite soul
mate.
On Vinegar Hill, mariage a la mode, a case of need,
the bottom line, in deep Summer,
endless horisons.
We hunt the spirit mammoth somewhere below the salt.
This is the story of a secret state, in this left
handed Summer,
in this valley of vines,
sweet Lasher went swimming,
in the dark river with a bad man, in the big heat,
tigers in the smoke, she rides the red dragon.
Too many cousins dancing naked in La Grange,
she's one of 7 born again virgins,
she steps out, she is lost to me,
that strange woman, she's into sould bonding, soul
bondage,
where is my red curled poltergeist, she's clocked,
boom boom in my ear.
Some Japanese thing,
Lone Wolf, I snarl at the moon.
Moonchild experiment,
watercolor in the rain ---
you poor little kidnapped angel...
my poor little clap trap angel.
My soul like riptide water,
this abundance of witches,
you living lotus b*tches.
Uncle Hugo is in Eden,
the old folks home of joy and poems,
deling with this ever present danger,
to the magic store on some blinded date.
Into her labyrinth and back out again,
sweet soul pilgrim, I know, my love,
I can hear her battle cry.
She returns to life, cries for the angels,
a word shogun,
my daddy went blind at 40
but my will is good on this glorious morning.
Bless your fuzzy little heart, baby, go sow your seed
of mischief.
The doomsday ladies hide and go seek,
as they work their science,
I asked my love, Dark Queenie,
will you talk in this left handed Summer?
Hard facts, a woman run mad,
in the caves,
on the hill,
under the sheets experimenting with the moon.
I keep the search light burning.
Face to face with the misty tiger in the smoke,
she rides the red dragon,
orphan daughter of the philosospher,
for common good,
a fiend in need, she is a perfect whirlwind.
Inhuman condition, I am alone for days,
I am nothing to her now,
the ongoing silence is driving me mad.
Her mirror mirror on the wall,
my fingers in her soft places,
her modern methematics,
her pager number,
I light the candle for her
and this big old world of people.
Silver leopard led astray from a magnificent destiny,
I am the foolish virgin with my magnificent obsession,
law of the lion, I'll find her.
Bright feather, hot leather,
magicians of night and sittin' ducks,
loaded dice,
she is there in that secret shadow valley,
sweet adultery under the moon.
The Dark Queen's gift, a riddle.
Please speak to me before the sun goes down,
the children of the rainbow do the dark dance.
-Will Dockery, 1998
****
The previous comments show that this poem has met with some harsh criticism from AAPC members in the past.
It is, however, a prime example of the late 20th-early 21st century poetic movement known as Fragmentism.
Fragmentism had been first identified as a movement in 2019, as evidenced by the AAPC post reprinted below.
I'm certain that its applicability to the "Left Handed Summer" poem will be self-evident:
THE FRAGMENTIST POETRY MOVEMENT
COLUMBUS, GA is the fastest-growing cultural center in the U.S. (dare one venture in the world?), and two of AAPC's most active members are the driving force behind it all. Will Dockery and George "Stink" Sulzbach are well known throughout Columbus for the street poetry, artwork, music concerts, "indie" publications, underground films and television shows; but their greatest impact on the art world is through the new poetic movement they've established -- Fragmentist Poetry.
Fragmentist Poetry combines Imagist Poetry with Minimalism to create what they describe as a "montage" within their readers' minds. Fragmentism pares Imagism down to its barest essentials, i.e., to a series of memory fragments describing persons, places or things. Narrative is abandoned. Form is nonexistent. Mood, message, emotion, tone and theme are barely, if at all, present. English grammar and composition are irrelevant as language exists solely to convey the image fragments.
Fragmentism concerns itself only with recording a series of thought-images in a stream of consciousness style. Fragmentism is based upon image association (much like word association wherein individual words have been replaced by two- and three-word descriptive passages):
Bottle bled dry,
Dogs lapping vomit.
Coffee stained fingers,
Fate constrained by stars.
One reason that Fragmentist Poetry has taken the literary world by storm is that anyone can write it. No education (other than a fourth grade level vocabulary), philosophical insight, imagination or compositional skill is required. This is street poetry in its most literal incarnation. It is the voice of the common man (and woman), evoking images that everyone can relate to.
Fragmentist criticism is equally minimalist, often comprising no more than a thimbleful of words ("Outdamnstanding," "One of your best," "Me likee likee," & so on). An in-depth critique seeks only to identify the topic -- as the topic and the poem are necessarily the same. And this, so the Fragmentists argue, is the point. A poem should not be a barrage of words and punctuation attesting to the poet's erudition and grammatical expertise. A poem is the images it evokes.
And their argument finds strong support in the field of psychology, which maintains that our unconscious mind is non-verbal and therefore only able to communicate with us through dream symbolism, or imagery. In replicating the dream experience, the poet is directly addressing the non-verbal aspects of our psyche -- our sub-conscious and unconscious selves.
Critics have long held that poetry is a dying art form; but that is because they seek for it only in its traditional outlets. The poetry of tomorrow will not be found in the academic journals, but at the truck stops, dive bars, hobo camps and homeless shelters.
So let's all pour ourselves a glass of MD 20/20 and raise a toast to the visionary, literary trailblazers in our midst. Zorro!
Loretta wrote:
Will Dockery wrote:
Left Handed Summer.
Left handed Summer,
Alias Uncle Hugo,
I step out into this night.
Those parasites know of the light that failed,
imploded in the center of op bop,
in this shadow made by blooming springtime.
In this shadow, next to this last temptation,
I walked into your door,
will I never see her no more?
I see two little red boxcars, I think of her,
I hurt inside, a hallowed ache.
Games people play,
one game on the house,
dark angel in green.
Every little trick she plays, scarecrow straw Janie,
there are three names now for Lady Katherine,
I saw the way...
remember the living lotus in her paste up hell,
I am the clown on the hill,
she still plys her trade in the sportin' house
grocery.
I read the bio of her husband, the ogre,
his world, his fame, his flame.
And I think of: star money, secret star, sweet Jane,
superstar.
Star mama, some glad morning you are my sattelite soul
mate.
On Vinegar Hill, mariage a la mode, a case of need,
the bottom line, in deep Summer,
endless horisons.
We hunt the spirit mammoth somewhere below the salt.
This is the story of a secret state, in this left
handed Summer,
in this valley of vines,
sweet Lasher went swimming,
in the dark river with a bad man, in the big heat,
tigers in the smoke, she rides the red dragon.
Too many cousins dancing naked in La Grange,
she's one of 7 born again virgins,
she steps out, she is lost to me,
that strange woman, she's into sould bonding, soul
bondage,
where is my red curled poltergeist, she's clocked,
boom boom in my ear.
Some Japanese thing,
Lone Wolf, I snarl at the moon.
Moonchild experiment,
watercolor in the rain ---
you poor little kidnapped angel...
my poor little clap trap angel.
My soul like riptide water,
this abundance of witches,
you living lotus b*tches.
Uncle Hugo is in Eden,
the old folks home of joy and poems,
deling with this ever present danger,
to the magic store on some blinded date.
Into her labyrinth and back out again,
sweet soul pilgrim, I know, my love,
I can hear her battle cry.
She returns to life, cries for the angels,
a word shogun,
my daddy went blind at 40
but my will is good on this glorious morning.
Bless your fuzzy little heart, baby, go sow your seed
of mischief.
The doomsday ladies hide and go seek,
as they work their science,
I asked my love, Dark Queenie,
will you talk in this left handed Summer?
Hard facts, a woman run mad,
in the caves,
on the hill,
under the sheets experimenting with the moon.
I keep the search light burning.
Face to face with the misty tiger in the smoke,
she rides the red dragon,
orphan daughter of the philosospher,
for common good,
a fiend in need, she is a perfect whirlwind.
Inhuman condition, I am alone for days,
I am nothing to her now,
the ongoing silence is driving me mad.
Her mirror mirror on the wall,
my fingers in her soft places,
her modern methematics,
her pager number,
I light the candle for her
and this big old world of people.
Silver leopard led astray from a magnificent destiny,
I am the foolish virgin with my magnificent obsession,
law of the lion, I'll find her.
Bright feather, hot leather,
magicians of night and sittin' ducks,
loaded dice,
she is there in that secret shadow valley,
sweet adultery under the moon.
The Dark Queen's gift, a riddle.
Please speak to me before the sun goes down,
the children of the rainbow do the dark dance.
-Will Dockery, 1998
Will-Dockery wrote:
Loretta wrote:
Will Dockery wrote:
Left Handed Summer.
Left handed Summer,
Alias Uncle Hugo,
I step out into this night.
Those parasites know of the light that failed,
imploded in the center of op bop,
in this shadow made by blooming springtime.
In this shadow, next to this last temptation,
I walked into your door,
will I never see her no more?
I see two little red boxcars, I think of her,
I hurt inside, a hallowed ache.
Games people play,
one game on the house,
dark angel in green.
Every little trick she plays, scarecrow straw Janie,
there are three names now for Lady Katherine,
I saw the way...
remember the living lotus in her paste up hell,
I am the clown on the hill,
she still plys her trade in the sportin' house
grocery.
I read the bio of her husband, the ogre,
his world, his fame, his flame.
And I think of: star money, secret star, sweet Jane,
superstar.
Star mama, some glad morning you are my sattelite soul
mate.
On Vinegar Hill, mariage a la mode, a case of need,
the bottom line, in deep Summer,
endless horisons.
We hunt the spirit mammoth somewhere below the salt.
This is the story of a secret state, in this left
handed Summer,
in this valley of vines,
sweet Lasher went swimming,
in the dark river with a bad man, in the big heat,
tigers in the smoke, she rides the red dragon.
Too many cousins dancing naked in La Grange,
she's one of 7 born again virgins,
she steps out, she is lost to me,
that strange woman, she's into sould bonding, soul
bondage,
where is my red curled poltergeist, she's clocked,
boom boom in my ear.
Some Japanese thing,
Lone Wolf, I snarl at the moon.
Moonchild experiment,
watercolor in the rain ---
you poor little kidnapped angel...
my poor little clap trap angel.
My soul like riptide water,
this abundance of witches,
you living lotus b*tches.
Uncle Hugo is in Eden,
the old folks home of joy and poems,
deling with this ever present danger,
to the magic store on some blinded date.
Into her labyrinth and back out again,
sweet soul pilgrim, I know, my love,
I can hear her battle cry.
She returns to life, cries for the angels,
a word shogun,
my daddy went blind at 40
but my will is good on this glorious morning.
Bless your fuzzy little heart, baby, go sow your seed
of mischief.
The doomsday ladies hide and go seek,
as they work their science,
I asked my love, Dark Queenie,
will you talk in this left handed Summer?
Hard facts, a woman run mad,
in the caves,
on the hill,
under the sheets experimenting with the moon.
I keep the search light burning.
Face to face with the misty tiger in the smoke,
she rides the red dragon,
orphan daughter of the philosospher,
for common good,
a fiend in need, she is a perfect whirlwind.
Inhuman condition, I am alone for days,
I am nothing to her now,
the ongoing silence is driving me mad.
Her mirror mirror on the wall,
my fingers in her soft places,
her modern methematics,
her pager number,
I light the candle for her
and this big old world of people.
Silver leopard led astray from a magnificent destiny,
I am the foolish virgin with my magnificent obsession,
law of the lion, I'll find her.
Bright feather, hot leather,
magicians of night and sittin' ducks,
loaded dice,
she is there in that secret shadow valley,
sweet adultery under the moon.
The Dark Queen's gift, a riddle.
Please speak to me before the sun goes down,
the children of the rainbow do the dark dance.
-Will Dockery, 1998
Those are bold words