Tag Archives: beat

Sterling Arthur Leva on KX @One Laguna’s Spoken Word/Spoken Song Radio Show July 6, 2014

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Guest: Sterling Arthur Leva.

Click the link to listen to a recording of the radio appearance I made Sunday. I read some of my own work as well as one by Lord Buckley. We also discuss Beat poetry, Las Vegas airports, and the word “doldrums.” I enjoyed myself immensely and hope to do it again soon!

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The Aesthete’s Lament

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The Aesthete’s Lament

He sees a pair of sweatpants and pants and sweats.
Has panic attacks over unpressed khaki slacks.
Grimaces over Christmas sweaters and jackets with letters, man.
He can’t spot a sports jersey without feeling queasy.
Someone’s got Crocs on and it’s making him uneasy.

He finds function over fashion a dysfunctional passion.
He’s all ascots and porkpie hats,
smoking jackets and backpocket handkerchiefs.
A dapper child of Oscar Wilde
getting sick at the wardrobes
from the Wal Mart aisle.

He saunters down the street,
glances sideways at a department store display
of perilous apparel and garments gone
astray,
and starts bleeding from his eyes,
leaks crimson on his finest peacoat,
collapses on the pavement,
and chokes a sob from his throat:
AESTHETIC IS DEAD.

Composed 2012. Gratitude to Michael Lohrman for the title. Read the rest of this entry

Sailor Jerry Rum Label Love Missives Part II

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A reading of poems composed circa 2009-2012 while Johnny Dionysus Warpath was doing time in the Hart County Jail. He wrote them on Sailor Jerry Rum Labels and used them as wallpaper for his cell. Music by Sterling Wormwood.

Shipwrecked Hearts

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Buccaneer beat poetry composed and recorded in Berkeley in early 2007. I believe it was the second composition I ever did.

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Experimentation

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I’ve experimented with a lot of things in my day.

I mainlined Romanticism and heard Genesis in a creaky, quiet singing voice in Oakland, although the Slim staccato said it was Dakota.

I took a shot of Surrealism and Dallied with daguerrotypical dandies as if it were 1931 and I was the only one who couldn’t read the hands of the crooked clocks (pointing posthaste towards a past purgatorial pointillist punishment), all polka dots and sunspots.

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