OgFOMK ArTS

29. Jun. 1998 By Alex Nuttall - Bio I guess that I am writing now, because I can not Talk to Christine, What are poems about anyway? I used to think that I could rule the world as An anarchist, But I should have listened to Papa And studied more about design and the way things Move; In some way I am listening. I once said that I was a poet, Sure, I was a poet, That is why they made machines to handle words, Because someone was listening. I am calling San Fran to speak to someone, But it is Sunday and even they are asleep there. I am trying to call my cousin Bri., But he is asleep too. Shoot, Man, ain’t somebody awake? I could talk to Corey, but he got shot in the face In P-town and he’s dead. I could talk to Steve, But he died of AIDS and that Marinol never saved his Skinny, white, ass; But Josh was up in San Fran and he lamented about How he had to work-- Hell, I got to work, too! In San Fran it is 2334, Her...

15 June 1998 By Alex Nuttall - Bio It was easy to pack your things, I played romantic music While doing so, I missed you still, But it was easy to eagerly pack your stuff. I had a little wine at the end Of my cardboard box party And Patsy Cline was being played; It almost could have been sad, As I packed your drawers away, But I was happy, or I felt complete Since I knew that our time had passed. I found a love poem That I thought I had written for you, How sweet that you had saved it! But as I decided to to throw it away, Looking over it, I noticed that my name was not Steve, So I did not throw it away, I packed it, too; So keep Steve, Leave me, and I will be gone-- Erased--Eradicated—Kaput—No more. Packing was easy And now When and what feelings do resurface I can write them down In my great American novel; All hope is here, In solitude; I am happy we only had a verbal agreement © Alexander Blair Nuttall / OGFOM-K Arts 1998 © Alexander ...

10 June 1998 @1146 By Alex Nuttall - Bio If it rains, then rain it comes; Showers reduce the dust to firmament; But I love to love anyway, However the dust does settle; I ask myself what are those Words that I am writing? Another poem with me stuck Inside of it; Patiently I settle down on this; July, what did she know? June, there was no room; May, in dismay I wander; April is no good; March on by the freeway of the heart; And then there are epochs To deal with; Another mans fetter-- Another one's secret wish; So there settles now evenly the water, Finding its own ocean, And dust pools itself together, Forever making wishes; Forever making wishes. Rain Does This © Alexander Blair Nuttall/OgFOMK ArTS 1998-2018 2017-06-14 16:44:35 ABN

7 June 1998 By Alex Nuttall - Bio ...and, my Roman friends, There was that time I got a hard on Just from watching the cleaning lady, But that was then, Long before i had ever read Buck Fuctowski. After Buck, even the white-trash, missing teeth, and bruised Looked good to me; But i must say that the other Great writers, Bull Lee Biscuit And Jack Daniels Bladder Made me feel queer, sometimes, But they wrote from the wrong head. Fuctowski, on the other hand, he wrote from The gut And that was nice of him to do that. But he's dead now and so is my granddaddy- That is, one of my granddaddies. My dad's dad, he would have loved Fuctowski; They could have gone fishing together. So i guess that now they are in that part of After-life where Old men arm wrestle and show off For old women Feeling their pained lives and bodies, Bodiless with only the mind, Oh, cleaning ladies are still good, But i know that they ain't the best; O Fuctowski, you...

9 Jul 1994 By Alex Nuttall - Bio I day dream In the fat Hour of the Sun. I use the pen incorrectly And I die. In the eve, The whiteness grows to Blue; I am not listening anymore. Fat Sun Hour © Alexander Blair Nuttall / OGFOM-K Arts 1994 © Alexander Blair Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1994 - 2017 20170728 -ABN