Beginnings of a new series
Here are the beginnings to a new series I'm working on called "A Dirty Friend". Please, feedback!?
A Dirty Friend, pt. I
“He was first known, really, for…”
She talks Filippo Marinetti and I like it,
I like his wild gaze, lazy mouth,
Limp moustache.
I like his name,
I can relate to ridiculous Italian names.
Filippo, tell me all about it.
Tell me all about the industrial machine.
Get it right, Filippo, get it all down right.
Make it a manifesto!
Marinetti, what’s this? A dirty friend? Or
A slap in the face of public taste
A Dirty Friend, pt. II
“A lot of bright colors, umm, and elegant brushstrokes”
Russia did it harsher,
Imagine a world where
They didn’t.
Imagine a world where
Sweden got angry.
Poets and painters, blee blah blee,
Malevich too, I suppose.
I can see all the moustaches,
Hell, I can see my own.
I can grind my own knives.
Firm Firm Firm and sharp!
I can see the wet music
I can hear the soft brushstrokes.
A Dirty Friend, pt. III
“Where the pine trees softly swayed, a flock of”
And that’s his poem, but
Now it sits, like undigested bread,
Soft and moist in the stomach of my poem.
The stomach of my poem.
Poets and painters, you are my dates!
You are my boyfriends, girlfriends,
You are the girl I brush up against
For a moment at the dance party
With hopes to kiss, to kiss
The stomach of my poet.
The stomach of my
A Dirty Friend, pt. I
“He was first known, really, for…”
She talks Filippo Marinetti and I like it,
I like his wild gaze, lazy mouth,
Limp moustache.
I like his name,
I can relate to ridiculous Italian names.
Filippo, tell me all about it.
Tell me all about the industrial machine.
Get it right, Filippo, get it all down right.
Make it a manifesto!
Marinetti, what’s this? A dirty friend? Or
A slap in the face of public taste
A Dirty Friend, pt. II
“A lot of bright colors, umm, and elegant brushstrokes”
Russia did it harsher,
Imagine a world where
They didn’t.
Imagine a world where
Sweden got angry.
Poets and painters, blee blah blee,
Malevich too, I suppose.
I can see all the moustaches,
Hell, I can see my own.
I can grind my own knives.
Firm Firm Firm and sharp!
I can see the wet music
I can hear the soft brushstrokes.
A Dirty Friend, pt. III
“Where the pine trees softly swayed, a flock of”
And that’s his poem, but
Now it sits, like undigested bread,
Soft and moist in the stomach of my poem.
The stomach of my poem.
Poets and painters, you are my dates!
You are my boyfriends, girlfriends,
You are the girl I brush up against
For a moment at the dance party
With hopes to kiss, to kiss
The stomach of my poet.
The stomach of my