Scent
Your smelly stench
Encompasses me
Raw fish sea-weed armpits
Whirlwind of gunk
Around my body
As I hide and pray
And prey
You lift your arms for strength
And a breeze
But all you give me is hell
As Marley sings in my head
Feelings rust out
And your science fiction novel
Ignites in flames
From your dirty scum-disease
Smell
Unshaven
Welcome to Puberty
Ain’t no Fuckin’ ‘Can
Do use?
As I spray and splat bugs
On the back of your thicket of a head
Come on Rebel Rebel
Dog biting Warhol
And you 60’s Dick Scratcher
Take your filthy
Nighttime for school girls
Back to your Wife!
And remember
The carpet I put
Down for her
For her!
Take your whiskey
Saturated hairy ears
And mop up the urine
You left behind
Smelly fuck!
You wanna piece of me!?
You want it!?
Fuck you!
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.07.26.19:00:00@NYC
98.07.27.01:00:00@NJ
South American Blood
I see your taint eyes
Like a tranquilizer at night
Cool ocean breeze
And swarms of bees
Your cold black ovals
Eyes squinting at me
Hearing your accent
A puke of innocence
Your black reversed letters
Commanding P’s
Your voice ringing bells
And alarms forgotten
Suicide phone calls
And dripping juices
Crimes and borders
Patrols of dinero
Thinking of multiples
And your name
Wish I knew it
And had a daisy in my hair
Feeling strokes
Wish I knew those folks
Rhyming with hatred
And tired old tires
Burnt lungs
And tropical trees
Mothers recalled
I missed the delivery
I missed your arms
Hardly knew you
You approached me beneath virgin lights
All I was; was a fashion freak
You rise a club
A dish or two
I eat plenty
Of your lost vision
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.05.24.04:38:38@07430NJ
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
navels
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
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.01.25.20:40:00@NYCUSA
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
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.01.17.00:00:00@NJNYC
98.01.21.00:00:00@NJNYC
sweeping
I sat in the airport
watched the faceless woman
she was sweeping
sweeping away
I observed her every move
with her long broomstick
sweeping
sweeping
she stood there
faceless
in a blue jump outfit
faceless
no features were there
just a blackness
an oval black shape
like on a television screen
she was sweeping
sweeping away
I watched carefully
all the other travelers
and passengers
they were faceless too
passing by
rushing
running
faceless
with big black ovals
I watched the woman sweep
sweep away
intrigued
she was feet deep
in what she was sweeping
at the airport
she swept
faceless
I had to know
what was she sweeping?
I climbed out of my chair
walked towards the woman
the faceless woman sweeping
I looked down
she was sweeping
all the dead skin
left behind from the
passengers and travelers
© 1997 David Greg Harth
97.12.15.01:26:00@MNJ07430
97.12.16.22:39:00@MNJ07430
97.12.17.23:07:00@MNJ07430
Slip
If you slip
wearing that black
a slip under
satin against soft smooth
A slip thru a curtain
silky sheets
slip thru a net
down below
Were you wet?
slippery at the time?
Under the ground
deeper and deeper
You slip
and fade
into the shadows
under the earth
under your slip
You slip away
you hear secrets
a whisper
of warm breath
in your right ear
than left
a whisper
a slip of the tongue
and then you wonder...
Am I slipping...
or is this just a dream?
a climb?
not slip...
but a climb....
© 1997 David Greg Harth
97.10.30.16:57:00@NYC
Stranger
there he was
he sat in front of me
today
he sat there
his moldy face
his crew cut
in front of me
that there,
that strange man
reading the foreign hieroglyphics
looking out my window
his smell haunted me
seeped thru my clothes
made me choke on his hovering shadow
the stranger
that strange man
he sat there
reading all day
small light above
his amber eyes
stared back at me
wondered if I was the one
wondered if I was getting off
© 1997 David Greg Harth
97.10.20.21:28:00 @ NYC USA
Swimming
I have parked in others spaces. I do it all the time. I love to do it. I pay to do it. They invite me. I have an invitation. I have proof. I have love; a devil’s look. A devil’s gold. I have a number. The first in line. A wonder about tradition. A complexity of design. A summer dream. A wet pillow. It’s a sunrise on the beach. One over the buildings, below the docks. The summer is ending, the life has just begun. See it, the garden? The apple trees? I own them. Come let’s play.... We will do our own surgery. Make a new living. The art of surgery. You love me, don’t you? Come, come to my house. There is a party. A new one for you, and for me. Let go. It’s time to go. Let’s go swimming.
© 1997 David Greg Harth
97.04.12.17:05:00@31USQWNYC
Shoe Thieves
Yes, it is a corporation with business personnel,
A cathedral with levels of hierarchy,
A stadium with players and teams.
Yes it is a government with laws,
A playground with rides,
A human with systems.
Yes it is a world of thieves and burglars who steal your ideas.
But what is most important in this shadowy world?
In this world of quietness, darkness, and expression.
It is not competition,
It is not black clothing,
It is not hair on our skulls bursting with ideas and concepts.
What it is, is shoes.
Shoes, some give a damn, some do not.
But all in all, one picked those for some special reason.
Looks, comfort, support or credibility.
It does not matter, shoes are important.
Shoes tell us where you have been, and where you are going.
They tell us about you, your style and personality.
Black or hot pink.
Leather or plastic.
Clear or opaque.
Laces, buttons, zippers, or buckles.
High heels or flats.
Long or short.
Platforms or glitter infested.
They help the other cannibals in this little world.
To see you and to see through you.
Our world of our own.
Our world of shoes.
© 1995 David Greg Harth
95.03.02.16:34:00@31USQWNYC
Scott
Tough Guy
5 foot, 8 inch Italian
Shot 8 times, stabbed too many
Slick hair
His right eye flickers
from a gunshot wound
The scars point out
entries and exits of bullets
Bulging veins cover his arms
He is off the Thorazine and doesn’t do the scuffle
He is on new medication,
medication that could put 8 horses to sleep
His huge appetite consumes all the hospital food
He brushed his teeth until his gums bled
A rough life
Lost his father at a young age,
supported his mother and sister,
and grew up in a world of drugs
and destroyed his life
A delivery man and a lumberjack,
a seller and a buyer
He cared and understood
He’s changing his life now,
I made him laugh,
and he helped me understand.
He helped me, and I helped him
A stranger, then a friend, and now a memory
He was Guy Scott
I called him Scott
He respects life now and has changed
He was Guy Scott, a friend, a gift from God.
© 1992 David Greg Harth
92.05.03.22:00:00@NewCityNY