Again
It’s happened once again.
Woke up this morning.
Wasn’t me today.
Someone else, beyond that mirror.
Stared at myself.
Looked deeply into my blue eyes.
Hypnotized by the various shades and hues of blues cascading out of my pupil.
Bursting like a miniature universe of loss and uncertainty.
Followed the pattern my eyebrows made over them.
Noticed how they guarded my crucial art eye from the outskirts of the public eye.
Looked at every pore of my skin, on my nose cheeks and chin.
Followed the lines of my lips; the top one thinner than the bottom.
Looked carefully at my facial hair.
The reds, the deep browns, the blacks.
I stood in front of the mirror staring.
Not knowing how long it would last.
When I would wake up, once again, me, instead of him.
Hurt. No. But I apologize, I must go sleep.
I’ll be back tomorrow, perhaps.
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.08.24.23:57:18@296NYC
Art Slave
I’m pulled around, fucked with
I’m not driven around in black cars
I’m not escorted by the runway models
I’m not high enough or in demand
I’m not shoved from occupation to occupation
I’m not understood, I don’t look to be understood
I’m not accepted, I’m not supported
© 2002 David Greg Harth
02.10.30.24:44:00@296NYC
Armpit Love
moldy
armpits
are
not
worth
tasting
today
© 2002 David Greg Harth
02.08.05.15:57:55@1515NYC
Amusement Ride
Is this some kind of fuckin amusement ride?
Are we here for fuckin entertainment?
I’ve written about this before,
and I feel like I must write again,
because it bothers me so incredibly much.
Why can’t people walk down the down escalator?
Why do they feel compelled to stand still and ride down the down escalator?
Are they really that fuckin lazy?
Do they really have to block me?
I don’t understand.
Before escalators there were stairs, and they had to walk.
Now they are too fuckin lazy to fuckin walk one flight of stairs?
It’s not a fuckin theme park!
There are no fuckin tropical birds to look at or corn fields to admire.
It’s a fuckin god damn escalator!
Fuckin walk down the fuckin thing!
This is driving me nuts!
Something has to be done about this!
Someone must stop the insanity!
Jesus!
I think I’m going to start pushing people down the escalator
then eventually just rid them from this planet.
Fuckin murder these stupid fuckers who can’t fuckin walk down the fuckin god damn fuckin down escalator!
© 2002 David Greg Harth
02.08.02.11:32:49@1515NYC
Addiction
I’m addicted.
I’m addicted to a nameless woman.
A woman with no name.
I’m addicted.
An addict to her passion, her desire, her lust.
Her sensual curves. her bed pleasures.
Her sweaty sex and stimulated clitoris.
I’m incredibly addicted to her.
Ignited from within.
I burn, burn, burn.
I’m addicted.
I admit.
I’m addicted to a love slave.
I’m in love,
I’ll tell you once, and sell you the idea later.
Since you’ve been gone.
I’m back on my feet.
Never left, this state of grace.
Holy ground didn’t escape from beneath my feet.
I’m still close as ever, addicted.
Because I still lick my lips, as I look for you.
I’m addicted.
I’m addicted to a nameless woman.
A woman with no name.
© 2002 David Greg Harth
02.06.05.17:42:00@1515NYC
Answer
I phoned you, but you didn’t answer.
You didn’t even bother to answer the phone.
I phoned you every hour on the hour,
yesterday.
You didn’t pick up
You just let it ring, ring, ring.
I must have awakened your neighbors
I must have made your sink overflow
I must have made the faucet,
go
drip,
drip,
drip.
The phone went
ring,
ring,
ring
I went to bed
I overslept
Put the pillow over my head
And got a bit wet
She’s getting married today
But you wouldn’t know
You don’t even care
You don’t give a shit
A rat’s ass
A New York City tail!
I phoned you yesterday
Over and over again
But you didn’t pick up
And you did not answer
You didn’t leave house
And you did not palm your thoughts
I phoned you all day
you went to shop
I went to stone
you went to flower
And I got nothing for the hol-iday
You came knocking at my door
tap,
tap,
tap
Nothing there
Nobody home
Went fishing
Gone fishing
Out to lunch
Be back in five
You came knocking at my door
Thought I was not alone
But you only found a silly throne
A stupid piece of leftover
A fish of surprise
No one else, just a jar of fat
A jar of fat
I won’t go back today
I didn’t come here to go back
Don’t take me back to the countryside
I won’t go back to the westside
The phone rang
High pitched scream
You don’t know what I mean?
But you just swallow and pretend
I phoned you
All day yesterday
You didn’t have the guts
You didn’t even have the balls
You just let it go -
ring,
ring,
ring
Nobody home ....
© 2001 David Greg Harth
01.11.21.02:47:19@296NYC
Avenue
I’ve walked that Avenue before
I’ve been there before
That same roadside
I’ve seen the same faces
I’ve felt the same pain
The moon is still the same
The sun rises every day
But I feel like walking
Walking next to Michael and Kurt
Walking next to Jean Michel and Sid
Walking next to Freddie and David
This Avenue isn’t the same anymore
No more happiness here
No more ghosts to hold onto
No more
This Avenue isn’t true anymore
The color doesn’t shine here
The people don’t gather and talk
The friends don’t phone or gasp
This Avenue is different
I’ve walked this Avenue before
Along empty beaches
Along empty sidewalks
Along American gasoline stations
Along London’s soho
The Avenue is blank
I can’t see it
It’s not even here
The Avenue is dark
No one to help
No one to aid
No one to look up too
No one to feed on
I tried to tell you something
But you wouldn’t listen
You wouldn’t even listen
You refused
You blocked me out
Your “All Ears” weren’t there
You were gone
You were far away
You were beyond the Avenue
The Avenue is gone
It lasted so long
But now it’s a dead end
A dead walk
A walk of death
I’m walking alone
On the Avenue
Maybe you’ll walk next to me
Or maybe I’ll walk alone
© 2001 David Greg Harth
01.08.02.02:44:33 @ 296 NYC
Animal
I am. I’ll eat the living, the healthy, and the rich.
Even little children, the poor and the starving.
I eat through walls and through cities and the ground
I eat the smell of death and smell of courage
I eat the mothers and the little babies that make them want to live
Even the smallest bug and largest mammal
I eat it all
Because I am an animal!
© 2001 David Greg Harth
01.02.14.10:41:33 @ 1515 NYC
Arlington, Va., July 10
Arrest made in Arlington shooting
Arlington, Va., July 10 - Arlington County police tell Me
they have a suspect in custody for the murder of a woman in the
popular groundbreaking neighborhood. They say that the suspect and
victim knew each other. Possibly a mother-child combo or happy meal.
POLICE SAY THE
shooting happened in the
2800 block of South
SicknoMore Street. Witnesses
say they heard several shots
fired at a Toyota Camry this
morning. They say the car
then rolled back down
SicknoMore Street, through
some woods and into a fence
and retaining wall at a town
house complex.
Arlington police
spokeswoman Kimberly Roberson says they’re looking for a man believed to
have gotten away in a two door speedster, either red or orange colored.
Roberson says they’re still trying to positively identify the woman, but
say she’s 50 and from Nowhere.
© 2000 David Greg Harth
00.07.10.22:10:43@296NYC
00.07.13.01:12:10@296NYC
Ache
Falling asleep
On my white sheets and feather pillows
My head in ache
I feel the warm trickle
First from my ears
On to my pillow
My ears bleeding
The red staining the white sheets
And tracing the curves of my ear
Then from my nose
The blood traveled down my lips
Hitting the sheets
I bled from the holes in my wrists
And the holes in my ankles
Like my soul bleeding
The red rivers flowing
Feeling like I’m no longer the significant person I used to be
Losing my soul, my thoughts
Seeing the flash before me
The images of all those brothers and sisters that I loved
The blood flowing from the holes
My wrists, my ankles, my ears, my nose
My eyes blue as the sky and ocean
My body getting cold, pale, rottenly forgotten
I’m no longer significant
I’m just a shadow caster now
On mountain tops
I’ll be reunion warmth
I’m no longer significant
I’m bleeding now
I’m nothing
I’m your love
© 2000 David Greg Harth
00.06.20.09:14:13@296NYC
Apt. #5
It was a hot summer night
My window was wide open
I heard the people fucking in the apartment above me
Apartment Number Five
I heard them panting
The bed moving and banging
I heard the woman moaning
Short and lengthy little silent screams
I heard the jolts and the pleasures
Through the New York City screen window
I heard him fuck her through the walls and ceilings
Hard pounding at times
I got so turned on
Hearing them fuck
I brought out my collection of porn magazines
I spread them all out
A territory, a shrine of porn
All around lace, leather, and naked nice
I still heard the fucking in Apt. #5
I stroked my own cock
As I heard them fuck
Matching the rhythm
Hearing their moans and penetrations
Wet and hard
Over and over
I penetrated my own clenched fist
And when she orgasmed with an “Ouch”
I came all over myself
My fingers
With hot, sticky, white, flowing cum
© 2000 David Greg Harth
00.06.15.01:00:00 @ 296 NYC
ART is for BLACK PEOPLE
Art is for Black People
Because they don’t have to change
They don’t have to put on colored clothing
To fit in
Be hip
And go
Art is for Black People
Because they can be themselves
And still be real
And still be at the place to be
Art is for Black People
Because
All artists commit suicide daily
And
All artists are forced
To have openings that reveal chaotic hypnotism
Art is for Black People
In memory of Bob Thompson
And the hand modeler
© 2000 David Greg Harth
99.05.14.18:00:00@O’Hare, Chicago
00.05.11.17:42:33@296 New York City
American Ding Dong in a Cum Bush
I’ve got an American Ding Dong
Circumcised
Size up
Felt up
Felt Velvet
Heat up
Shut up
I’ve got a big long Ding Dong
American
Ancient
Roman
Ding-A-Ling
It’s been going in and out
These days
Of those summer bushes
Smelly corners
Around the turns
Drive bys
Inner thighs
Summer nights
Cum bushes
Sister Remembers
May Remembers
Cemetery Bends
School Days
Outside
Nest Inside
Snuzzle up
Down under
Muffled
American
My lips are behind
In the hiding
Round here
Sugar bee
Wrapped over my knee
Spank! Spank!
I owe you
One-Two-Three!!
American Ding Dong
In a Cum Bush
Cum here
Come here
Silly goose!
Coop Shoop Doop
Leap of faith
Doop Deep Dop
Crop Shop Mop
I’ve got an American Ding Dong
Standing tall like a flag pole
Just outside
The Cum Bush
On a summer night
Birdies chirping
No-Radio
Breeze blowing
Down the Noun
Down the Neck
American Ding Dong
In a Cum Bush
Bent over
Bee hive
Living to thrive
Jive to live
Burn
And squeeze
The juice
American Ding Dong
In a Cum Bush
© 2000 David Greg Harth
00.04.09.16:00:00@P.CollectionW.D.C.
00.04.10.14:51:11@1515NYC
00.04.11.01:22:23@296NYC
Alexander Filippou (An Artist’s Life)
I decided to go to the Post Office
Its only 430am
Had to get something in the mail
Right away then
I grabbed my coat
And ran outside
Slid my way
Across the icy snow
Down to Houston Street
I grabbed a cab
Around the corner
On Bowery
And slowly crept west
Alexander Filippou was my driver
For the evening just now
He feels tingles in his left arm
And a pain in his chest
No, not the doctor
He just needs rest
Alexander explains to me
Through our plastic barrier of exchange
We continue through the ice
To closed 6th Ave
And then to 8th
We pursue
Fuckin’ this and fuckin’ that
Alexander curses
I nodding my head
Making mental notes
Filippou pissed
He has to work hard
To pay the rent
But can’t get the Co-Op
Because the immigration is bothering him again
His mother and sister
Still remain behind
As the Ryder truck tailgates
Dangerously
They are in Russia
I’m sure cold too
We make our way
Through the tiny streets
To the avenue of 8th
Where we belt up North
Alexander tells me
How he was a trained fabricator
In his homeland of Russia
Supervising ten men at a time
He explains to me
The I-Beams of America
How strong they are
Buildings lasting for hundreds of years
Alexander wanted to open his own
In Brooklyn town
But they call for papers once again
So, he works fifteen, eighteen hour shifts
After the red and green lights
We arrive at 33rd street on 8th
My grand post office is open
Of course
24hours it is, indeed.
I wish my friend
Alexander
Have a goodnight
And give him 9 “I Am America” bills
Walking up the flights of icy white stairs
He goes off slowly
I’m sure with American dollars
Trying to make sense
The post office was usual
Security
Remotely tight
Because of Iraq over there
I do my business
And carry on with my art
I step down the stairs
And see the sight
I take some photos
to remember this night
I walk my way
Down 33rd and now up 7th ave
I want to see the center
Where it’s at
A few delis open
Selling produce and New York bagels
Of which I have none
Not even one
I get to the epicenter
Right near the NYPD
I’m in Times Square
To be an artist
I take my photos
Vertical and horizontal
My fingers now numb
In the coldness I share
Not to be too shy
I was on by
The porno shop
Even this too
Is not closed
On a night like this
Should I go in?
Just for one dance?
I’d like to see
That naked horror dance.
You know me well
I ventured inwards
And to my surprise
Only video tonight
Dollar booths with porn
With sounds of animals
Because the women who worked days
Are not here at this hour
Defeated in a way
I walk away
Down South on 6th Ave
Until I hit Broadway
I remember walking down
On sunny days
In the spring time
When it was warm
And that first walk
That I did many years ago
First exploring
The city, my city
I’m an artist
This is what I do
I observe everything
Welcome to my world
Running through the streets
A Bosnian effort
Of white delight
And tomorrow’s nightmare
I finally get to bed
Only to write this for you
It’s now 6:14am
Give me another hour
I’ll be up for twenty-four
Goodnight.
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.01.14.06:18:59 @ 296 NYC
Albino
I remember your albino hair
And gaze you gave me
Your over the shoulder shrugs
Filled of straps
You and your vanilla-cherry lips
I devour so much
The bites at your neck
And the nights shooting stars
We can puncture our veins together
And take the fake drug underneath the docks
By the cold gulf waters
As war rages on across seas
Let’s unzip and let go
Surrendering to the darkest times
Nightmares about losing teeth
And straddling around my waist; dentistry
Boxing fights, Mighty Joe Young and Family re-runs
It’s all old news to me, making me erect
For numerous albinos in the fields
Taking a cab, a dollar tip
Making it fair
And don’t believe, just a lie
Making it hot and squishy
For a little while ..
just a bit
Twiddle Dee - Twiddle Dum
Feeling woozy, I think I’ll get drunk like a bum
Albino throbbing
Hard for you
Poetry is dead
Art is dead
and so are you...
and so are you.....
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.11.16.02:56:36 @ 505NJ/(WS@NYC)