David Harth 1998-03-12 David Harth 1998-03-12

Pain

Bringing them out

Like freshly bought butterflies

Like tulips and roses

And tasty ears of corn

Full of joy and bounce

They never surrender

Full of color and chaotic smells

All day I’d like to slip a few

I pass them fluttering on the street

And hear their vibes

And catch their eyes

The warm sun beats down

The shadows created

Between erect buildings

And tremendous skyscrapers

Waltzing along

With cherries at height

Feeling wet

And sparkle cheese

Overcast

Comes over

Shade all around

Casting and engulfing

They scurry like ants

Way down to the underground

Luxurious displays

On pleasure pictures

Following their flutter

I think of something to mutter

Leaning against

A view I’ll never forget

Legs sticking out

All over they wiggle

Under my silver

Gathering clusters of drops

Like embarrassed young children

Like little babies

And hand-held raisins

98.03.12.22:17:29@10036NYC

David Harth 1998-03-11 David Harth 1998-03-11

Guns

Where are the guns!?

They destroy me

They eat at my soul

They make me piss in my pants

Yellow-stained jeans

Where are the guns!?

They make me nervous

They make me cum

They make me hard

Between the thighs

Where are the guns!?

The leftover scent

The touch and glare

The overwhelming blend

If I do so, I dare!

Where are the guns!?

They penetrate my mind

All my senses, all the time

They revolt me

And make my puke

They disgust me and make me fall

Where are my guns!?

They sing to me

In midnight dreams

On wet pillows

And cow cummed disease!

Where are my guns!?

They make me write and paint

And listen and explore

And kiss and kneel

And travel all around

Where are my guns!?

They make my death closer and closer

Near I come

Oh, Where are my guns!?

98.03.11.16:36:27@10036NYC

David Harth 1998-03-06 David Harth 1998-03-06

Forgotten

I forgot her

Damn It!

I did wrong.

Now she is gone

I gave her a painting

She left with my poetry

I have done no good

I scarred myself forever

Forever I am damned!

I threw myself in a cave

Sealed my soul

After pouring out my cum!

I remember squeezing her breasts

In a shower I took

I remember squeezing her ass

In the bed I destroyed

But now I forgot her

Damn It!

And now I am homeless

Without her I am dead.

With her I am a lie.

Today is no different

For she is still at my knees.

From the magazine shelf

To the soul music

She is a memory

Of tiger hood

And overalls

But I have died

I forgot her.

What can I say?

But I am dead today?

98.03.06.01:26:25@07430

David Harth 1998-02-26 David Harth 1998-02-26

Film & Radio

Film

is thin

Thinning like my lost father’s hair

Film is revolution

Rotating around my index

Film is portraying

On the wall in white

Film is a pornographic documentary

Of Presidential lies and palace steps

Railroads and Wildebeests

Plant growth and boxing matches

Radio is a recording

From my history

To this present day

A tune to the lips of a dancer

And the horror which brings back memories

Radio you can’t hear

When fucked in the brain

Nor films to be played

But better than Ra-Dio

Ra-Dio

Radio I can hear it

But it’s not me

It’s not me hearing it

Just the audience

As I try to escape from the toilet flushes

98.02.26.24:51:00@NJ07430

David Harth 1998-02-24 David Harth 1998-02-24

Wish

I sit here

Listening to the music

As the heavens above open up

The clear skies engulf me

Overwhelm me with powerful humor

And calmness from the heart

I wait here

For her to come

To follow the song

Dance with me

Upon the decks of love

And grounds of diamonds

She is there

I see her standing in the distance

She comes to me slowly

I have waited years

Now she is coming

The shadows are fading

The trees no longer casting

The sun is beating

And there she is; gleaming

I sit here

Waiting all my life

And I will wait until you come

To dance with me

97.12.20.10:05:00@07430

98.02.24.02:37:00@07430

David Harth 1998-02-14 David Harth 1998-02-14

Charcoal

The man approached the table

Dancing to the jazz

Getting down

A funky dance

Wearing a black cloak

Sits down on the rotated chair

Coffee in front

About to drink

He rubs his hair

On his round head

With his charcoal hands

Dirty from the bum’s life of dance

Like a vampire from Astor Place

Sipping the coffee of heated violence

Rubbing his hair

With soiled, worked palms

He sees his reflection

In the window in front

Beyond the steaming cup

And cookies brought to him by far

A crew cut

Rubbed with blackness

And tan clothing

Portraying a son

He casts out spells

And talks to himself

Conversations about the lover’s paradise

And last night’s opening

He is a clergy man

Mother Superior’s bouncer

With an unshaven face

One complete frigid stare

Yells a potion

And becomes an exorcist

Helps them from the evil they once were

As he draws on the napkin at his finger tips

One white from art of below

And the other

New York City dirt

Rising from the chair

Passing him

I slip him a five

And he holds onto my fingers

The clean ones he once had

A few seconds he is my brother

A lover

Both wanted to hold each other

Caress

To cradle each other’s life

98.02.14.04:28:06@NYC

Valentine’s Day

David Harth 1998-02-13 David Harth 1998-02-13

Untitled (Running Love)

Hearing your voice

A comment on desire

Traveling in taxis

That take you no where

To find the feeling

Pulsating

Feel the beating in your heart

Run through your veins

Pumping and thrive

Red booths full of numbers

Make a call to the sea

All the “ans”

Surrounding lights

And fog inset in my eyes

Swishhhhh.....

Run by, Run by -

Choosing the life you had

The drugs I saved

The friends I had

Taking the dog bites out of your leg

Feeling the Beatles crossing Abbey Road

And Bananas between pussy lips

Feeling the feelings I found

Wishing I had not written the ones for bartenders

Feeling the revolutions in my head

And the revolution uprising

The dog continues to run

Around the track

And then its dead.

98.02.13.21:16:47@Earth

David Harth 1998-02-10 David Harth 1998-02-10

Untitled (Red)

A red glow

Silhouettes my shoulders

I can only get a short glimpse

With lights passing by

Long and slender

Leading up to the black shade

Crimson red overflows

I wish I was up my glance

In between the pressure

My lips bitten

Music in my ears

Traveling like a jet landing

Speeding Through

While deer running by

Crossing my path

Purple light go away

Receptionist appeared

Now summer is gone

Another glance

Flesh on the blackness

What do I know?

As my blindness is only

Half empty

And they say,

I can say no to a transfusion

I say fuck it

Give me the lead.

98.02.10.22:11:00@EnRoute->07430

David Harth 1998-02-05 David Harth 1998-02-05

Words

The words they are bothering me.

I’m afraid of them

They invade my privacy

Watch me as I touch myself

As I think like you and become you

As I favor your scent

and forever I remember your gaze

They define me

My ass as an American

A freedom giver

Blow-job receptor

I beg with them

To let me go

But they put me in shackles

bound me to the walls

as wicked ones rape me of my daydreams

She sucked the daylights

Out from underneath my bloody arse

and all I have to say

“Out damn word! Out damn word!”

98.02.05.12:15:00@07430

David Harth 1998-02-02 David Harth 1998-02-02

Coffee

I thought I met a reflection

But coffee only flows down my back

Alone as it burns

All I have remembered

Is your chaos

As I’m crucified in cold winter nights

I thought I would open a door

And let my soul pour out

From my pale palms

All I have to recall

Is the brief glance

A friend from years ago

I go on

As the boxing crushes my head

My art is dead

As all the fury is dying tonight

98.02.02.01:54:00@NYNJ

David Harth 1998-01-30 David Harth 1998-01-30

utopia, seen from a hillside

progressive thoughts

thru pleasure and pain

the dreams race

across my wild plains

imagery is ghostly

make believe times

I think of you

he and she

together as one

alone

on the hill

away from it all

about to fall

only to be caught

by the hand

hand of love

no separations allowed

no intruders

no darkness

only cool breezes flow

thru your hair

and thru thy eyes

with the intensity of admiration

with the intensity of touch

a skin tone

a lip tongue

a suckle

reach out and touch it

feel the breeze

above the hill

high above

fall with me

into the pit

the pit of utopia

97.01.30.02:16:00@31USQWNYC

David Harth 1998-01-29 David Harth 1998-01-29

god

you bitch

you demon

you make them believe

you make me a product

you make my mother beg

you are dirt

scum from my cock

you are a bum’s last urine

and you still come back

god

I don’t refer to you

I don’t capitalize you

I visualize you

I imagine you

I can picture you

god

you are evil

you are a baby’s breath

lost from a beaten husband

you are a hanger for pros

and lust from nukees out west

you are a marcher and become a face

of a priest or rabbi

even a CEO

god you are my television

you are a cleaner

you are my servant

because I form you

I mold you

you are only my thoughts

which I do not believe

do not believe

god you are a whisper

you are my love’s gate

and cage

and cook

god you do not exist

I am without a chest

I hear the sounds

the revolutions

and repetitions

but all you can give me

is parting seas

books of words

clothing full of assholes

and emblems representing your existence

I say fuck you

as I eat at your heavenly body

your soul

your belief

your printed matter

your trees and nicely cropped bush

I say fuck you

as your servants beg of you

kneel to you

bow to you

I do NOT capitalize you

or socialize with you

I put my hands out

and milk you of your existence

and nurse you as you die

upon my shoulders

god!

98.01.24.17:51:00@10036

98.01.29.04:26:00@07430

[NOA&S]

David Harth 1998-01-25 David Harth 1998-01-25

Stimulation

two doves sitting in a tree

two birds chirping at the morning sun

one’s beauty in a reflection at the pond

a picnic for two on a grassy green hill

an oak tree

and butterflies too

television and the media

humor and the people who make it

music to my ears

and your whispers too

a cool breeze

or warm hug

a scented red rose

or a furry little friend,

my pussy cat

an enchanting evening

for two at the lakeside

a lover surrounded by candlelight

bathing with too

water down the back

or whipped cream too

experimentation

a dare devil inside

a close dance

body against body

grinding passion

and intimate wonders

philosophy, pornography and people too

beauty and earth itself

and oh, my galore!

navels

a fetish for navels

eyebrows and eyes

perfect hair

skin to touch

caress once more

a belief in blood

and a beach night calm

seasons changing

warm and wet

cold and mine

an embrace

a smile

and painting you

imagination

hope

and ice cubes

temptation

lust

and desire

and most of all

she

she herself

being who she is

she

she stimulates me

98.01.25.20:40:00@NYCUSA

David Harth 1998-01-25 David Harth 1998-01-25

Myself: Destination

I sat at the front of the 49-passenger-bus

We were going down the highway

Passing all the lights and the travelers

It was dark out, a midnight blue - casted shadows around

The rain on the windshield bounced on and off

I looked down the aisle

And what did I see

I saw myself

About half-way back down the aisle of grey seats

There I sat staring to the front at myself

And I stared at myself, looking, gazed like a ghostly soul

In the center of the aisle

There was a box

A cardboard box with printed black ink

It stunk of fish and meat and octo-pussy

It leaked down the thin aisle to my black covered feet

I got freaked out

Could not understand

How could there be two of me

Right then and there

How could this be

Terrified

I leaped out of my red-striped, semi-comfortable, grey seat

And jumped through the front windshield of the autobus

Crashing through, landing hard on the wet cold ground

Shards of sharp glass punctured my soft pale skin

And blood splattered my structured self and the other innocent passengers

The driver swerved

But it was too late

Before I hit the ground

The bus slammed at my fleshy blurred form

Crushing my hair and eyes into my thoughts

My crucified red liquid flowing

Across bright headlights and creamy-white dashes on the pavement

But now there is one of me

And he

Smells like meat

And is still going to his destination

98.01.22.00:00:00@07430/10036

98.01.24.00:00:00@07430/10036

98.01.25.00:00:00@07430/10036

David Harth 1998-01-21 David Harth 1998-01-21

The Sky (Looking Up Towards The Sky)

My answer is never

For its only lost in my chambers

It’s like a cornucopia

Overflowing with passionate wonder

A bond of realism

With a surrealist stroke

A graceful touch

Performed like a dove’s dance

Beautiful beginning

At the birth place

A symphony of warmth

Surrounding gold candlelight

Deep brown eyes

Attacked by blackness of night

True difference unheard

While ignited flames burned

Rules and borders

When I only patrol my own mind

Cotton softness

Slender willow scented like a rose

Breath above her neck

Below the listening sense

A life a little ordinary

Conquered by the extraordinary

Rain poured

Down souls of bodies

I whisper to her skin

With my fingertips

Touched once

And forever remembered

98.01.17.00:00:00@NJNYC

98.01.21.00:00:00@NJNYC

David Harth 1998-01-20 David Harth 1998-01-20

Interrupted Silence

I traveled through her canal

Under her sweet dirt

I listened to her words

Static came in-between

Separated us at birth

Interference melted me

Venom punctured my lips

My eyes rolled back into my scull

I listened strongly

Her words scattering on my lighted horizon

Pollution settled in

Advertised through copper wires

Ruined by Hollywood production

Past deep inside

Surveillance as I pullout

Spotlight on me

Her voice is gone now

I cry in my memories

My camera falls forward

I am unsettled

98.01.20.13:36:00@NYC10036

David Harth 1998-01-16 David Harth 1998-01-16

Wonder

Sheets of white

Glorious tones

Brown on the bed

Black in the shower

Going down the drain

That forward water

Soap turned hard

Out from the cold

A heating touch

Remember that call

Healed wound

And a pounding heart

Embrace

Heat exchanged

Tongue twisted

Late hour

Over cover

Talk up noon

Tea time

Midnight moon

Howling wonder

Out from under

Beneath stars

Chance of

Strawberry massage

Scented room

Bottle top

Cry no more

Painted picture

Poetry read

Delay of

Secrets shared

A wonder what

Dressed in black

A lifted eyebrow

And an ear left to fall

98.01.16.15:13:00@NYC

David Harth 1998-01-15 David Harth 1998-01-15

Path

Reaching in

Bending forward

Leaning in

Sun down

Night rising

Trees swaying

Glare opening

Stare conquering

Fingers gripping

Water flowing

People running

Bubbles bursting

Stars above

Air whipping

Warmth heating

Train coming

Catch it now

They missed it

All the children

They missed the train

98.01.15.16:52:00@NYC10036

David Harth 1998-01-03 David Harth 1998-01-03

Lost Calculations

I knew this woman once. She had a mint green jacket, light weight. On her head was a bright, forest green, well-knitted beret. She wore a sweatshirt, covering her large breasts. The sweatshirt was white, and printed on it was a luxurious cross with blooming pink and pastel yellow flowers. Her pants were of a medium shade of dungaree blue. On her feet were bright blue leather shoes, with rubber soles and yellow stitches. She would push around a shopping cart, a small portable one. It was made of metal, painted navy blue. Inside were white plastic bags and jars of spaghetti sauce; that’s all.

She would carry around a calculator with her, and make all these different calculations. Many numbers, passing by. She would add and subtract, divide and multiply, like the families do in today’s society. While biting the pink collar of her jacket, she would stare at me, under the thickly dense, round-framed eyeglasses. Still, she would make the calculations on her freshly bought calculator. Occasionally, raising an index finger to her mouth, to bite her nails.

The woman would move from the back to the front. Skipping all in-between; on the line. It doesn’t matter to her who waited, what mattered was if everything added up right. Because if it didn’t, she was not clean, and would have to bathe later on that night. As her tight fitting pink jacket, contrasted with her green envy, she would limp across the line, while bracing her portable shopping cart.

And all the time, adding and subtracting. Doing some multiplications and some divisions. All these calculations on her pocket calculator. Over and over again. Until she got picked up and she sat down, in those greens, pinks, and that large breasted cross. She would sit and bite at her index nails. And the line would move past her. Passing her, as she discontinued making her calculations.

98.01.03.01:04:00@07430

David Harth 1998-01-01 David Harth 1998-01-01

Untitled (New Year’s Day)

It is New Year’s Day.

What did you do?

Just the other day?

I sat in the center.

The epicenter.

Where 7th meets Broadway.

Where the neon lights are.

Where the movies are filmed.

I sat there.

All day long.

Handcuffed myself.

To a chair,

To the lamppost.

Right in the center.

The great big clock,

Behind me.

Coke in front of me.

I have never snorted.

About to now.

Corporate Surroundings

I wish I had a fuck on me.

I wish I had a smoke.

I sat in the center.

Chained to the chair.

To the lamppost.

I sat all day.

As the clock neared midnight.

I pulled the trigger.

Still handcuffed.

My thoughts now on the lamppost.

97.12.31.00:00:00@NYCUSA

98.01.01.00:00:00@NYCUSA