La Phoque Je Ne Sais Quoi Baguette Rene Magritte Semi-Surreal Nouveau Imagist Poem

La Phoque Je Ne Sais Quoi Baguette Rene Magritte
Semi-Surreal Nouveau Imagist Poem
by Jean Pierre Quasimofoeu
“If the dream is a translation of waking life,
waking life is also a translation of the dream.”
–Rene Magritte–
He read his newspaper
next to the quadrangle
spectre of technology.
now he’s gone
through chutes
of incineration
and the journal speaks
for itself:
Nipple eyes peachy keen bloom above a navel nose and pubescent mouth. Rape my ordinary mundane taking the point in combed wineglass bedroom of wallpapered sky. a subconscious persona fends off gropey shadow molesters pitty-pat amber alert. Titans of stone…we are what we use in violet whoring hues… The biggest unripe green ever to explode the typical. Listen. My shoes are my feet .. planks and dirt are our hard line.+ tigress wood knots modele rouge roughing up the canvas’ late-term abortion.

mirror image of broken reality
busts mountains’ wild fabric.
In the evening, she turns bleu
with mists and pinballs splitting
representations of the diabolically
Leave a leaf or pigeon spitoon.

Flip flop a mermaid and salmon beached like a chance determined acceptance. Green appled bowler-hatted peon with just an inkling’s eyebat’s glance…it is as it is innatureasitisoneasel. My lonely castle levitates above the crashing sea and i dream
of cubby-hole icons commuting other worldly libidoes.

A reckless sillouette makes
a reasoning pirouette..
A window or a n i n si d e o u t ..
bath suns divinely pose
with cannonball and bosom…
grown of a private groan.
un ex pec t the inter mit t ent
ant e lope..2 on a narrow
pledgeling ‘not a pipe’ stroll.

walk over to petrified normalcy where color has been sucked by an all grey greatness. Take a souvenir from carrot missile liqueur elixir blasting still-life sexplanation into blank sheet covered heads of lovers feeling the heat of breath as heaving armadas of golden baguettes mate-by-number.. In the drop of a secret gumball i’d read ‘The Adventures of Pym’ hedging bets with the dopplegang who brands members with bowl cuts and unseen (yet requisite) sniggers.

Atomic Apple Apollonian
non-status alcoholics
plunging into the barrier
between drab and detail
chasing it’s tail.
Send me a post card
of the therapeutist
with knapsack full
of caged birdy central

The forecast calls for 100% chance of precipitation raining suited herd ideologists over much of Belgium today. Peace flew across his visage while eagles morphed into tourist scene quality outcrops watching the moon eggs situate. i wrestle with roses swapping tombs for hourglass contortions. Falsify these reflections of the shattered villa pupils. is it a domain that one may frame like a picture of a picture of a sky aside an actual..?
which is more?
open the mine
to see the mind
behind doll house ruins
with gaping girlie-actrics…
there is an assassin
with fishnet
on the other side
of a victrola
and a clobberer
who came
for the red lounge lady
atop a nosebleed
…what are the 3 things we keep as novelty and the pursuit of gadget and freckled luminosity? She is pregnant with an inscrutable self; But the empire is ready-made for a looksie… Chuga chuga choo choo at a quarter till one–our lunch break’s done…
..or has time become transfixed?

0 thoughts on “La Phoque Je Ne Sais Quoi Baguette Rene Magritte Semi-Surreal Nouveau Imagist Poem

  1. Insane
    from behind the’remembrance
    says Polonius: “Oh, I am slain!”
    a membrane split in twain~
    the wizard behind the curtain complains
    of better days squandered in vain.
    Dorthy came that day to ride upon
    the fair-weather balloon
    which knows which way the wind blows
    as a hawk from a hand saw
    (what with his blinders off)
    sees that the sky is not waiting
    for him to fly; just his purpose
    adjusted on purpose to the whim
    of some great green monkey
    just as she, the Dorthy in this wandering allegory,
    did not need to be
    taken away by that snake-oil salesman
    as she had earned a sweet broom ride
    and the silver slippers~
    both meant to sweep her off her feet
    without the need
    of any man-made contrivance
    He could have left at anytime
    but the trappings of office
    made his escape ungainly
    stuck in the cupboard
    waiting on a sword
    to find it’s mark
    completely without malice

    1. “Polonius is a character in William Shakespeare’s Hamlet. He is King Claudius’s chief counsellor, and the father of Ophelia and Laertes. Polonius connives with Claudius to spy on Hamlet. The latter eventually murders Polonius, provoking Ophelia’s fit of madness and death and the climax of the play: a duel between Laertes and Hamlet.” –wikipedia–
      Great bounce-back poem! I especially liked:
      “Dorthy came that day to ride upon
      the fair-weather balloon
      which knows which way the wind blows
      as a hawk from a hand saw
      (what with his blinders off)
      sees that the sky is not waiting
      for him to fly…”
      Dammit boy! Middlebrow of Sussex strikes again!

    1. Thx. Been doing the left/center/right align for many many years now with other poems as a form of structure since M.Word was my main writing program–then H & H made that format available. Haven’t heard of McClure but i’ll check into him–maybe he was doing it a la Quasimofo–lol just kidding…i’m a smug bastard always trying to figure something new but get beat to it a lot. hehehe.

    i went to Half-Price Bookstores and bought a book with around 40 prints of artist Rene Magritte’s work. i recorded my poetic impressions page by page and this is the result. Just for fun, i fuck around and fashion it ‘Nouveau Imagism’ which derives from a loose interpretation of the qualities of the original Imagism–W.C.W.’s ‘Pictures of Bruegel’ in its most literal form and the differences to name a few are that economy of words is forsaken for a more rambling stream of consciousness slam poetry/contemporary style that is middlebrow, or exhibiting high-brow and working class observations and expression.
    The work will contain a poetic translation of what the poet sees in a picture but will also, at any given time, involve or incorporate that piece’s written title and perhaps a sprinkling of poeticisms from commentary on that artist or the artist’s piece. In this case, for instance, Magritte’s opinion in an interview concerning determinism and chance and the middle in-between–such is brought to light as an interjection during the translation from picture to poem. If a picture is worth a 1000 words–i want to write the 1000 words!
    Thanks for publishing!

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