Waiting For Love

People tell me I shouldn’t look

That I should wait

That love will come to me

Let me tell you -

For I have waited

My patience is a daily vitamin

And a drug I deliver outwards

I wait all day

For the sunshine to set

Because I know the next day

I will wait no longer

I wake up each day

Thinking a lot

It hurts so much

That I handcuff my thoughts

To pully systems of rust and thorns

That I shoot myself daily

With pains of starving children

And abused and tortured

Souls from heaven

I wait

I do not seek

I wait for its arrival

I calmly sit

By lakes and skyscrapers

Upon breezes and fireflies

And upon decks and concourses

I wait.

I wait for a prophet

Or an angel

I wait for a sign

but never look.

All I can do

Is wait.

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.05.24.00:00:00@NJ07430

98.05.25.00:00:00@NJ07430

Home

Home is where you think

Home is where you choose

Home is where you live

Home is

Over here

And over there

Home is mine

And yours

Home is his, hers, and theirs

Home is below and beyond

Above and inside

Home is music and art

Home is sex and poetry

Home is my lover and my partner

Home is my family and friends

Home is where children are beaten

And kids go home to kill themselves

Home is where wives get beaten and raped

And men get drunk and snort

Home is a junkie’s palace and whore’s nightmare

Home is a July bath and pilgrimage

Home is a safety slut and music concourse

Home is a rotten body in hell

And a governor’s secret

Home is a religious sacrifice

And a family reunion

Home is a place for self-esteem escapees

And starving rabies

Home is America and Antarctica

Home is Singapore and London

Belfast and Chile

Home is butterflies and flowers

Daisies and valleys

Home is tunes and currents

And fellowship wings

Home is brothers and sisters

And kind thoughts progressing

Home is a coffin

And cemetery

Home is a church and temple

A revenge and jungle

Home is my control

And your lost feeling

Home is a devil’s prophet

And a ruler’s gold

Home is a bunker and a blanket

A sailor and a buddy

Home is a doll and car truck

A river of scum

Flowing down earthling drains

Home is a toilet

Constantly being flushed

Home is the de-fucked earth

Swallowed up in corporate problems

Spilled oil

And burnt forests

Hard-to-breathe air folk

And jet engine silence

Home is Nuclear war

And racist handshakes

Home is color bled dyes

And revolution wars

Home is sweet

And to be shared

Home is ours

And will forever be there

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.05.25.00:00:00@NYC

Looking For Love

I’m looking for love

In all the wrong places

I look under rocks

And between sheets

I look far beyond states

And travel to different cities

I look in the papers and magazines

I look on the television and

Pay attention to the ra-dio

I look at the park

And in elevators

I look below me and in front

I look on the street

And in taxi cabs too

I look on airplanes, trains, and buses

I look with fever

Hands held out

I look with money pocketed

And lust trapped in heart

I look with eyes

Never set upon

And look with a tongue

That never tasted love

I’m looking for love

In all the wrong places

Or maybe I’m just in the wrong place

Looking for Love

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.05.24.00:00:00@NJ07430

98.05.25.00:00:00@NJ07430

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

A butterfly in the wind

Feeling rain beneath my neck

Flowing fluid

Around my white waist

She stands next to me

By my river of hope and destination

She stands next to me

Still and cold.

Her nipples stiff

Hard in the rain

White displays my desire

My erection only proven

She is a butterfly today

And showed me the way

She taught me the light

And showed me the sunrise

We sat outside

And smelled the stars

Looked upon

Each other’s gaze

She is a mystery girl

One with wings

I found her tonight

And remember her yesterday

She is my heart

Standing next to me

In a gapless land

In a stretch across heartland

Telling no lies

She is but one truth

Unheard through eyes

Only your vocals

Temperature rises

Beneath covers

Christmas Trees

And laundry days

I sit on a windowsill

Look below me at the ground

I feel the suicide

And sacrifice myself daily

I do the soup and OJ and everything between

I do the goods the bads and the travels

I do the marches the parades and the writings

I do the paintings and audios and the lifts too

But still

What I do most

Is wait

And

Give

I hear the flapping

Her flapping now

The Butterfly’s wings

Of yellow nature

From out west currents

I feel the flapping

In my arms

Surrounding smiles

And warmth now joined

There is only one

But one

A butterfly in the wind

A butterfly in the wind...

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.05.11.02:34:58@07430NJ

Who Am I?

I’m an artist.

I’m a lover.

I’m a giver.

I’m a looker.

I’m an absorber.

I’m a feeler

I’m a human.

I’m a devoted.

I’m a fan.

I’m obsessed.

I’m lively color.

I’m a smell.

I’m a healer.

I’m a taster.

I’m a listener.

I’m a musician.

I’m a painter.

I’m a writer.

I’m a believer.

I’m a thinker.

I’m a toucher.

I’m an exhibitionist.

I’m an installer.

I’m a maker.

I’m a flexer.

I’m a speeder.

I’m a disobeyer.

I’m a revolutionary.

I’m circular.

I’m medium.

I’m here.

I’m a lurker.

I’m a rotator.

I’m a typist.

I’m a letter.

I’m a character.

I’m an age.

I’m an actor.

I’m a filmmaker.

I’m an animal.

I’m sexy.

I’m a bomber.

I’m a shooter.

I’m thirsty.

I’m a drinker.

I’m an eater.

I’m a cannibal.

I’m violent.

I’m silent.

I’m sweet.

I’m kind.

I’m me.

I’m for you.

I’m all around.

I’m yesterday.

I’m available.

I’m someone’s child.

I’m someone’s lover.

I’m a learner.

I’m a teacher.

I’m you.

I’m them.

I’m for all.

I’m fucked.

I’m a city.

I’m a display.

I’m a show.

I’m pornography.

I’m photography.

I’m a helper.

I’m a runner.

I’m an exorcist.

I’m a priest.

I’m a leader.

I’m a player.

I’m a baker.

I’m a mother.

I’m a father.

I’m a baby.

I’m a tree.

I’m my life.

I’m a fruit.

I’m yours.

I’m an audio session.

I’m lasting.

I’m funny.

I’m laughing.

I’m cautious.

I’m adventurous.

I’m exciting.

I’m daring.

I’m a darling.

I’m with.

I’m new.

I’m improved.

I’m subjected.

I’m pressured.

I’m left.

I’m right.

I’m write.

I’m bright.

I’m a fighter.

I’m a sleeper.

I’m a fucker.

I’m a sucker.

I’m a strawberry.

I’m a cleaner.

I’m a sweeper.

I’m a poet.

I’m an illustrator.

I’m a hit.

I’m a number one.

I’m an ego.

I’m space.

I’m a shopping bag.

I’m a master.

I’m a slave.

I’m poor.

I’m rich.

I’m in hope.

I’m in love.

I am love.

I’m your belief.

I’m your lie.

I’m your thought.

I’m your shadow.

I’m lost.

I’m found.

I’m dead.

I’m happy.

I’m jolly.

I’m to continue.

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.05.06.01:41:00@NYC

The Hit

So anyway, I was going down Grand Central Parkway, right. Right, and I see this guy, right, on the side of the road. And he’s just like standing there. In all this traffic, right, and I see him, on the side. So, I stop by him, right. He was a hitchhiker. So, right, I picked him up. So, we continue driving, right, down the parkway, right. I’m headed for the Triborough bridge, right. To go up north to the New England states, right. With the hitchhiker. And we continue, right, and the hitchhiker then warns me. Right, he says to me, “There are people up ahead, on the right shoulder, their car is broken down.” Right, okay. So, I’m warned, and then the hitchhiker said to me, “Why don’t you hit them?” So, still on Grand Central Parkway, right, heading towards Triborough bridge, I continue. And then, right, as I approach the people. I hit them all, right, just like them being dominoes, right.

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.05.04.17:18:12@NYC

notes on paper

Only my sorry ass

Can be shot by your loaded pistol

Girls of bellowing nature

Tend to suck really great

Womyn without intelligence,

I ditch

Fury babies are

Like refrigerator icons

Pornography is an

Artist’s ambition

And my call-out

Is a musician’s photograph

And my lover is

The arm chair you spread on

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.04.23.00:00:00@NYC

Insanity

It’s not their beauty

Or their curves

That drives me to insanity

It’s not the concave of the navel

Or the bends in their backs

It’s not the softness of their skin

Or scent of their soul

That makes me insane

It’s not their delight

Or kindness

It’s not their slenderness

Or intelligence

That brings me to the ward

It’s the way they are presented

Displayed

On a pedestal

It’s their clothes

Their makeup

Their garments

Their extras

Their beautifications

It’s their transparent white blouses

Their lace white bras

And tight red skirts

It’s their thong underwear

And hot red barbie lipstick

It’s their sistership

And innocence

Their leather pants

And latex too

It’s their

Corporate perfume

And

Designer’s gain

It’s their made-up high cheek bones

And gravity killed tits

That’s what makes

me insane

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.04.20.00:00:00@Atlantic Ocean/London -> NYC

Cover Me in Chocolate

As my tears roll down

As I carve maps of constellations

into my neck with a surgeon’s

scalpel. Believe my words and

feel my thighs. See the man

in blue surrounded by yellow

stars. Buy me a Porsche. See

my art in museums. Feel the

cat up against the wall. Pick

me up at 8:00. They think Im

lost. But I only have two pupils.

Kiss my iris and burn cigarettes

in my skin. Hold my insecurities

in a box and record my

answering machine.

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.04.20.00:00:00@Earth

FUCKOUS

on the painting

on her beauty

on their wisdom

on the children at play

on the sparrows in flight

on the currents in the brook

on the chained prisoners

on the revolutionaries

on the goddesses

on the trapped

on my knee

on the lady bug recently set free

on the model train, going round and round

on the gift I have given

on the bed of sunflowers

on the water sitting still

on the hymns being sung

on the parents walking by

on my hope

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.04.04.12:09:00@10954NANUETNY

Untitled (Feeling Love)

Waiting for the words

They never seem to come out

They never flow

Like the shower running down

Between thin warm skin

Like suds rolling over

And under thighs I lay beside

From underneath

Heated ceilings

Captured candle light

And spring breezes

Feeling that warmth

A hug around the neck

Is it real? Or fake? fake?

A pretender at cause

It’s just for a while

Just for a bit

A secret I hid

Share, kept away

I feel myself

Loosing grip

As the river swarms

Around my feet

And ankles and knees

The under current pulls me

Drowning I go

She watches on

Until I get back

On my feet

And protrude a pencil perfect portrait

A pencil perfect portrait

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.04.02.22:04:00@NYC

Pigeons (Leaving)/Leaving (Pigeons)

I take my photography

and picture you in pornography

I will commit the robbery

and go down on your shrubbery

You are like a warm wasted drug

moving through my arteries like a slug

I search for love

but all I am is a dead dove

I am helpless

as your love affair with yourself

reeks of sawed off monkey heads

I brace myself as you jerk at my dick

I always wish I could perform that trick

For you I commit a rhyme

and give away my last cocaine dime

You rape me of my belief

and never give me any relief

You leave your scent in my blood stained eyes

and you never loosen my ties

I thrive for the different direction

and never get an erection

I am an addict

I survive on the thoughts people shed

Leave behind

The beauty of day

Leaves me alone

and makes me kill the pigeons you find

on city floors

Making babies

and microwaves

Telephone chasing

and my fingers tracing

Leftover turkey

my eyes are murky

hiding the death

That I have killed

the lovers

the travelers

the listeners

the seekers

the lookers

the patients

the devils

the gods

the pigeons

the colors

the rhymes

the birth

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.03.15.23:15:59@07430

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

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.03.12.22:17:29@10036NYC

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!?

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.03.11.16:36:27@10036NYC

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?

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.03.06.01:26:25@07430

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

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.02.26.24:51:00@NJ07430

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

© 1998 David Greg Harth

97.12.20.10:05:00@07430

98.02.24.02:37:00@07430

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

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.02.14.04:28:06@NYC

Valentine’s Day

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.

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.02.13.21:16:47@Earth