Hidden treasures discovered while digging through Frank Moore's huge archives.

Category: Poems (page 1 of 3)

Eat Your Heart Out

December 2011

I have always had a rich full fun life.
Everything comes easy to me.
I don’t care about being
Respectable
or so “successful”,
or acceptable
beyond this inner flesh.

I surrender to play and to life.
Everything comes so far
into juicy bits
of extraordinary supernatural modality
of relationship dynamics upon my word.

I know this is not what to say
if you want to be included in
the addressing Fields
of dazzling whiteness
over oils of press and applause.

They want victims
suffering against overwhelming odds
of the temptation
to editorialize
defeat to survive barely,
waiting to take possession
of these annoying
medical monsters of yokes
of repression…

A special freak
who came to replace
the control box
by profound attention
and ordeal of extraordinary dimensions
bearing upon big terms of
keeping with heavy leaden gray deceptive dawn
between the tempest
and this dreadful nightmare of repression.

Of course you can’t do it,
they say.

He
[me]
is special
with courage,
strength surmounted all obstacles
being mauled by isolation
resulting from between physical problems…
And abilities of luck…
All of which you
and most people
unhappy don’t have.

He
[me]
is special exception
that proves the extreme point of
hopelessness,
helplessness
appalling disaster
which imprison everybody
without any possible alternatives.

They push this shit!

I am always able to handle anything,
having fun
in the freedom
of not knowing
what is impossible.

My dreams are melting
into juicy molten
every day activities just as
people who thought I was Jewish!

I surrender to play and to life.

Everything comes so easy!

Yes, it is hard work sometimes.

But I have come out

of the extreme edge
of things
in my wheelchair
addressing similar circumstances.

Escape from whatever
between us and fun!

They want you to think
you got it
better than me,
somebody,
anybody!

You ain’t got shit!

But at least you ain’t
a victim
of cerebral palsy for life,
suffering with cerebral palsy.

At least you ain’t confined to a wheelchair!

At least you can walk,
talk,
feed yourself,
wipe your own asshole
in the way God tends you to do!

At least you can play football
until you break your neck
playing football!
Then…

Oh, well…

At least
you ain’t
a nigger
or a woman,
or a fag!

Reporters scramble everything up.

They don’t use their souls,
their formidable pricking eyes.

They see a wheelchair
and they write
suffering victim
of cerebral palsy
confined to a wheelchair
and is ninety eight percent disabled
with no body control…

Oh yes he saw a murder!

Reporters are brainwashed.

They have only filter tip eyes!

They see me dancing,
playing piano
smothering the piece
of pounding
lustily on the keys
with vehemence and whatever else,
painting those unknown sights
in oils by Jackson Pollock physical ritualism
of direct engagement
with my whole body control of the paint
with my head,
seeing me
feeling up
right up
her inner flesh with style and aim…

And they conclude
and report
I am paralyzed,
stiffened under the bottom
of no movements
or control
or bodily feelings
and am
ninety eight percent disabled,
helpless,
vulnerable,
hopeless fizzle.
And you depend upon them
for the clear ultimate vision
of direct experiencing
of observation of objectivity!

I suppose
I could even paint
if I was Jewish paralyzed.

But I would have to come up
with a difficult style and techniques
which involve the necessity
of deferring to explore
my luck
and whatever
between physical touch
and the one more reckless effort
to free any particular color.

But the brainwashed plot
is so complete
that some playmates
who had romp with me
flexuosity
and yum
yum
yum
have then bought
that empty press surrebuttal
of my Body of Christ.

I told you so, folks.

I obviously wasn’t meant
for the control
of what is possible!

Poetry of truffles
and Champagne
and yum
yum of philosophy,
humor among various gangland serfs
and behind the curtain of fog
and romantic shit
about how boring it
was to build
upon communicating
even before speaking.

The margins exclude
almost entirely most of everything
which is noncommercial,
uncensored,
unconscious,
unexpected
original Files
under the command of Bruni d’Entrecasteaux,
ignoring such bestial-looking creatures
like you and me.

Also he gave me shit
about getting deeper
into the ultimate midst
of the arousing desire
of magical colors
disappeared from humanity
and love
with wide open legs
thrust into bed
after eating
the contents of folly!

But wisdom
which may be able to procure fresh meat
for everybody here
is what I am looking for!


From the book, Skin Passion by Frank Moore:
https://www.eroplay.com/skinpassion/index.html

Front cover of the book Skin Passion, featuring a detail of Frank’s digital painting “Toni”.

Falling Into Skin

by Frank Moore, Thursday, January 10, 2002

Lying here together
Just holding each other
Small, warm,
Smelling each other
Breathing each other in
Breathing life in
Breathing everything in
Taking everything into our bodies
Our body
Breathing life,
All life in, deeply
To our core,
Then breathing pleasure out,
All warmed up,
Breathing warm pleasure
In all life everywhere,
Watering life,
Growing stronger, freer
With every deep breath
Taking EVERYTHING in
Transforming transmuting everything
Into our rose-skin reality
Falling falling falling
Masks falling away
Who we pictured ourselves
Falling away
Just surrender into each other,
Into egoless self within us combined,
Without fear
Trusting the core within us
Falling
Skin melting
Nerve-endings pull us in
From within
Rich blood rushes in,
Washing us from within,
Tides within between us
Rocking rubbing on each other
In the sea of skin
Everywhere surrounding us,
Enveloping us
You lay here, me in your mouth
Not going anywhere
Just slight movement
To keep arouse pleasure alive
Beyond time
Before separation,
Before birth and death
A calm excitement
Of being together
Being within,
Not being between

There is a draining,
A releasing of surface tension
Skin pales
As everything flows deeper
To the core
Everything gets slower,
Warm cool
Beats melt together
Warm wax colors flow in veins
We get too small,
We become invisible
Rubbing rocking me
From your belly button
Downward
In between
Moist
Absorbing everything
Into our grooved smallness
Into the life code of change
Where we play
Unseen, unknown
Rocking small, pale
Falling
Without fear
Into the cool tickling grass
Sinking into cool slippery mud
Getting dirty
Falling,
Following the roots
Downward into cracks
In hard cold rocks
Breaking them open
Revealing hidden meanings
Breaking through to underground ocean
Of dark invisible matter,
Warm satin which seeks out
All space,
Seeks out all skin,
Becoming/enfolding our body
Filling everything
So small
That we plunge into the molten core,
Into subatomic center beyond space
Into solar explosion deep
in the universal everywhere
breathing spiraling warm change
in and out deeply
as we lie here
smelling the sweet sweat
of our very human bodies

“Linda and Frank”, digital painting, 2008 by Frank Moore

From the book, Skin Passion: poems and paintings by Frank Moore.

Ansel Adams WAS NO WILL HARPER

In 2002, Will Harper interviewed Frank for a feature article about Frank to be published in the East Bay Express. Watch the video below to discover why Frank wrote this poem ….


Ansel Adams was no Will Harper
by Frank Moore, Wednesday, January 01, 2003

Ansel Adams was no Will Harper
Never could be!
Hey, he barely became Ansel Adams!
Took him about 25 years
To get started
Being Ansel Adams!
Before that
He was
That fuck-up Ansel
That drop-out
That reject
That hopeless kid!
Thank god
For rich pappy!

No,
Ansel Adams was no Will Harper!

But then again
Ansel wanted to be a piano player
But some fool
Must have told Ansel
He was no Jellyroll!
Some fool
Must have told Ansel
In this life
You have to channel
Your creativity
Down into
YOUR TALENT!
Never mind
What you enjoy!
Never mind
Ansel wrote too!

Everyone knows
Each person
Is a limited soul
Not able
To plunge
Into the unlimited
Ocean of free play,
But has to be content
In the wading pool
Of genre
Of TALENT

No, Ansel Adams was no Will Harper

But then
I’m no Ansel
I’m no Will
I’m just Frank
I have to live with that!
DARN!


You can read the article, “Touching Our Private Parts” by Will Harper, along with subsequent related articles and letters to the editor published in the East Bay Express here:
https://www.eroplay.com/ebx/index.html

Family Friendly Poetry Reading

by Frank Moore, Saturday, April 06, 2002


A family friendly poetry reading?
Really?
Do you mean like READERS’ DIGEST?
MMMM…
I suppose some poets would go along with it…
The kind in READERS’ DIGEST
The kind who don’t see
Don’t mind
The command
For “self” censorship
Tucked neatly in the warmly caramel apple
Phrase
Of FAMILY FRIENDLY
There ain’t no “self” censorship
You are censoring art,
Words,
Intensity,
Truths,
The Audience
Down into nice mellow
Fascism

I suppose some are willing to accept this….
The kind who don’t question
Questions like
Which family?
It definitely ain’t my family
Not any of the expanding rings
Of my family
In fact
It is down right hostile
To my human tribal family
Which teaches our kids
How to use words
To communicate with all kinds of people
In all kinds of contexts
Openly
Deeply
Freely
Exploring all life
With a passionate honesty,
Sitting together
In the yummy smelling kitchen
Of Life
Sitting together
Around the tribal fires
Generations sitting together
Passing the talking stick around
Telling their stories
Revealing their desires and fears,
Wisdom and folly
Exploring myths…
Listening and telling
Into the center of respect and acceptance…
All the family listening
All tell
In their own ways…
Silly little sister
Wise grandma
Hot angry brother
Mother finding new words
Dad listening to family voices…
All beyond taboos
In this sacred ritual of telling.

I don’t really know what to make of this
Hostile FAMILY FRIENDLY…
Ok,
I do.
This is making poetry,
All art,
Into a hallmark lapdog
Of the brainwashing “socialization”
Of little lily and billy
Reinforcing SCHOOL/CHURCH/CORPORATE shallow
Dogma,
Using us poets
To be the shallow virus dogma carriers,
Thinking
FAMILY FRIENDLY can ever be
Anything but enforced shallow reality
On everyone

Sure,
When I read at schools
I play by THE RULES
Not because of the kids

But to get into the brainwashing camps
To slip the kids
A subversive potion of
Words/ideas/images

But shoot me
If I ever read at a FAMILY/KIDS FRIENDLY POETRY READING…
No…
Shoot the fascist’s parents!

Think fast!
A loving couple lovingly f…

In your head,
What did you hear for F?

Did I just cross the line?

Hope so!


“Innocent”, oil on canvas, 36” x 36”, 1981 by Frank Moore
“Trixie”, oil on canvas, 36” x 36”, 1979 by Frank Moore
“Superman”, oil on canvas, 35” x 68”, 1976

From the book, Skin Passion: Poems and Paintings by Frank Moore.

Jesse

Flaming hair,
flaming voice
singing belting raging the blues,
singing setting things right for the people,
belting it, the spirit, out beyond her voice,
flaming her voice hoarse beyond linear limits.

Listen very closely, carefully,
focus on her breasts
as she leads you by the arm
through an ever changing nonlinear maze
of stories, connections, names, human passions.
You’ll need this focus point to surrender.

She, Jesse, can and will lead you
skipping and dancing
into the heart of all things,
of all matters.

She has lived and danced
upon this liquid lusty path,
has lived deep hard soft in the
not-so-clear/clean/pure waters
of humanity
long before,
and will long after,
us.

So surrender to the mad woman,
to the senile bag lady,
to the peter pan child…
fall into her time warp hole…
fall into Jesse,
and you’ll be falling
into wisdom deep and warm!

© Frank Moore 6/23/1997

From the book Chapped Lap by Frank Moore.


Dorothy Jesse Beagle is a Featured Artist on eroplay.com.



Her performance on Frank Moore’s Shaman’s Den, May 16, 1999.


The Whole Note Series was hosted by Dorothy Jesse Beagle at the Beanery in Oakland, California:

Just Between Us

by Frank Moore, Wednesday, December 12, 2001

We enter the magic cave
Of play and healing,
Shedding our fiction characters
We use outside,
Ego masks, skin tight,
Limiting….limiting the expanding.
Those masks will change
When we put them back on,
Softening to fit our new bodies, new faces…
Later.

Here we are
More than ourselves
More of ourself
Expanding
Expanding into one another
Rubbing skin
Friction of pleasure
Falling into the in-between
Surrender to the falling
Out of time and space,
Surrendering into discomfort
Of strangeness which contains
A strange comfort of remembering
The body and soul

Falling into the in-between,
Surrendering into the trance
Pleasure friction of creation
Rubbing dead skin into each other,
Aroused and excited,
Going into each other,
Taking each other in,
There is no THE OTHER,
No IN-BETWEEN.
Breathing each other deeply,
Smelling and tasting,
Licking and kissing,
Prickly state of inter-penetration,
Nerves connected
In the skin,
Melt bodies together,
Removes the lies of separation,
Hearts beat together strong relax,
Rich red blood flows deep.

We rock calm deep contained within each other
Within the combined body
Deep pleasure flows over us
Washing from deep within.

We have been here before,
Being contained within everything,
Enveloping everything within.
Lying extended within our combined body,
Combined self/soul,
relaxed, enjoying being within,
Sucking aroused pleasure up
As a tide of change,
Enjoying being with each other
Without going anywhere,
Being enough.

The tide,
the laugh
Giggle, sobbing
Pleasure
Leave our body reality
Trance of inter-dependence,
Inter-penetration,
Holy healing play dance,
And flows inward into the whole cosmos,
Changing everything,
Changing healing unseen, unknown

We leave the cave
With each other inside…
And our masks expand and soften.


“Kittee”, digital painting, 1999 by Frank Moore

i came to play

Poetry Bash, Fort Mason, San Francisco 1988. Photo by Linda Mac.

I came to play!
Came to the table
to play
I don’t care what I have
to do
to get a seat
at the table

I play every hand
dealt to me
not really caring about
winning or losing
or about skill…
just playing hands
to stay in the game

Yes, I am a dangerous player,
keep on playing

I came to play!
Came to bed
not to fuck you
but
to melt with you enjoying
mutual surrender
washing pleasure
swept away into oneness
exploring skin from the inside,
beyond time,
beyond self,
into the fun of being
into exploring
the furry cozy sweating love
that can’t be confined to the bed,
but claims the whole life
as its playpen
I came to play
to mix things up
to see what unexpected
will appear,
to jam
with playmates,
to lose ourselves
within one another,
within the playing,
the dancing,
the touching,
the music…
into listening
and melting

I came to play…
playing life the best way I can…
always playing against the house,
against the odds…
not a smart player…
never in competition…
just keep my eye
on the ball,
on each hand,
on following
the every move
of Lady Luck

I came to play…
often in the lonely fields
beyond taboo,
breaking thru THE WALL
to new possibilities…
but I am a team player…
always looking for playmates
to get muddy or sweaty with…
because…
truth be told…
playing with myself
for myself
has never been fun,
only lonely

I came to play
with colors, noises, realities, bodies, words, characters, limits, dreams, images,
life, death, symbols, magic…
and with you

I came to play
and I’m a dangerous player
because I don’t play
for money,
fame,
power,
or from anger,
bitterness,
hatred,
emptiness,
or to win…
so I can’t lose
can’t be beaten!

I came to play
to play
just for fun
….just to change everything!

I came to play…
after all…
I want to play with you…
we are mammals,
after all!


© 2000, Frank Moore

From Frank’s book Chapped Lap:
http://www.eroplay.com/chappedlap/index.html

CREATIVITY IS LIKE SHITTING

By Frank Moore, May 31, 2005

Creativity is like shitting.
Most people do it.
Everyone needs to do it….
More or less regularly.
Every shit is different.
There is nothing like a good shit!
Some people obsess on their shitting!
Some obsess on their own shit;
Others obsess on others’ shit,
Even buying it!
I just enjoy a good shit!
Oh shit,
I’ll let you in on a secret…
I play with shit!
Creativity is just playing.


“Toni”, by Frank Moore, digital painting, 2011

BOUNDARIES KILL

by Frank Moore, January 29, 2002

Boundaries, borders
Are lies of power
They keep people in
They keep people out
They ain’t really there
Only in the sight
Of guard guns and dogs
The lines just ain’t there
You can just keep on walking
Toward me,
Into me

You could keep on walking
Except for their bullets of fear
Define and maintain your boundaries,
They tell us!

That keeps us weak and isolated
That keeps me from you,
Boxed up, bottled up
That keeps the wrong people out
Us protected in abstractions
That keeps our human spirit divided
Keeps Life separate from us
Keeps us warring, scared, hating
Keeps you from me
Keeps us hungry, thirsty, cold
Just owning
Instead of living deep and free.

Skin is not a border
Skin is a sea flowing everywhere
Touching, feeling, unlimited,
Breathing deeply
Giving, taking as one
Experiencing, feeding as one
A thick rich soup
Which can’t be canned or bottled

Healthy skin is thick and flexible
Healthy breath is deep and lusty
Our healthy body does not need
Limiting power,
Doesn’t need to hold in,
To hold back,
To die from not dancing,
Not risking,
Not feeling pain, joy, pleasure
Deeply
Just dying slowly
Within the tight shallow
Owning MY SPACE

And they laugh in the gun towers!

“Scape”, digital painting by Frank Moore, 1998

I HATE NICE PEOPLE

by Frank Moore, Thursday, April 11, 2002

i get worried if my words and images fit through veins clogged with fatty taboos of polite appropriate of comfortability.

i get worried…is the art that small that it fits through that pinhole of a hole…so small that nudes on the walls, words on telephone poles, any shift in the social power structure threatens the very reality fabric.

i’m too proud to admit the art poetry is that small. so my art becomes a 
roto-rooting balloon covered in razors tipped in draino acid, pushing pressuring uncomfortable unsocial grinding against the grain until the killer fatty clots of taboos burst out the other end and go down the drain like trouble.

i don’t really go after the hitlers, the mccarthys, the helms, or their 
brown shirts.

they are just limp-dicked power-junkies with swiss-cheese egos, each hole filled with inferiority. they are just moons with no power light of themselves, just reflecting fear.

no, i go after the nice people who never asked where the trains were going, boxcars filled with people. didn’t have to. only suspected, only heard rumors…after all, the general is a friend. never said, excuse me, i am a jew too, arab too, a jap too, a gay too, i’ve negro blood running in my body, aids too. i’m a commie who took home movies of our nude kids. so better put me on that train too. better put us all on that train. there ain’t no train big enough!

i go after the nice people who keep going to work after seeing their friends missing, after hearing rumors of blacklist and blackball. must write something about that subject to THE TIMES. he used to be such a pleasant fellow…but now he is a whining paranoid…not a sort to have to tea. he is like a wet messy fart. not in my backyard!

yes, i go after nice people. but my time in the belljar is about over. so i’ll leave you with this. what is happening in your backyard is what really matters. so be sure to weed!

“Seated Nude”, oil on canvas, 36” x 36”, 1981 by Frank Moore