Alexander Shaumyan profile picture

Alexander Shaumyan

Art is not a mirror held up to reality, but a hammer with which to shape it.

About Me


I'm a poet and a survivor . I was born in Moscow, Russia, in 1962 and have been living in the US since 1975. I have published several books of poetry and I'm widely known around the internet. I am influenced by many Russian poets, Beat poetry (Ginsberg, Corso, Ferlinghetti), Charles Bukowski, e.e. cummings, Emily Dickinson, Weldon Kees, T.S. Eliot, Robinson Jeffers, Dylan Thomas, Anne Sexton, Heinrich Heine, Bertolt Brecht, Rainer Maria Rilke, Federico Garcia Lorca, and many other poets throughout the world. I've done several translations of other poets. My poetry ranges from lyrical to satirical, to just plain crazy. I'm a big fan of Mary Prankster from Maryland who became a counterculture cult hero with her intelligent and uncensored punk lyrics. She is down to earth and loyal to her fans and never compromises her creativity just to get radio play. She brought soul and intelligence to the rebellious punk sound. One of her songs The World Is Full of Bastards has the same title as my famous poem that I published in a college magazine in 1990. I've been writing poetry since 1986. I also draw and paint. You can check out my small art gallery where I added a few works by my artistic friends.

Join me at CHERRY TAP (formerly LostCherry) -- internet's first nightclub. A great place to meet friendly people and have fun.


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Links to Alexander Shaumyan on Internet

  • Alexander Shaumyan: Official Website
  • Poetry Life and Times, September 2006
  • Alexander Shaumyan -- a member of Artists Without Frontiers
  • My Poetry Page at CyberMuse
  • My Poetry Page at PoemHunter.com
  • My Poetry Page at PostPoems.com
  • My Profile at Amazon.com

    • Check out Jessica Mellott -- a talented young singer from Maryland.
    Check out my friend HOODREAMS at ReverbNation.com

    Some Girls Are Dumb and Shallow

    Some girls are dumb and shallow
    And only want to screw
    Or find some sugar daddy
    To make their dreams come true.
    And they will tell you stories
    Of their hard luck lives,
    But I don't feel compassion
    For their games and lies.
    Some girls will build you up
    And take you for a ride
    Or make you lose your head,
    While cheating on your wife.
    Some girls use sex to trap you
    And make you cry in pain
    But I've learned my lesson--
    I go for heart and brains.
    I like them to be real
    And warm and loving too--
    Without phony kisses
    That they'll send to you.
    I know it by now--
    I know what I miss--
    I miss the depth and soul--
    I miss a tender kiss.
    I miss the joy and laughter
    Of simply holding hands--
    Not phony "I love you"s
    And empty one-night stands.
    Some say that sex is better
    Than no sex at all--
    But sex without love
    Can really scar a soul.
    Some girls are dumb and shallow,
    Some girls are cruel and cold--
    But they'll end up alone
    When they're used up and old.
    May 22, 2004
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    The Coolest Girl in Town

    She's the coolest girl in town,
    With whom I'd love to hang around,
    If only just to shoot the bull--
    One thing's for certain--she's cool.
    Her friends believe she's really weird
    Because she'd rather have a beer
    And talk about what it means
    To be a rebel with big dreams.
    She knows the world's just a joke,
    Where others blow a lot of smoke
    And throw sand into your eyes--
    She's heard enough of people's lies.
    For she just wants somebody real--
    This girl with stunning sex appeal,
    Who's destined for the greater things
    With love and laughter that she brings.
    And I have come to the conclusion
    Amidst the darkness of confusion
    Of Wild West and Middle East--
    That she's the one I'd like to kiss.
    For she'll catch my drift, for sure,
    My angel with the heart that's pure
    And mischief burning in her eyes--
    She brings my whole world to life.
    There is a whole world out there
    Beyond the darkness and despair
    Of sex and money driven whores,
    Beyond the never-ending wars.
    There is a love that I have found
    Inside this coolest girl in town,
    For we both know what it means
    To be two lovers with big dreams.
    July 28, 2006
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Another Uplifting Poem

    It was another uplifting poem,
    Masquerading as the meaning of life,
    And those who took little sips from it
    Felt a little better during the day
    Because the poem was their friend
    Like a get-well card or a call from
    That special someone with its
    Huggy--poo and lovey-doo
    Type of fuzzy nonsense,
    But it felt good anyway,
    Like you were standing in a parking lot
    Filled with cheery people, getting
    All sickly christmasy,
    And the huggy-poos and lovey-doos
    Kept ringing loud in your head and
    You felt that you wasted all of your
    Goddamned motherfucking life
    Just to hear some cheerful
    Obnoxious moron tell you sickly
    Sweet platitudes--hugs and kisses
    And sunny wishes, and babies and
    Puppies and kittens, and horrible verse
    About someone's granny
    And how she made it all better,
    While you were holding a gun to your head,
    Wanting to end it all, sick of all the love
    And the hugs and the greetings,
    And the Christmas spirit, and saving
    The whales, and the genocide in Darfur,
    And feeding the world and protecting
    Little critters with huggy-poos and
    Lovey-doos and all the random fuck-yous
    From the passing drivers--
    Then it all made sense as you lowered the gun
    And took the piss in the parking lot
    In front of all those cheery bible peddlers
    And said merry fucking Christmas,
    Taking a shot in the dark and walking
    Away in a drunken stupor.
    December 1, 2006
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    This Bird

    I love this bird--she makes me sing,
    This bird--she makes me feel alive,
    This bird is special, it's no jive,
    This bird--she is my everything.
    I wake up in the morning sun,
    This bird--she sings outside to me
    This bird--she makes me feel so free,
    As if my life has just begun.
    I love this bird--she is my song,
    This bird--she lifts me to the sky,
    This bird--she makes my spirit fly,
    With her is where my heart belongs.
    February 3, 2005
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Oh Girl, You Act So Frisky

    Oh girl, you act so frisky
    In this lethargic town,
    You must have had some whiskey,
    You must have walked around
    These streets that lead me nowhere,
    These streets that crush me so,
    Oh girl, your eyes are laughing,
    They're daring me to go,
    To take this aimless journey
    With nothing as our guide,
    Except the moon that's playing
    Upon your hair tonight.
    Oh girl, you act so frisky,
    I know just what to do--
    I'll write this silly poem
    And show it to you.
    August 16, 2000
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Take This Body

    consider O
    woman this
    my body.
    --e.e. cummings
    Take this body, my love,
    my body, my love,
    feel my knees and my arms,
    feel my fingers on your hair,
    cold fingers, sad fingers,
    kiss my mouth, my love,
    ever so gently
    caressing my chest and stroking my hair,
    play with it--whatever is left of it--
    I'm sad, my love,
    and as I hear you laugh,
    I feel the water around my eyes,
    my brown eyes, the eyes of a poet,
    the eyes of a stranger--
    I'm a stranger, my love,
    I'm a stranger in a strange land
    of secret kisses and lovelorn faces,
    of cold bodies huddled together,
    hiding behind stiff dresses
    and tightly fitting jeans,
    I'm a stranger to a kiss,
    I'm a stranger to a moist mouth
    and a playful tongue,
    I'm a stranger to a warm breast,
    I stand here bespectacled and confused,
    scratching my scraggly beard,
    forcing a faint smile--
    there is so much pain, my love,
    right here in the palm of my hand,
    right here in the lump of my throat,
    right here in the tightness of my chest,
    I'm strung like an instrument
    with shrunken testicles
    and immobilized toes--
    see me tremble, my love,
    see me shed a tear
    onto this dusty world--
    I'm with you, my love,
    I'm with you alone,
    I'm with you in embrace
    of tender passion,
    I'm in love with you
    and that's why
    I'm full of
    tears.
    February 21, 1988
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Donahue and Sally Jessy Don't Know Jack

    He stalks young women at night
    like Jack the Ripper or Jack the Poet
    or maybe he's but Jack the Dreamer,
    obsessed with sunsets and rainbows--
    I do not know...
    I often see him, watching the
    night life in a place where he
    knows he doesn't belong--for he
    would rather have the sky in
    his wallet of stars, and his
    visions are of no interest to
    the passersby who stop and
    look at his crazed eyes filled
    with longing...
    I saw businessmen reading Hustler
    magazine, leafing through
    Business Weekly--but he just sits
    there like an idiot watching the
    license plates of cars with
    young women carousing with
    horny young studs...
    Oh to feel young again and to hide
    like a cat amidst garbage cans,
    persecuted for having dreams...
    So Jack the Dreamer sits for
    eternity and the common folk
    don't like him 'cause his
    coat is dirty and his pants
    are torn, and pretty young women
    get shivers along their spine
    as they feel his piercing eyes
    upon their girlish forms...
    But he'd rather paint the
    ocean on their foreheads and
    mountains on their shiny white
    teeth and he swims on their perfume
    and dreams of wild flowers and horses
    and planets and strawberries...
    Jack the Dreamer, Jack the Ripper,
    Jack the Madman, but mostly
    Jack Himself without words or fancy
    pretenses, without degrees or a job,
    without anything at all but
    that silly grin on his face that
    seems to know, seems to care...
    Perhaps he's Jack the Lover--
    I do not know...
    I met him one night and I
    couldn't keep myself from
    crying--perhaps he's now in
    prison or in a hospital--
    I do not know...
    There's blood on his hands--
    that pure blood of humanity
    that no longer cares if he's
    alive or dead, that blood of
    red and white corpuscles and
    deadly viruses that turn
    a brother against brother
    and a husband against wife--
    the same red blood that
    unites and divides us all!...
    Yes! I screamed, yes! yes!
    Wherever you may be at this
    time, O Jack the Saint, O Jack
    the Murderer, I throw my heart
    out to you into the darkness,
    into the ocean of silence...
    Yes! Yes! And may Love one day
    take root in its ventricles and
    pump wisdom and knowledge
    into that ossified brain
    of humanity.
    July 16, 1991
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    I Want to See You Dance

    Voglio vederti danzare
    come le zingare del deserto
    con candelabri in testa
    o come le balinesi nei giorni di festa.
    --Franco Battiato
    I want to see you dance
    in the moonlight
    like an exotic
    beautiful enchantress,
    seducing my
    immortal gypsy
    heart.
    I want to taste your
    lips like wild berries
    and dive into the
    ocean of your dreams,
    as we spin together
    in a kaleidoscopic
    dance of
    love.
    I want to see you dance
    in the moonlight
    until I'm wide awake
    to the realm of
    infinite dimensions,
    to laugh with you,
    as we bare
    our souls in the
    multitude of
    stars.
    I want to watch
    the wind flirt
    with the grass,
    remembering
    the texture
    of your skin,
    touching mine,
    as our dance
    progresses
    into an ancient
    ritual of
    making
    love.
    January 5, 2006
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Soldier of Love

    He's a soldier of love
    And his battles are fought
    Not with bullets and guns
    But with one loving heart --
    He just wanders around,
    Spreading his muse
    To the hearts that are free,
    Kind, gentle and true--
    He's a soldier of love,
    Who's been looking for you.
    He's walked through the fire,
    Darkness, snow and rain--
    But he never lost sight
    Of his ultimate aim.
    He was aiming to win
    Your mind and your heart--
    He's a soldier of love
    In the desert of cars.
    And he wanders around,
    As he wages his fight--
    Perfect love to redeem
    And injustice to right.
    You have dreamt him before
    With the light in his eyes,
    As he waltzed through your door
    With his love's battle cry.
    And he held you all night
    In his strong loving arms--
    He's a soldier of love
    And he means no harm.
    And then you awoke
    But you knew it was true--
    He's a soldier of love,
    Who's been waiting for you.
    April 4, 2006
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    El Queso Grande


    Believe me, you're a star now
    Because you said so yourself
    And your minions applauded you
    Like the newly elected Pope --
    And you said to them in the most
    Poetic way: "What the fuck,
    What the fuck did I say that
    Got you all riled up over nothing?"
    Believe me, you're a star now
    Because God pushed you into this
    Against your will, for you'd rather
    Not be in the public eyes, proclaiming
    Your inner sickness, because
    You're sick of it all, totally disgusted
    With the way everything's being
    Processed like cheese and broccoli,
    Macaroni and root beer,
    You fucked it all up, you gave
    The wrong response
    And they nailed you to the cross
    Of really bad poetry
    When all you wanted was to
    Rediscover love and adventure,
    To immerse yourself into a
    Different world,
    But you've become a fatality
    Of misunderstood words.
    Believe me, you're a star now,
    Gazing outside your window
    And enjoying the view of
    Consumers like rats, driving babies
    In shopping carts, stopping
    Googly-eyed at every aisle
    To check out the price of
    Dozen bananas or a pound of
    Roast beef, while you provoke
    Them with authenticity --
    Look at my soul in the frozen
    Food section, look at my heart
    In the carton of milk.
    Believe me, you're a star now,
    Pasteurized and eulogized,
    Analyzed and canonized,
    Xeroxed and recycled
    To look like a cloned replica
    Of Jesus, you have worn
    Your cross gracefully
    Tattooed on your butt,
    You have smoked big Cuban cigars
    And kissed missing children,
    You have shared bread with
    Politicians and the lowest scum
    Of the earth because you
    Loved them all, when they didn't
    Even remember your name.
    But you.
    You were the Big Cheese --
    El Queso Grande --
    Waking the masses each day
    With your loud verses
    That dropped like large hammers
    Upon the unaware heads --
    You were the pure genius,
    The distillate brilliance of
    A thousand suns
    That used a serrated knife
    To cut the jugular of boredom,
    Letting the blood flow from
    Your thirsty lips.
    Yes, you're a star now,
    Exploding on your suicide mission
    Into a billion pieces,
    Leaving nothing but love
    In your terrorist tracks.
    April 30, 2005
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Fill-in-the-Blank Poetry Bandwagon

    If I were black, then I could
    probably join some Afro poetry
    bandwagon, wearing some traditional
    African costume, celebrating
    my warrior spirit and my exuberant
    sexuality that my big butt mama
    gave me, speaking my powerful
    masculine words to the sound
    of the drum beats,
    Or I could be some spoken word cool cat,
    writing urban verses about gang bangs
    and my homies in the ghetto,
    But I'm just a heterosexual white male,
    who is not too physical
    and reserved when it comes to sex--
    No, I could never join some Afro poetry
    bandwagon, for I'm too uptight and
    too white for that.
    If I were a woman, then I could join
    some goddess poetry bandwagon,
    where I could celebrate my uterus
    and ovaries and talk about joys
    of motherhood and birth pains
    and PMS, and how all men are pigs
    and rapists and abusers, and I could
    talk about my plight and the plight
    of my sisters,
    But I'm just a heterosexual white male
    and I'd sound ridiculous celebrating
    my penis or my balls,
    and I'm too insecure about my penis size anyway,
    Perhaps if I were gay, then I could join
    some gay and lesbian poetry bandwagon
    and sympathize with my bisexual
    and transgender brothers and sisters
    and shout proudly about taking it
    in my mouth or from behind,
    But I'm just a heterosexual white male,
    masturbating on weekends without a date,
    Perhaps if I turned my life to Jesus,
    then I could join some Jesus poetry bandwagon,
    proclaiming freedom from sin
    and the power of the Lord,
    and the promise of the eternal life,
    But I'm just an atheist, and I have nothing
    to prove or disprove to anyone,
    and I could never join
    some metaphysical poetry bandwagon,
    for bullshit has never been my forte.
    For I'm just a heterosexual white male,
    transplanted into this foreign universe,
    where people group together according
    to their beliefs and convictions,
    their crosses and their flags,
    their allegiance to some
    higher authority,
    But I just carry myself like
    some rude awakening
    to anyone who'd like me to join
    their camaraderie of insincere assholes,
    For I'm like a hemorrhoid in their ass
    reminding them of the reality
    that I'm not like them,
    nor do I want to be.
    November 18, 2006
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Ode to a Whore

    She said she was a writer,
    But she was just a whore,
    And I was much too blinded
    By her exterior.
    And while I tried to love her,
    I found many more,
    Who came in droves knocking
    Upon her bedroom door.
    She merrily received them
    And told them pretty lies,
    While painting a picture
    Of heaven in their eyes.
    And when I came to know
    The truth about her,
    I came to the conclusion
    That she was but a whore.
    And while she may be popular
    With some young guys next door--
    One day she'll be alone
    And needed no more.
    And I would hate to hear
    About her sad demise--
    But that's the price she's paying
    For living in her lies.
    And I were to see her,
    I'd wish her best of luck
    And tell her that I'm sorry
    That I was just a fuck.
    April 13, 2004
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Our Selves, Our Graves

    We are the hollow men
    We are the stuffed men
    Leaning together
    Headpiece filled with straw.
     --T.S. Eliot
    Our graves will not be marked
    by any memories of
    What we've done, but
    rather
    We are our graves.
    We step like phantoms
    among walls of
    Houses, inhaling loneliness.
    Our graves will not be marked
    by any trace or
    sign of
    Life. Lifeless is what we are,
    our gaze is empty,
    our breath is meaningless.
    Our graves will not be marked
    by stars or dreams,
    Only cold comfort of tile
    and glass, of clocks
    and instruments.
    Our graves, like our selves,
    are covered
    By masks and monuments
    that scream for
    Love, love buried deep inside
    Our selves, our graves.
    August 8, 1992
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Jenna

    She dreams in rainbow colors,
    dancing freely in her mind,
    while squishing pancakes
    and dusting off old buttons
    that have seen the starry nights
    and inexplicable wonders--
    she looks at the world
    with her inquisitive eyes
    and breathes
    intelligence and renewal,
    hope and compassion--
    she is strong and delicate,
    shy and bold,
    curious about everything
    that surrounds her--
    she is Jenna--
    the shining angel of Georgia,
    who stirs my imagination
    and challenges my mind
    to rise above the darkness,
    above the ignorance
    of the blind,
    who see the world as us and them,
    but there is no us or them--
    only the truth of love,
    and then there is Jenna,
    smiling and asking
    all the right
    questions.
    November 6, 2004
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan
    Robert "Woody" Woodward
    (March 19, 1964 - Dec. 2, 2001)

    For Woody

    Fuck. I haven't written
    One fucking poem in a fucking
    Month, arguing about their
    Fucking war.
    Enough, I say, I've had
    Enough of all their stupidity--
    Listen, I don't care who
    They're planning to kill next--
    Somalis, Iraqis, whatever.
    Their murder is of
    No interest--O.J. must
    Be laughing his ass off,
    Having murdered just
    His wife and her friend,
    While they take pride
    In the slaughter of
    Thousands of Afghanis.
    Well, let them continue
    With their fucking war---
    No one is stopping them.
    I'll just sit here, while
    They sing their moronic hymns
    And wave their moronic flags--
    What did that dumbass Dubya
    Call it? "Infinite justice",
    "Enduring freedom"?
    I don't give a damn what he calls it,
    I'll just open the window
    And look at the stars tonight,
    Watching the bright glow
    Of the full moon on
    December 30, 2001.
    For every date is a special
    Date in God's cosmic calendar.
    Keep God out of this war--
    God never blesses those
    Who kill, kill, kill.
    For God is love, God is truth,
    And God has nothing to do
    With their propaganda.
    They can jerk off to CNN
    All day long if they like,
    Ramming their girlfriends
    With star-spangled dildos,
    As they fuck their cousins
    Up the ass--hell it's a free
    Country, and they are all free
    To be stupid and ignorant.
    Now I know why Woody got shot
    By the police in a Vermont church,
    As he threatened suicide
    With a small pocket knife.
    He was "not with the program"--
    He just freaked out that day,
    And they had to shoot
    A frightened man
    With "friendly fire"--
    Another casualty in this
    Fucking war on terror...
    No, I will state my case,
    I will smash these lies
    Into the next year
    And the years to come--
    Those who waged this war
    Will pay a price
    For the evils that they
    Had done.
    December 30, 2001
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    A Dancer

    In her loins lie
    the possibilities that
    only poets dare
    to dream of,
    in every gesture there
    is poetry and subtlety
    of a rose opening up
    its tender petals,
    there is music in her
    breasts that makes
    you tingle with
    a strange desire
    to soar in the rhythm
    of the senses--
    there is beauty and
    elegance in her dance,
    a pure celebration
    of her being,
    now she is a star,
    bright and radiant
    like a dream,
    now she found a form
    all her own--
    unfettered by the
    puritan morality
    of covering up your private parts--
    she was never just parts,
    she is always whole,
    always herself since the
    day she was born--alive
    and free and naked
    and proud of her body
    and her past and her
    dreams in a world
    where no one dreams
    anymore or walks
    around like a zombie
    with a can of beer,
    smacking one's lips, pointing
    and remarking:
    "Oh baby! Check out that ass!
    Ain't she a piece!"
    Yes, many things have a price.
    But beauty is always priceless.
    May 16, 1992
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan
    I edited my profile with Thomas' Myspace Editor V3.6 !
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    My Interests

    Poetry, poets, art, music, Mary Prankster, psychology, borderline personality disorder, philosophy, mysticism, writing, reading

    57 - Sun - The Gentle
    (The Penetrating, Wind)

    God Bless the Freaks

    God bless the freaks
    And the deranged,
    The ones who are
    Violent and strange,
    God bless the retards
    And the geeks.

    God bless the butches
    And the femmes,
    God bless all those
    We condemn,
    God bless the brainless
    And the meek.

    God bless the lowlives
    Riding bikes
    And punks in leather
    Wearing spikes,
    God bless the water
    And the piss.

    God bless the beer
    And the sun,
    God bless the soldier
    And his gun,
    God bless the bombs
    That kill the kids.

    God bless you all
    For being numb,
    God bless the dead,
    God bless Vietnam,
    And thousands more
    That will be killed.

    God bless all those
    Who don't think,
    Who scratch their ass
    And have a drink,
    God bless their shit
    That doesn't stink.

    God bless the holy
    And the wise,
    God bless the moon
    And the sunrise,
    God bless the war,
    God bless the lies,
    God bless this world
    About to sink.

    God bless the poem,
    God bless the muse,
    God bless abusers
    And abused,
    God bless your cock,
    Your ass and tits.

    God bless your mom,
    God bless your dad,
    God bless the sane,
    God bless the mad,
    God bless the ones
    Who cannot speak.

    God bless all those
    Who say: "God bless",
    While working more
    And earning less,
    While blessing their
    Oppressive pricks.

    God bless you all,
    I say to you,
    This world you see
    Is nothing new--
    Whether it's cursed,
    Ignored or blessed--
    It is our home
    Nonetheless.

    March 20, 2006
    Copyright © by
    Alexander Shaumyan

    If Jesus Scratched His...

    If Jesus scratched his balls
    In the most indecent way,
    Would a thousand angels
    Turn into a pack of perverts,
    And would you laugh at me,
    My love, and say
    That humanness is something
    We desire,
    When cast out of the womb
    Into the fire
    Of all that's human,
    All that is insane?

    And so what if Jesus scratched
    His balls? Or rubbed his ass?
    Or picked his nose
    And told bad jokes, burping
    Or passing gas?--
    Would you believe that
    He was just as human
    As you and I?
    Or was he just a myth
    Personified?

    And we have scorched the earth
    In search of truth,
    For which so many
    Pointlessly died
    In endless wars that spilled
    The blood of youth,
    Who for somebody's gods
    Were crucified.

    And so listen -- there are no men
    Or balls, or lambs to sacrifice
    For someone's sins,
    There's just this empty space
    And therein
    There is the light,
    Where darkness ends
    And love begins.

    August 22, 2006
    Copyright © by
    Alexander Shaumyan

    I'd like to meet:

    Poets, writers, artists, philosophers, and sincere women.

    Beyond the Constellations of the Bears

    for Crystal

    On this day of cerulean bears
    That across silent eyelashes ran,
    I foresee past blue waters a stirring
    In the hollows of eyes--a command.
    --Velimir Khlebnikov (1885-1922)

    Beyond the constellations of the Bears
    I see reflections of the ancient gods
    And I can see the moon inside your hair,
    Feeling the music pulsing in my blood.
    Beyond the ruins of forgotten cities,
    Beyond the battlefields where myriads died,
    Beyond religions, wars and hollow treaties,
    I see the ancient wisdom in your eyes.
    Let daily sermons fall upon deaf ears,
    Let prophets come and go as they please,
    Let churches go on exploiting fear--
    The truth is the wind, the rocks, the trees--
    It's what I know in my heart, it's what you know
    Each time I look inside your playful eyes,
    And when it's time for you and me to go,
    The truth is in our love that never dies.

    February 16, 1997
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Kentucky Girl

    for Christy

    Yes, you are, yes, you are, my love,
    You're my lovely Kentucky girl.

    In your bourbon smile I can see
    Grassy hills just as free as you--
    Come, my darling, won't you sit with me--
    We'll have a beer or two.

    In that hair that shines like the sun,
    Freckled skin and untamed, sparkling eyes
    I can see the Kentucky sky
    And the valleys where the horses run wild.

    I remember when I was a child
    And the wind would embrace my face,
    I'd smile like you smile tonight,
    Thinking this is the time and place.

    As I stand here at a local saloon,
    The same child is awake in me--
    Struck by love in the Kentucky moon--
    Thinking this is where I'd like to be.

    And the moon seems to sign your name
    In your eyes that sparkle like pearls--
    Yes, you are, yes, you are, my love,
    You're my lovely Kentucky girl.

    April 19, 1998
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    How Do I Love Thee?

    I love you more than all the bull
    That you'd been telling me,
    I love you more than all those guys
    That you had shagged for free,
    I love you more than love itself,
    For it is just a word,
    I love you more than kitty cats
    And chirping little birds,
    I love you more than hollow lines
    Of Hallmark poetry,
    I love you more than little faith
    That you'd placed in me.

    I love you more than all your lies
    And your bisexual ways,
    I love you more than all your art
    That I've come to hate,
    I love you more than puny geeks
    That you've been living with,
    I love you more for teaching me
    That I have more to give,
    I love you more than empty sex
    And lost virginity,
    I love you more because I've learned
    That love must start with me.

    June 21, 2006
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    The World Is Full of Bastards

    (for Allen Ginsberg)

    Bastards! Bastards! Bastards!
    Bastards! Bloody bastards!
    The world is full of them!
    Everybody is a BASTARD!
    Buddha is a bastard,
    Mohammed is a bastard,
    Krishna is a big bastard!
    All bastards!
    Jesus Christ is the biggest bastard!
    Crucify that bastard!
    White bastards, yellow bastards, black bastards,
    We have bloody bastards of all colors,
    Jewish bastards, Christian bastards, Hindu bastards,
    Muslim bastards, born-again bastards,
    religious bastards,

    STOP BEING SUCH BLOODY BASTARDS!

    atheist bastards, Commie bastards,
    capitalist pig bastards,
    Feminist bastards, racist bastards,
    sexist bastards, peace movement bastards,
    insurance bastards, my family are all bastards,
    bastards! your mother is such a bastard!
    hippie bastards, punk rocker bastards,
    fascist Nazi bastards, bastards, all bastards!
    Hitler is a bastard! Martin Luther King, Jr. is
    another bastard!
    All bastards!
    Bastard this! Bastard that!
    Bastard your father! Bastard your sister!
    And your brother, another bloody bastard!
    Lao-Tzu is a bastard!
    intellectuals are bastards!
    I AM THE BIGGEST BASTARD!

    I'M TIRED OF ALL OF YOU BASTARDS,
    SCREWING UP MY LIFE!

    Psychiatrists are bastards,
    homosexuals are bastards!
    Allen Ginsberg, you are a bastard!
    But you probably know that already!
    Gooks, niggers, kikes, spics, honkeys,
    all bastards!

    Virgins are bastards!
    Rednecks are bastards!
    Married couples are bastards!
    I love you, honey, but you are such a bastard!
    YOU BASTARDS TAKE YOURSELVES TOO SERIOUSLY!
    YOU BASTARDS HAVE NO SENSE OF HUMOR!

    Stop polluting the bloody environment, you
    bloody bastards!
    Stop masturbating!
    Take away your fucking nuclear arms!
    You can't fuck with nuclear arms!
    BLOODY BASTARDS!

    I'm going to call the bloody police on
    you bastards!
    That will show you!
    Bloody church bastards, why don't
    you give some money to the poor bastards!
    And I'm fed up with the rich bastards!
    All presidents are bastards!
    REAGAN IS A BASTARD! GORBACHEV IS A BASTARD!
    THEIR WIVES ARE THE BIGGEST BASTARDS!

    Yes, the world is full of bastards!
    Only some bastards think themselves better
    than other bastards!
    And that's how the wars start:
    ONE BASTARD GETS UPSET WITH ANOTHER BASTARD
    AND THEY DROP BOMBS ON EACH OTHER!

    My father wants to kill my mother,
    and I want to kill my wife and kids!
    But we are all bloody bastards,
    homosexual or not!
    Don't give me that GOOD BASTARD crap!
    We are all the same bastards!
    Charlie Manson is no worse than your father!
    THAT'S RIGHT, YOU BLOODY BASTARDS!

    Poets are the biggest bastards,
    They take themselves too seriously,
    And if you don't like my poem,
    YOU ARE A BASTARD!

    January 14, 1988
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Anarchy Is For Lovers

    (for Natércia)

    They came together--red and black--
    In a revolt like no other,
    And there is no turning back,
    For anarchy is for lovers.

    The truth is greater than the lies
    Of hollow gods and class divisions,
    For loving hearts all rules defy
    With a transcendent common vision.

    No wars, no boundaries, no states,
    No need to subjugate each other,
    No rich, no poor, no one to hate--
    Just peace and love for one another.

    They came together--young and old--
    No hippie freaks, but with a vision--
    They came together in revolt
    Against all wars and all divisions.

    They saw the truth, they saw the light
    In a revolt like no other,
    Standing determined in their fight,
    For anarchy is for lovers.

    October 18, 2004
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    She Storms My Brain

    She storms my brain
    in psychedelic colors
    and discordant rhythms,
    leaving me breathless
    as I explore new shapes
    and forms of knowing.

    Like Lucy in the sky
    and Mary Jane--
    she storms my brain--
    my strange new flower
    with feverish bright petals
    that leave me mystified.

    She dances to the synesthetic
    music of red and orange
    notes that I can taste upon
    my tongue, laughing like
    a transparent angel
    in a warm summer rain--
    yes, there she goes again
    storming my brain.

    And I have no way of knowing
    where I am or where I'll be--
    I just come out deranged
    and beautiful, smiling like
    the sun. And she...
    Well, she just laughs at me
    and storms my brain.

    October 21, 2004
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Café de Nuit

    The world is such a bore.
    I look at all the blank
    expressions here
    at Delaney's Tap Room,
    where Jake--the local artist--
    makes several incisions
    with his knife upon
    his hand, letting the blood
    drip onto this white bandage
    of cloth, wiping the blood
    with it, while I wonder
    what's the point of all this--
    I guess it's better than
    being a junkie--another
    nasty habit that he quit...
    Another guy says all
    my joking about gay shit
    makes him nervous,
    so I better keep away...

    The world is such a bore--
    these overpriced drinks,
    these empty conversations
    about this and that
    and nothing much at all--
    I hear the chicken wings
    are excellent here.
    My friend is doing crack.
    A few days earlier some girl
    would let him eat her pussy
    in exchange for xanax,
    though he never got a blowjob.

    The world is such a bore.
    I talk to Marshall--a homeless
    old man, who spends his
    monthly checks on booze
    and cat food for his kitties,
    while sleeping in the graveyard.
    He has a temporary place to stay
    right now. He tells me he's
    the luckiest man in the world.
    Somehow I don't believe him.

    The world is such a bore.
    Here's John who came out of jail
    several months ago. He now works
    with his hands, laying shingles
    on roofs of houses.
    I hear Pam is now in jail for writing
    phony checks, she used to fuck
    for drugs and money--two hundred
    dollars for a full relief.
    Jeff highly recommends her.
    He says he's getting married
    to his latest girlfriend,
    but I doubt it--he never stayed with
    anyone for too long.

    The world is such a bore,
    as I stand here, observing this
    pool game--the only thing that
    seems to matter here.
    Sometimes I show them my poems,
    but there is such a chasm
    between my vision
    and what's in front of me--
    this crazy circus of fucked-up people
    with their fucked-up lives
    and fucked-up loves,
    these people, who are
    deaf and blind
    to anything of beauty and of meaning.

    I have another beer,
    as this endless game continues,
    and the jukebox plays
    the same old song, the same old song...

    July 13, 2002
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    The Greatest Thing You'll Ever Learn

    (for Teresa)

    The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.
    --Moulin Rouge

    Amidst the ridicule, love is.
    Amidst the crassness and banality, love is.
    Love shines through us like this lavender candle,
    lighting up the room.

    Amidst the doubts and despair, love is.
    Love surrounds you and me tonight.
    We are together in our most intimate thoughts.
    Inhaling love, exhaling love, breathing love
    in the light of this candle.

    Amidst the madness of the world, love is.
    Love is what we are.
    We are the children of the bohemian revolution.
    We are the free spirits. We are the creative force.
    We are the voice of truth, beauty, and freedom,
    and above all things, we are the voice of love.

    Look at us now. We are the greatest show on earth.
    Rising forth like new blooms,
    shining like the brightest stars,
    bursting with new life and new energy.

    We walk in the light of love
    and love radiates through all that we do.

    Vive la bohème! Vive la beauté! Vive l'amour!

    February 14, 2005
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Touch

    Everything here is yellow and green.
    --Anne Sexton

    You pull me into your
    delicate sea,
    As I shiver at your touch,
    Now I'm a valley and you're
    a mountain,
    Now I'm dark green and you're
    bright yellow,
    You play me like an instrument,
    pulling my strings
    one by one,
    As I respond in a symphony
    of poetic madness,
    Crying on my pillow, I hug
    the empty space
    between us,
    Longing for the night when
    I first touched you.

    Love, darling, is a silent mistress,
    who comes streaming through
    my fingers in gentle tears.
    We have lost the softness
    and the tenderness of her touch,
    Sleeping on a bed of nails,
    we scream in agony of her
    passing.

    But I know that deep inside you
    there is a flower growing,
    longing for the moisture
    of a kiss, for the freedom
    of the ocean.
    We meet and part in its darkness,
    leaving a trail of tears behind us.

    May 31, 1987
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    A Poet's Guide To New Haven

    Nothing here in New Haven is
    short of miraculous. The downtown
    is always full of people who
    enter or go past the bars and
    restaurants and bookstores
    and cafes and department stores
    and theaters and galleries,
    catching their dreams like frogs
    catching flies with their tongues,
    while the office typewriters buzz
    like beetles, and the air is filled
    with dust and the fumes of engines
    and the noise of construction
    workers drilling for some BIG
    FAT PAYCHECK IN THE SKY.
    There are recycling freaks,
    to be sure, and the panhandlers
    at many corners, and the homeless
    sleeping on benches on the Green
    when the weather is warm, and there
    are smells of pizza and falafel
    and gyros and hot dogs and hamburgers,
    and there are smells of marijuana
    and urine and stale beer, and you
    can spot all the skinheads and
    the deadheads and the airheads
    and the Yalies with heads swollen
    with books, lectures, and films,
    and you can feel New Haven pumping
    in your heart and your veins...
    and somewhere there's some guy
    pumping a girl in the back seat
    of his car, and there's trash all
    around and used condoms and empty
    beer cans, and there are lawyers
    and policemen and worn-out
    prostitutes and the drug pushers
    and the junkies and the homosexuals
    and the "artsy-fartsy" types,
    street musicians, misfits, mad
    poets, posers, yuppies, and preppies--
    like some big heap of humans piled
    up in some grotesque situation
    without a big EXIT sign to get
    out when the show is over...
    So I observe it all like a stranger
    without my popcorn and a ticket
    to that never-never land of
    opulence and enchanting women,
    while the sharp knife of reality
    stabs me deep inside my guts,
    telling me that I'm alone in this
    city of clowns and prophets,
    beggars and businessmen--all
    hungry for some fix of power,
    money, sex, or drugs, or booze,
    or some other short cut to Life
    Everlasting... So I get back to
    my suburban refuge in Westville
    only to find my parents arguing
    over money.

    June 24, 1990
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    You've Made Your Bed

    You've made your bed, now go ahead and lie in it,
    And I don't care if you changed the sheets,
    For no linen can conceal your lying,
    It's all about your destructive deeds.

    It matters not -- the one who sleeps beside you --
    For in your linen there've been many more --
    With no conscience or remorse to guide you --
    You acted like it's nothing to deplore.

    And I don't need your childish accusations
    Or all the things you claim were done to you,
    For there is no real justification
    For treating others in the way you do.

    So go on, put on your smile and makeup
    And tell some others how great they are,
    For you've always been a lovely faker,
    While leaving others with long-lasting scars.

    April 10, 2006
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    For Ed G. Biro

    Ed,
    my hopes pierce the black skies
    of fear and loneliness,
    my heart longs for freedom
    from their catatonic indifference,

    Ed, I'm pale with fever
    of life,
    they will not leave me with their ant-like
    expressions and lawn mower melancholia,
    my teeth break against their metal bras
    and their leather panties,

    Ed, I'm tearing up their lacy see-through material,
    I wipe off their lipstick,
    I wipe off their phony smiles,
    I break down their car windows with a crowbar,

    Ed, I'm through with masturbation
    and the triple X matinee double features,
    I'm bored by their moaning and groaning
    and I can't stand the stench of their perfume,

    Let them eat their MTV manure,
    Let them drink their piss and their tears,
    Let them enlarge their cocks to a whopping
    twelve thousand inches,

    I'm tired, Ed,
    I'm just very tired,
    Let them fuck themselves to the sound of the Sex Pistols,
    Let them take their bloody vacations and medications,
    Let them enjoy their anorexias and bulimias,
    Let them rape each other on dates,

    I'm just pissed and I'm not going to take it anymore,
    and I will scream bloody murder,
    and the men in white coats will take me away,
    no more masturbation, no more copulation,
    no more virginity, for that matter--
    just one bloody hell,

    I'm tired of their Gestapo love,
    I'm tired of the color black,
    and I don't think that purple is homosexual,

    No, Ed, they will not take our soul away,
    and they will not prevent me from drinking more vodka,
    and you will always be Hungarian,

    Ed, I'm turning paler,
    I'm beginning to see morticians all around me,
    Ed, I'm dying,
    I'm sweating profusely,
    I need something cheap to get me through this lonely
    night,
    I'm burning,
    I'm hot, I'm very hot,

    Ed, I don't want to be an American,
    I don't want to be an English major,
    I don't want to piss in urinals and be conscious of the
    size of my penis,

    Ed, I'm lonely and desperate,
    I think I'm going to commit a crime,
    this time I think I'm serious,
    no one will stop me,

    Ed, Ed, Ed,
    my mind is hazy,
    I cannot control myself anymore,
    I'm freaking out completely
    even though I can speak several languages,

    Ed, Ed, Ed, Ed ...

    om, om, om, om, ...

    I should've never gone to a massage parlor,
    I should've never gone to go-go bars,
    I should've never seen "Deep Throat" and a live sex act,

    Look at me, Ed, look at me,
    I'm just a pathetic nervous wreck
    with an ingrown toe nail and itching hemorrhoids,

    Ed, I should have read the Bible,
    I should have never been seduced by corrupt American
    girls,
    I can't even fantasize anymore without an appropriate
    sexual stimulus to get me hot and horny,

    Ed, my underwear is dirty,
    no woman wants to go out with me,
    I'm swearing in Russian in front of my mother,
    I'm talking to myself,
    I don't masturbate anymore,

    I'm living in horror,
    in New Haven, Connecticut,
    in the United States of America,
    in the altered states of consciousness,
    and I don't know any good drugs for my headache,
    and my poetry is going nowhere,

    And I write letters to this really sexy girl
    and she never writes me back,

    Ed, I need some salami
    or something to kill this horrible
    despair and loneliness,

    I need a fix, for god's sake,
    and some lewd entertainment,
    I need some noise in the background,
    I need some good old-fashioned minimum
    daily requirement of real beef
    and gratuitous sex and violence,

    Ed, Ed, Ed,
    my brother, my brother with Magyar soul,
    let's get drunk, let's smoke some cheap cigars,
    let us numb ourselves in a complete oblivion,

    My soul beats against the Southern cafeteria,
    My soul rises above the urinals,
    My soul flies along the hallways of these deadly
    institutions of minds poisoned with rat poison
    and acidified Styrofoam,
    My soul rises above all the kissasses,
    all the snivelling bureaucrats in their business suits,
    My soul rises above the boredom,

    We shall burn in the fires of hell,
    we shall never leave this paradise,
    we shall eat the shoelaces of the born-again Christians,
    we shall browse through the libraries of dead books
    written by morbid individuals with several degrees,
    we'll never find affection in the student union,

    O Ed, so this is it,
    this is another day in paradise!
    I cannot bear it without heroin,
    and freaking out and shivering,
    I send you my last words.

    December 14, 1987
    Copyright © 2006 by Alexander Shaumyan

    Apple of Discord

    In the angelic hair of innocence
    and the mush-filled minds of normalcy,
    in the phony handshakes of politeness
    and the muddy waters of indifference
    I threw my poem like a monkey wrench--
    yes, threw it out there and that's all it took--
    all the innocence somehow disappeared,
    and all the minds went crazy again,
    arguing about something,
    like how much testosterone it takes
    to turn an angel into a monster,
    arguing about the good old days
    and never really agreeing as to what
    was really good about them--
    for, after all, grandpa, would
    chase them all with the shotgun
    if they ever tried to lay a hand on
    any of his money, and grandma
    was a real witch, who never liked anyone,
    drinking booze like no tomorrow,
    and the handshakes turned to fists
    and bloody noses,
    the indifference turned to laying blame
    and curses and insults,
    as I observed it all,
    knowing damn well that my poem
    had something to do with it,
    for these were always such
    very good friends,
    and I smiled and said:
    "Ain't life peachy, folks!"
    quickly walking away, while they
    shouted: "We are going to get you,
    you goddamn Russian bastard!",
    'cause it was I who ruined
    their paradise of ignorance--
    but then one of them remembered
    that it was not me who fucked
    his girlfriend, but his best pal Jim,
    and they were back at one another's
    throats.

    July 17, 2002
    Copyright © 2006 by Alexander Shaumyan

    Kiss Me

    Kiss me girl like a flower kisses a bee
    Kiss me like the salt water of a mid-summer sea
    Kiss me girl a kiss like the sky
    Tell me girl that I'm too young to die.

    If my hair should become this grass
    If my chest turn to a crystalline mass
    If it matters at all kiss me girl
    Like a mermaid that kisses a pearl.

    Let the wind blow east or west
    I will never sit here at rest
    I will always be longing to fly
    Kiss me girl a kiss of the sky.

    Kiss me girl a kiss of the sun
    Take my mischievous heart and run
    Kiss me girl kiss me like spring
    Take my musical voice and sing
    Kiss me girl constellations and dreams
    I've been here forever it seems.

    Kiss me kiss me kiss me release me!

    August 2, 1986
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan



    picture of me when I was about 5

    Not Ready Reading Poet X: Abort, Retry, Fail?

    There is an error in your poem--
    Line 6, word 3 is undefined,
    But this is not the whole problem--
    There's an error in your mind.

    You're a dangling modifier,
    A verb that acts upon itself,
    You're a noun breathing fire,
    You're an adjective from hell.

    Your verses drip their cryptic meaning
    Upon the pages like the rain--
    You're an end without beginning,
    You're a form without a name.

    You're a walking contradiction--
    A futile, pointless exercise--
    You're a poet of conviction--
    An aberration in their eyes.

    You smile because you see the terror
    Beneath their superficial lies
    And you can see the real error
    Not in your poem, but in their lives.

    December 3, 2003
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    What Is a Poet?

    What is a poet but a drunken fool--
    a pitiful being that staggers through
    local taverns, pathetic and mad,
    muttering gibberish to the masses,
    while picking his nose
    and philosophizing about the legs
    of a young waitress?

    What is a poet but an unkempt vagrant,
    who's taken a free bus ride to nowhere?
    What is a poet but a caricature of a
    civilized society that wants to hear
    how beautiful it is?

    What is a poet but a persona non grata,
    crashing your sophisticated party,
    urinating on your carpet and shouting
    obscenities all night long,
    talking about God and demons
    and drinking all your good whiskey,
    while trying to seduce your woman?

    What is a poet but a madman,
    who forgot to take his medication
    and reminds you of your bipolar mother
    who pisses in her underwear
    or your alcoholic dad who takes Viagra?

    What is a poet but an asshole
    who tells you the truth that
    you don't want to hear?

    October 26, 2003
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Kalima Shutiday (oil and acrylic on canvas)
    Copyright © 2006 by Jacob Pongratz

    Survivor

    for Eric Hauptly

    It's getting better and there's no denying
    The bullshit I put up with and her lies
    Are slowly diminishing and dying --
    And I'm glad to know that I survived.

    Some people are a bitter pill to swallow
    When you begin to trust them with your love,
    Only to find their affections hollow
    And that your love is never good enough.

    But they will reap one day what they have sown
    As they get tangled in their web of lies
    Until they find that they are all alone
    Because it's trust that makes true love alive.

    Self-love and self-respect are cultivated
    By recognizing love is not abuse,
    That love is not about tolerating
    Someone who's cheating and just hurting you.

    So I am free to move to newer vistas,
    To newer lovers, poems and new books --
    And to my aging love -- ¡Hasta la vista!
    Your love is overrated like your looks.

    April 11, 2006
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Place Where Light Is

    In these cold rainy nights,
    In these streets, in these dreams
    I'll walk in my solitude
    To a place where light is.

    Do not ask who I am,
    Do not ask where I go--
    I've lost all direction,
    Yet I always knew this--
    I'll find my way back
    To a place where light is.

    No, it can't be that far--
    I've walked many miles,
    I've seen it in a smile
    Of a girl like a breeze--
    I'll find my way back
    To a place where light is.

    I've been walking in darkness
    Of frozen minds,
    I saw hearts that were numb
    And eyes that were blind,
    I saw tears and pain,
    War and disease,
    But I just kept on walking
    To a place where light is.

    Yes, I know it's near,
    By those mulberry trees
    And those valleys of daffodils,
    Where the hummingbirds sing,
    Where my love rests in waiting
    With a smile like a breeze--
    Yes, I'll find my way back
    To a place where light is.

    May 23, 2003
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    She's Been Tuning Her Chakras

    She's been tuning her chakras,
    While balancing her aura
    And practicing vegetarianism,
    Standing up for animal rights
    As her latest fashion statement,
    Surrounded by effeminate and gay men,
    Who pay her countless compliments--
    And I'm reminded of Madonna,
    Once a talented singer,
    Now obsessed with Kabbalah--
    She is obsessed with surroundings
    That harmonize with the shallowness
    Of her love and her life
    And her androgynous sexuality
    Of casual bisexual encounters--

    And she has seen God in her
    Latest orgasm, while washing
    The dishes and cleaning the toilet,
    And she's determined to be the
    Best mother possible, while
    Becoming impossible to her daughter,
    And she lies and puts on appearances
    For everyone and for herself,
    Not knowing who she is or what
    She has become, but constantly
    Trying to control what others
    Think of her--and God forbid
    They discover her various
    Misdeeds and improprieties--

    And so she lives like some
    Wound-up toy, pretending to smile
    And not to have any feelings
    Except the sugar-coated love
    That she sprinkles on everyone
    Like a Hollywood faerie--
    Saying I love you, love you, love you
    A thousand times--
    As if it means more if you keep
    Saying it over and over...

    But I have learned that all
    Her life is an act, covering up
    Insecurities with lies,
    Lies and more lies,
    Going back to the memories
    Of a fragile little girl
    That was abandoned
    Long ago.

    August 15, 2006
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Spoken Word Revolutionary

    This freestyling spoken word buffoon
    says I'm making mockery of poetry--
    he is a word revolutionary, you see,
    and I don't see the great movement
    that his message is trying to convey--
    he is out to liberate, to infiltrate,
    while I'm just this Russian who tells
    him that he just masturbates and
    his bullshit message is not about art,
    not about being real, it's about word abuse,
    Pete said he used to write for Village Voice
    but quit when they were going to send him
    as a reporter to Iraq, now he writes all this
    phony crap about society, injustice and oppression--
    look at me, I'm real, I'm humanity--
    and I'm really sick of it all,
    so I read my "The World Is Full of Bastards" poem,
    and they all started laughing, except this guy
    who got really uncomfortable--
    says I'm not being serious--
    but I don't want to be serious,
    I just want to play around,
    and these people are all so uptight,
    they wouldn't even get a microphone
    because it's against the city ordinance--
    revolutionaries, my ass,
    they can't even say "fuck" in a poem--
    Allen Ginsberg would laugh at all these
    spoken word clowns--
    liberation is masturbation,
    why not? You people, are all so fucking
    uptight with your politically correct bullshit,
    that you call "freestyling"--what the fuck are
    you talking about?
    Pete wants me to read again, but I might just
    blow it off--he says I have to read something
    really serious, nothing raunchy, something
    lyrical and profound, or this spoken word buffoon
    will call it quits and they will no longer
    invite me to read--
    I feel so stifled there, but then I remember
    those kids laughing when I read--
    this whole world is fucking uptight--
    I remember this Jordanian guy Tony Samander--
    very religious guy he was, used to write novels
    about holy cities and prophets,
    freaked out once when he saw
    one of Bob's books on the floor--books are holy,
    you see, you should never disrespect your books
    or your parents, he went to my poetry reading
    once, freaked out, saying that I've made a mockery
    of poets and poetry, kept saying "squeeze my balls"
    the whole night, I guess the words got stuck in his head
    from one of my poems....
    I read about him in the paper several years later,
    Tony had an argument with his father during
    Thanksgiving dinner, pulled a knife and stabbed
    his father in the stomach, then the police came
    and shot him dead.

    July 3, 2003
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Some Women

    Some women are like poison
    That stays in your bloodstream
    For many years,
    Telling you remember me,
    Remember me--
    I'm the one who slept with you
    That night, engulfing
    Your manhood and ripping
    Your heart out,
    I'm the one who made you
    Lose sleep and obsess
    Every night over that
    Fatal encounter when
    Our paths crossed and
    Our lives meshed,
    And we promised each
    Other the world--
    And then she leaves you,
    Making you cry, blaming
    Yourself for something
    You think you've done,
    But you've done nothing
    Wrong because her love
    Was a lie and she keeps
    Living that lie day after day,
    As you keep hurting inside--
    Yes, you have thought
    The world of her,
    Writing her countless
    Love poems and trying
    To encourage her art,
    But she just trampled
    Upon your heart like
    She did with many others,
    And you wonder if
    There is any real love
    In the world, for she has
    Taught you how to hate
    Everything that's fake,
    And you keep wondering
    If there is any truth
    To anything anymore,
    Or is it all just ugliness
    And hurt, using and
    Being used, being a
    Victim or a prey,
    While she laughs her
    Way to the bank
    And tells everyone
    How great she is
    And how she loves
    Every guy in town.

    February 24, 2006
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    For Lori Lynn


    Once in my youth I saw her face
    That's how my story begins--
    I met a young maiden of stunning grace,
    She called herself Lori Lynn.

    Sprinkles of stardust danced in her eyes,
    As my mind would meander and spin,
    And her hair would shimmer in the moonlit sky,
    Caressing her delicate skin.

    She made me act like a little child,
    And my feelings I couldn't contain,
    So I wrote this poem to make her smile
    Because I was slightly insane.

    But, all of a sudden, a strange little bird
    Snatched my poem, as I finished my gin,
    Then it flew away and I never heard
    From my beautiful Lori Lynn.

    Many years passed, I grew tired and old,
    And I couldn't write poems again,
    As my world grew dull and my heart turned cold,
    And I felt like a dying man.

    But then one night, when I was alone
    With my usual bottle of gin,
    I dreamt that same bird, and it read me a poem
    By my beautiful Lori Lynn.

    Then I woke up and somehow I knew
    That the answer was always within,
    So I wrote this poem addressed to you,
    O my beautiful Lori Lynn!

    June 25, 2002
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Internet Poets are the Worst

    Internet poets are the worst,
    writing about children, blowing bubbles
    to kill boredom, and about being positive
    by facing a brand new day as a winner--
    internet poets praise each others work:
    "You're so brilliant and phenomenal,
    thought-provoking and unique--
    yeah I feel the same way, my husband's
    been drinking and I don't know what to do,
    hon, just hang in there--I'll pray for you
    and those bubbly children of yours,
    golly gee, I could lose some weight,
    yes, I've been feeling lonely until I joined
    this wonderful site, where I made so many
    good friends--wonderful people everywhere,
    ready to dispense so much good advice--
    my poetry has gone so far
    and I've grown so much--
    this is my thousandth poem, golly gee,
    I don't need my therapist or my husband,
    or even my vibrator"...

    Internet poets are the worst--
    you know it when you read their stuff
    if you still haven't committed suicide
    or had another psychotic break,
    Linda so-and-so is going through a divorce
    and Leanne's having an internet affair
    and writing about it:
    "My dearest Bill, how much I'd like to lick
    your balls and feel your potent shaft inside me"...

    Internet poets are the worst,
    spreading religion and cunnilingus like the plague,
    like some apocalypse--gee whiz, what will they
    write about next, bring out those old cosmic clowns--
    Bob the Divine and Elaine Walnuts--
    to mystify and mesmerize with their far-out
    cosmic insights about God and cosmic G-strings,
    and that rugged drunk old-timer Eddie Bologna
    to talk about Vietnam and dead heroes,
    fishing lures and Ronald Reagan,
    and those days of courage and VietCong whores
    with razorblades in their pussies,
    and how those liberals are fucking
    everything up and taxing everyone
    to death.

    Internet poets are the worst--
    bring out some lovely psycho chicks
    with post-traumatic stress syndromes,
    writing suicidal haikus
    about being raped by several guys,
    now searching for on-line validation,
    bring out Bukowski and Burroughs-savvy young
    dudes, talking about vomit, beer and cum,
    needles and heroin addiction,
    mainlining their poems down those internet
    pipelines of shocking mediocrity...

    Internet poets are the worst,
    always starting some new poetry groups,
    telling you that you have potential
    if you fuck enough, if you drink enough,
    if you tell enough lies about who you are
    and where you are going--
    going, going places and meeting new faces
    and new publishers and editors
    to publish and edit your work
    and give you some great advice
    about Jesus and heroin, about your soul
    and tits 'n' ass, about rape and true love,
    and how to make yourself sell to the average
    Joe Blow, who knows nothing about poetry.

    August 6, 2004
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Bleed No More

    Bleed no more, bleed no more, my love--
    Just go in peace towards your destination,
    For in this life my eyes have seen enough,
    Enough of broken promises and frustrations.

    Just go on without a word or thought
    About what we've done when we were young,
    About that pure love that we once sought--
    Just go on--what has been done is done.

    I will not say I loved you any less--
    Whatever was one time had disappeared,
    Dissolved in memories and years of loneliness,
    Transforming flights of passion into tears.

    And what is left? What's really left of us,
    Of those moments when we loved each other?--
    I should've known that your heart of glass
    Was never tied to any single lover.

    So go on, go on your merry way
    Towards another fleeting destination--
    Whatever was is gone--it's time to say
    Goodbye to empty words and affectations.

    August 20, 2005
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Ode to Absurdity

    Consider this, O Muse,
    My heart is ill,
    My seriousness has gone into the Void
    That has devoured my poetic mind,
    And all along my head is filled
    With flies, with inessential
    And trifling things--
    Cigars and bottles, canned sardines and bricks,
    Cheap whiskey, naughty negligee
    And television,
    And love is like a scalpel at my throat,
    Cutting my jugular at every faint try
    To recreate a vision of my darling
    Gone in the sweet oblivion of alcohol...

    So here I am--the Poet Laureate drunk
    In front of all the everyday clichés--
    I want a cigarette but I don't smoke,
    And matches can't ignite my lonely heart,
    I see young fellows hitting on some hussy--
    She's like Snow-White
    Amidst the seven horny dwarfs,
    And their vacant eyes wink at the prospect
    Of entering the lonely space
    Between her thighs...

    Consider this, O Muse,
    My body's tired, my wit is gone,
    I have no job, nor goal,
    I look inside me and all I find is noise--
    Somebody sings: "I'm a creep" inside me,
    Somebody laughs: "Your girlfriend is a whore.
    I slept with her one thousand times before
    Without a condom, sorry...it's been real."
    While from above the Economy
    Is trickling into my mouth
    Burning up my tongue,
    And I imagine that I've gone to Heaven
    Where someone shouts:
    "You're a winner and well-hung!"

    August 15, 1993
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Single

    He's in his 40s and never married,
    Never had the pleasure of
    Fathering a child or having
    A long-term relationship,
    Living with a woman under
    The same roof, maybe he's gay
    Or just plain eccentric,
    Not knowing how to relate
    To his social world,
    But I've stopped trying to live up
    To what a normal guy in his 40s
    Should be like, for
    So many creative people were
    Often loners or unhappy in love,
    Expressing their sadness through
    Their art -- just look at
    Van Gogh or Emily Dickinson
    And countless others --
    So I'm not worried
    What others think of my
    Bachelor lifestyle,
    For I enjoy my freedom
    Of having to answer to nobody,
    Of not being stuck in some
    Marriage just because it's
    Comfortable or because
    Of the kids, for I've seen
    Too many fatherless kids,
    Too many divorces, too
    Many women abused by
    Their husbands, too many
    Cheating partners and
    Too much dishonesty,
    Too many people searching
    For greener pastures of
    Newer relationships with
    Younger or more exciting
    Partners, but I don't mind
    Being single, answering
    To myself alone --
    It is by far better than feeling
    Alone with someone else,
    Staying in a destructive
    Relationship, pretending things
    Are going well -- because
    When I say I love you,
    I mean that I love you,
    Darling, and I do not believe
    In any "soul twins", or "one light"
    Or some other "divine union" --
    Whatever the hell it is --
    For I believe in honesty
    And tenderness between
    Two people, who choose to
    Be together, not some polyamory
    Or open marriage, or some other
    Alternative lifestyles with
    Different sexes --
    No, I believe in us and the things
    That we have in common,
    For I do not seek perfection,
    Only the happiness of sharing
    Myself with you if you want it.

    March 15, 2006
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    For Aimée

    O Aimée
    with your short red hair
    and that worried look in your eyes
    that haunts me in my hours
    of gloom and solitude,

    O Aimée
    standing by the window
    listening to the rain
    the rain of the city
    the humdrum rain of the hurried crowd
    hurrying to get everywhere and
    nowhere
    stepping into the muddy puddles
    of their little lives,

    No, darling, you are much more than that
    much more than these lines of
    writing can show
    maybe something like spring
    or a fresh pile of hay in mid-summer
    or maybe a bed of violets and daffodils
    who knows what pastures your eyes can lead to?
    or maybe you are just a tropical orchid
    finding yourself in the wrong flower pot--
    what does it matter, darling?

    The wind is blowing and the rain is pouring
    harder
    and all the pages of my manuscript
    will get wet and die away like a fragile plant
    without water,

    I'm just a little fish in this ocean
    of computerized, electronic, space-age
    psychopathic ward
    and what use are my kisses if they only
    kiss the air?
    and I have yet to see a mermaid and a unicorn,

    Darling, I'm lost in my Sputnik-NASA spacesuit
    and I know that I'd rather be Dumbo
    the flying elephant
    but I'm sure that would be completely
    out of the question,

    So what do I do? I write poetry, darling,
    so that some day you will behold the sky
    and see it glowing with a strange emerald light
    just like in The Wizard of Oz,

    But the rain will keep on pouring
    and the market prices will fluctuate
    and the crowds will step in the puddles
    and they will have more unromantic institutions
    with metal doors and brick walls and barbed wires...

    But as I finish this poem, I send you
    a kiss
    in spite of the sound of the washing machine
    and in spite of the Coke commercial
    and in spite of that lady with big boobs, selling her body

    Yes, darling, I send you a kiss just like that
    on a first date
    so that this thing called love
    may glow forever in the dark forest
    of this civilization and civilizations to come...

    O darling, what a song you are if only you
    would listen to the sound of your heartbeat!

    June 22, 1987
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    Loneliness

    Glistening eyes, tearful eyes,
    Why do you stare at me?
    Sorrowful sighs, desperate cries,
    Why don't you set me free?

    Barren is earth, naked are trees,
    Emptiness in your smile,
    Trying to bury your face in your knees--
    Cold as a bathroom tile.

    Sickness is joy, put on your mask,
    One that you always wear,
    Living this life is too much of a task,
    Sink in your easy chair.

    Smoke a cigarette for a while,
    Or watch a little TV,
    Give it a try or maybe run a mile,
    Or have a weekend spree.

    Darkness is light, there is a lamp,
    Lighting an empty room,
    Coldness is hot, dryness is damp,
    Can't you see stones bloom?

    And if you can't, then look again--
    Flowers can't be of stone,
    Stone is stone, and a man's still a man,
    He cannot make it alone.

    December 26, 1983
    Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan

    New Haven Register, Tuesday, March 1, 1988





    You can read more of my poetry here .

    Music:



    To add this jukebox, just copy the code below:

    Franco Battiato, The Doors, Mary Prankster, Insane Clown Posse, Rammstein, Radiohead, Damien Rice, Coldplay, Die Toten Hosen, Anti-Flag, Garbage, Nirvana, R.E.M., Bob Marley, The Clash, Butthole Surfers, Talking Heads, John Lennon, Leonard Cohen, etc.

    Movies:

    Stroszek, A Clockwork Orange, Requiem for a Dream, American Beauty, Cast Away

    Television:

    The Daily Show, Simpsons, Seinfeld, South Park

    Books:



    Heroes:

    The Healing Wind

    In this healing wind
    all our scars of the
    past are blown away,
    torn away and scattered
    around the earth,
    and all our demons are
    lifted and carried off
    in the vortex of
    the wind funnel
    till there is nothing
    left but these rocks
    and the ocean,
    and our hearts feel
    at peace once more,
    as our eyes
    scan the distant horizon,
    where the ocean
    meets the night sky,
    where the moon
    hangs low, casting
    its tremulous glow
    upon the water.
    In this healing wind
    all our thoughts
    are scattered in the
    silent multitude of stars
    that shine upon us
    like new blossoms...
    yes, I know we've been
    through a lot
    all these years,
    and the loneliness
    and the pain
    seemed unbearable
    at times,
    but you don't have
    to say a thing to me
    right now,
    because the healing wind
    turned it all around,
    gave us new hope
    and new purpose
    and new sails--
    and breathing in
    this cool night air,
    we feel renewed
    and alive again,
    as we return
    to what we always
    knew as our home,
    resting upon these
    rocks, as the ocean
    waves gently baptize
    our feet.
    July 18, 2002
    Copyright © by
    Alexander Shaumyan

    A Higher Way

    If life has taught me
    anything, it is
    resilience
    in battling these demons
    that crush our dreams.
    They say with age,
    we learn acceptance
    and throw in the towel.
    Not so. My teeth and claws
    are sharp as always,
    my mind's awake and
    ready for a fight.
    No, I won't change with age,
    I'd rather die in battle,
    I'd rather dive into
    this dark abyss,
    than say it's over.
    It's never over!
    It has just begun--
    this life, this thrilling,
    exhilarating journey
    along these countless
    uncharted paths.
    I'm bold and foolish
    as before, no wiser
    than your beloved
    cocker spaniel Max--
    mad, drunk and raging,
    knocking down all doors,
    smashing all windows,
    tearing down all walls,
    defiant of all rules, religions
    and conventions.
    And if I die, then let my death
    be sudden
    and violent and stormy
    like my life.
    For I was born into this world
    with nothing, except
    this passion and this longing
    to create.
    Oh yes, my love,
    we're cast into this fire,
    so others, too, may see
    a higher way!
    July 14, 2002
    Copyright © by
    Alexander Shaumyan

    Once We Were Lovers

    Once we were lovers
    tracing the starry landscape
    of our lives
    Floating in moments
    of weightlessness
    We held each other
    closely
    like our thoughts
    caressing our minds
    in lunar labyrinths
    We gazed at each other
    like ocean waves
    discovering our
    inner storms
    and inner placidity
    You had soft hands
    that opened
    like flower petals
    revealing the texture
    of your dreams
    And every time we
    kissed
    It was a miracle
    unfolding like
    a moon song into
    the night --
    And so we knew
    that our love was
    Precious.
    August 6, 2005
    Copyright © by
    Alexander Shaumyan

    What Is Love?

    man is a butterfly
    or so he says
    in a cobalt cell of death
    all words are meaningless
    without love
    and no flower can bring
    us to our senses,
    he talks of flesh, of hair,
    of toes, of ankles,
    of thighs, of breasts,
    but I see pain behind
    his eyelids
    red with alcohol--
    don't give me that
    foolish moon,
    my face is wrinkled
    like paper, worn down
    by the lies,
    some day they will bury
    me,
    I read, I worship
    the invisible,
    he speaks of love
    but does he know the word?
    I watch the pigeons
    in tears, hoping endlessly
    for her to come back,
    my love, my life
    my music--
    what symphony, what madness
    they have made of words,
    words words words
    like some infection
    paralyzing the mind
    of innocence,
    scream, poet, scream
    loudly above the town,
    they have twisted love around,
    they have given it
    another shell,
    bad poets, good poets,
    sad poets--
    I've seen them all
    scratching out their
    names in stone
    but I, I weep in
    silence
    at the truth--
    love has been lost,
    disfigured by the temptings
    of the flesh,
    I stretch out my arms
    to a hungry child
    weeping on my shoulder,
    surely we must be
    greater, surely we must
    know that love is
    not a bed of pleasure,
    nor a rose, but rising
    beyond all forms, all
    appearances and lies,
    that no poet can ever
    touch or sense or smell
    or hear or see its
    presence,
    love is beyond words
    beyond the fancies
    and the glamour
    she is a woman as much
    as a man
    soaking through the
    ink of the endless
    pages of writing,
    love is a child
    before he learns
    to speak,
    it cries through
    the hearts yearning
    to feel, to feel
    the flame of
    the protected secret,
    the secret of the
    invisible beauty,
    not rose, not moon,
    not flowers, not the rain,
    she kisses the silver water
    of Christ, purified
    through suffering
    and the decay of death
    no hunger, no disease
    can stop the flow,
    love is the innocence
    well guarded and never
    known
    I saw an eagle once
    flying in the heights
    of her glory
    love is beyond our
    grasp, no matter how we
    try to capture her
    with our greedy hands
    no prisons, no cages,
    no songs, but love
    pure love is all
    was always all
    never have I seen
    a man so naked
    when he became
    love--
    tear down your clothes,
    your walls, your sonnets,
    your words, strip away
    the ornaments and let
    love breathe once again!
    I weep, I hope, I touch,
    I pray, I love...
    June 15, 1987
    Copyright © by
    Alexander Shaumyan

    Oh! To Be in Love Again!

    This crazy woman keeps
    sending me countless emails,
    so I stop responding
    and she gets really mad --
    what's the matter,
    the cat got your tongue?
    suspecting me once more
    of hiding behind some
    secret internet identity --
    and I just want to tell her
    that she's nuts --
    for I have no patience
    with any more games,
    or with any more Norse
    bisexual women writers
    with hyperactive sons,
    trading lovers like shoes
    and cheating on their
    geeky husbands,
    making more of themselves
    than they really are --
    and I don't care about
    the sex anymore --
    it all really sucks --
    hell, I can do much better
    with my left hand --
    I just want to be left alone,
    but she keeps telling me
    her whole life's story
    and I just delete her emails
    without reading, thanking
    her for the books she
    sent me just to be nice,
    and she keeps telling me
    that Bush is the Antichrist,
    that his number is 666,
    and how she is really
    my soul twin because
    God brought us together,
    and money is the root
    of all evil,
    and something about her
    husband being a closet
    homosexual and how he
    wants to divorce her,
    then she starts talking
    about me and my problems
    with women and my
    therapist and she
    can really help me out
    if I only open up,
    but I don't want to open up --
    I've had enough of crazy
    and promiscuous women --
    I just want to meet someone
    nice -- someone a bit more
    normal like myself (as I laugh
    at the thought that there is
    anyone really normal)
    though they are good at
    pretending and stroking
    a guy's artistic ego --
    no, I refuse to give up,
    I just say to hell with it all,
    for I don't play by anyone's
    rules and hell... Well,
    as Sartre would say:
    "L'enfer, c'est les autres."*
    October 21, 2005
    Copyright © by
    Alexander Shaumyan
    ________
    *French: "Hell is other people."

    Finding Love

    Brother, you've been lost
    And you are weary now,
    Not knowing where to go
    Or what to say--
    It's as if you finally
    Understood that questions
    Lead to more questions
    And what you find
    Is one big black hole
    Into which to jump,
    Saying you've had enough
    Of teachers and mystics,
    Pretentious poets,
    Prophets, seers,
    And sizzling lovers--
    You just want to get off
    And have a nice
    Sliced turkey sandwich.
    As so you find your way
    Back home
    Again.
    February 14, 2006
    Copyright © by
    Alexander Shaumyan

    Love in Cyberspace

    Once in a while I ask myself:
    Oh dear!
    How did I ever end up out here,
    where these old perverts
    lure young damsels
    with their words--
    or has the written word become
    the stuff of birds
    and all that misty, starry
    fluffy stuff?
    And when I'm tired,
    when I've had enough,
    why not just get a gun,
    blow out my brains,
    for I've had enough of love,
    enough of pain,
    enough of angels, moonlit nights
    and cyber porn--
    Once in a while I ask myself:
    why was I born?
    Just to be tortured and
    to witness this???
    To dream of some majestic
    breasts, a long wet kiss
    inside this hardware of empty
    cyberspace,
    to dream of your sweet features
    and your face
    inside some phony chat room
    full of lies--
    no, I'd rather shoot myself
    and die
    a violent death
    than live for this--
    what's this--a kiss, a bliss,
    or the abyss???
    No, I'd rather touch and see
    a real woman,
    not some fantasy,
    cyber mind-fucking me
    and playing with my head,
    for I'd rather wish that
    I were dead,
    than make love
    to this screen,
    where I'm just these words
    on your machine,
    connected to the cable
    in your room--
    no I don't want your
    cyber moon,
    nor cyber walks
    along the cyber sea--
    I just want you, my darling,
    next to me.
    July 25, 2002
    Copyright © by
    Alexander Shaumyan

    When We Meet

    When we meet,
    sparks fly and
    all logic goes out
    the window.
    It doesn't matter
    what I did or
    didn't do--
    I try not to
    explain you.
    And why should
    I try? For even
    the arguments
    become a special
    kind of turn-on,
    something to
    get us worked up
    in passion's
    frenzy.
    Call me a
    bastard,
    call me son
    of a bitch,
    but don't say
    that I ever
    ignore you.
    You, who comes
    out so naturally,
    expressing
    your most
    primal desires.
    You just give
    me that longing
    "come here" look,
    and I pretend
    like it doesn't
    affect me
    at all, but
    you know
    how to push
    my buttons,
    for I've missed
    your animal
    presence and
    outrageous flights
    of fancy,
    Where the world
    makes no sense
    at all, dissolving
    completely in
    the here and now
    of you and me
    And that implicit
    love that transpires
    between us.
    March 1, 2006
    Copyright © by
    Alexander Shaumyan

    Pisces Girl

    for Amanda
    We've been fishing
    for the stars
    on moonlit nights,
    finding ourselves
    in some fishy
    situations, searching
    for that romantic
    ideal --
    you were soft
    and dreamy,
    dressed in black
    like the night,
    charming and alluring
    all around you --
    Oh Pisces girl,
    you've taken all
    the clocks
    and removed
    the hands, sending
    me into an unknown
    time warp --
    you have turned
    the world into
    an ocean of souls,
    dancing to the music
    of constellations,
    while I watched
    your heart blossom
    into a field of
    violets --
    Oh Pisces girl,
    planting your
    dreams deep
    inside my soul.
    January 25, 2005 Copyright © by
    Alexander Shaumyan

    I Don't Belong

    I don't belong
    that is my deepest pain
    I stayed here long
    but like the autumn rain
    my tears flow
    from my heart
    where do I go?
    whom do I know?
    why did we part?
    I don't belong
    I hated long good-byes
    and now in my songs
    I often cry
    I think of you
    my love, it's true
    you're intense
    you're much too sad
    don't be so tense
    some people said
    I don't belong
    how much I long
    for a tender kiss
    it's you I miss
    it's you I think of every night
    I don't belong, I don't belong
    and still I fight
    to make it right
    and reach your tender heart.
    January 3, 1988
    Copyright © by
    Alexander Shaumyan

    Happiness Is a Warm Gun

    I've been
    coughing up
    blood again
    trying to
    understand
    why you were
    trained
    to kill
    another,
    but it's that
    adrenaline rush
    that keeps you
    going
    ever since
    you punched
    that kid in school
    and saw his nose
    bleed--
    you felt that
    incredible
    head rush--
    that sense of
    euphoria.
    now you take
    the pleasure
    in aiming your gun
    at a human target,
    as your heart beats
    rapidly--
    one, two,
    one, two,
    one, two...
    and you open fire,
    watching him fall
    like in some frigging
    cowboy movie--
    only this time
    it's for real--
    bam! bam!
    bam! bam!
    he's dead.
    look at him
    fall with the
    blood trickling
    from his temple--
    he's dead
    for sure.
    and so are you--
    dead and
    brainwashed
    to be a machine
    not to ever
    think
    or feel
    ever again.
    December 22, 2004
    Copyright © by
    Alexander Shaumyan

    Messenger of Love

    A messenger of love
    had painted the world
    with peaceful strokes,
    reinventing a vision
    of love and beauty--
    he stayed here
    for just a little while
    but he left behind
    the world beyond
    their wildest imagination--
    Look! Can you see it
    in the outline of the moon,
    in the smile of a young girl,
    arranging flowers in patterns
    of stars?
    A messenger of love
    didn't say a word--
    he just painted a picture
    with his eyes,
    and all who knew him
    saw the message
    that stirred their souls--
    someone saw a beautiful
    red rose, nestled in his heart,
    someone else, a vision
    of God,
    someone else, a mist
    of stardust in his hair,
    as he walked the crowded
    streets in silence,
    sharing his vision with
    his eyes.
    And as he walked back
    into the night,
    the world was changed forever
    simply because
    everyone knew
    that he was nowhere
    to be found--
    the more they looked,
    the more they realized
    that the students
    had to become the teacher.
    November 25, 2002
    Copyright © by
    Alexander Shaumyan

    A Harp Player

    I can remember the time
    when I was young
    and full of strange ideas,
    I would dream a young girl,
    who played
    a golden harp on the ocean
    rocks,
    her little hands like gentle
    bird feathers,
    barely touching the strings,
    as the sunlight played
    upon her hair,
    and her eyes always posed
    a question--
    Can you see him?
    In these ocean depths
    I lost my lover--
    he was much like you,
    foolish yet noble,
    restless and
    always ready for change.
    Then she would disappear,
    as I walked along the shoreline,
    wondering who she was,
    but somehow I knew
    that she was my destiny...
    And now each time I walk along
    this shoreline,
    I can hear her music and I know
    that it was always me down there
    at the bottom--
    waiting for you, my love,
    to draw me
    out.
    July 11, 2002
    Copyright © by
    Alexander Shaumyan

    Two Years Later

    Life is a battlefield
    Of choices made
    And choices waiting
    To be made,
    Even if your choice
    Is not to choose.
    And I have made
    Some choices
    That I sometimes regret--
    Like opening up to
    A total stranger,
    Pretending to be
    An aspiring writer,
    Who took my heart
    And stepped
    All over it,
    While I tried
    To believe that
    There was
    Something greater
    Between us.
    The only thing
    That I found is
    That some people
    Do not live
    Their lives in the open,
    Hiding some dirty
    Past secrets that
    Bring on guilt
    And shame.
    And they try to flush
    Their past
    Down the toilet, but
    The lies just keep
    Building up
    And the toilet backs up,
    And the plunger won't work
    This time.
    I wanted to be your lover,
    Not your plumber to help
    Your lies from interfering
    With your social life.
    Even back then
    You kept saying
    That you loved me
    But referred to me
    As some friend of
    Your nonexistent
    Norwegian husband,
    And you never wanted
    Anyone to know about
    Your fatherless children,
    As if your children
    Are a source of shame.
    And all I wanted was love
    And openness.
    But all I got were lies,
    Lies and more lies.
    Well, it's been two years
    Now since you wrote me
    That love poem, calling me
    Your soft and wild
    Lover and a clutter in
    Your pink laws.
    But all the softness
    And wildness have gone
    Somehow, after I returned
    To Connecticut, dissolved
    In all the fantasies
    Of some ideal love.
    And all I have are just
    Old love letters and
    Pictures of you and
    Your children on my PC,
    Fading in hollow dreams
    That I could ever be a part
    Of your family.
    Well, go ahead and
    Pretend that we never met,
    Cringing about my
    Bad breath, dandruff,
    Receding hairline,
    And social awkwardness,
    While hiding behind the name
    Of your nine years younger
    Adolescent husband.
    I suppose he's good at
    Fixing your computer
    Troubles because all your
    Big writing career
    Revolves around
    Internet gossip and
    All the things
    You'd like others
    To believe.
    Well, I don't take
    Myself as seriously--
    I once believed in us
    And our future together
    Only to have my books,
    Dedicated to you,
    Thrown in the garbage
    And have you deny
    Ever knowing me.
    As Bill Clinton
    once said:
    "I did not have sex
    With that woman,"
    Even though the
    Evidence pointed
    To the contrary.
    Well, it's been
    Two years since
    I've been "that man"
    That you choose not
    To acknowledge,
    And I'm taking my
    Life back piece
    By piece, refusing
    To trash whatever
    Tender moments
    That we had together.
    And we did have them,
    Darling.
    So, go ahead, and
    Pretend that you
    Never loved me,
    Creating more
    Lies and fictions.
    It doesn't matter.
    All that matters
    Is that I'm true
    To myself and to
    My heart.
    December 15, 2005
    Copyright © by
    Alexander Shaumyan

    Jezebel

    She crushes everything--
    Friendships, loyalty,
    Any sense of decency
    Or feelings of love
    That were once there.
    She just plays it all
    Like a big game,
    Going from one
    Guy to another,
    Never stopping
    To think of
    All the wreckage
    She leaves behind.
    Today it's Moses,
    Tomorrow it's Peter,
    Then it's Ron or Kris,
    Then some other Peter,
    Then some Johnny
    Or Al from Bridgeport.
    They all spend money
    On her, hoping that
    She'll divorce her
    Husband and one day
    Run off with one
    Of them.
    But it's all a big game
    With her--she doesn't
    Love anyone--
    Not even her husband,
    Who sits at home
    Like an idiot,
    Playing his porn DVDs
    On his computer,
    Waiting for her
    To return and bring
    Some money
    To pay the next month's
    Rent.
    She's just a little girl--
    Twenty-two years old--
    Who's boy crazy
    And money hungry,
    Who gets turned on
    As quickly as she loses
    Interest.
    Yes, she'll tell you
    That she's married
    And that she loves you
    All the same,
    The way she loves
    All her clientele
    And some dozen
    Other guys--especially
    That one who played
    A guitar--a former
    Music teacher at
    A local college
    Who broke her heart.
    Yes, she's sweet and
    Friendly and she'll
    Praise your poetry and art,
    Especially those poems
    That she inspired you
    To write for her,
    And those paintings
    That flatter her
    Oversized ego.
    She'll laugh and smile
    With you, go out
    And have a good time--
    But it's all just a game--
    In the end, she returns
    To the safety of
    Her indifferent husband.
    She's a Jezebel--
    A shameless little
    Harlot, who will take
    Your heart and
    Dump you like
    The rest.
    June 8, 2005
    Copyright © by
    Alexander Shaumyan

    I've Been Listening

    I've been listening to your
    White collar music
    And bad hair days, Starbucks
    Coffee and water coolers,
    Where efficiency and speed
    Overtakes spontaneity and joy,
    Where strangers stare
    At computer screens
    All day long, calling it
    A productive day...
    And I keep wondering --
    Where is the love, brother?
    I've been listening to
    A bunch of pretentious asses,
    Google searching
    And internet shopping,
    Blogging away and yapping away
    .. phones, listening
    To CDs of the latest
    Anesthetic music,
    Sharing the latest net jokes,
    Watching the latest
    Tarantino flicks...
    And I keep wondering --
    Where is the soul, sister?
    I've been listening to your
    Hearts percolating in
    Cyberspace, in the world
    Where there was once
    Genuine human contact,
    Replaced by instant
    Messaging, caller IDs,
    Email, faxes, e-books,
    Digital photos, printers,
    And color copiers,
    Where life is just
    An absurd montage
    Of fast forward, pause
    And rewind...
    And I've been meaning to ask --
    Where do we go from here,
    Now that we have totally
    Alienated ourselves
    By plugging ourselves into
    The vast hole of meaningless
    Privacy and information?
    So I keep wondering
    If anyone really wants
    To read or write anything
    When words keep dragging
    Endlessly on some flat
    LCD display, where internet
    Jargon replaced the joy
    Of discovery, where
    Fantasy and virtual sex
    Replaced our human flesh
    And blood --
    And what happens to us
    When we can't leave the house
    Without some gadget
    That numbs us from knowing
    Others and ourselves?
    And it reminds me of
    What Philip Slater said
    So prophetically back in 1970s --
    The quintessential American
    Community is nothing
    More than a traffic jam --
    The experience of being
    Together with others
    In the privacy of your
    Personal prison.
    April 6, 2006
    Copyright © by
    Alexander Shaumyan

    A Love Song

    Love is ice cream, love is sex,
    Love is hate mail from your ex,
    Love is blind and love is dead,
    Love is only in your head.
    Love's a nipple, love's a rose,
    Love is something in your nose,
    It will tickle till you sneeze,
    Love's a terminal disease.
    Love's a roar without a sound,
    That will bury you in the ground,
    Love's a feeling, love's a hug,
    Love is a designer drug.
    Love is bullshit, love is pain,
    Love is talking in your brain:
    "Wake up, honey, I love you!"
    Love is when you've drunk a few.
    You have seen love in her eyes,
    Now I guess it's time to die,
    You just want a little knife
    Sharp enough to end your life.
    Now you see it, now it's gone--
    Was your love for her so wrong?
    Didn't see it coming then--
    Just a fool at Authors Den.
    Does it come as a surprise
    That her love was full of lies?--
    Just another dancing game--
    But it kills you all the same.
    She loves Joey, Bill, and Fred,
    Now you wish that you were dead--
    Was it love? Or was it lust?
    Was it just her lovely bust?
    All these clowns want to say
    They can spot love any day--
    Till they find her in their bed
    With some Romeo instead.
    Love will bite you in your ass,
    Love is dirty, love is crass,
    Love is herpes, love is clap,
    Love's an angel full of crap.
    No, I don't believe this shit--
    Frankly, love is none of it,
    It's what we do, not what we say--
    They won't take our love away.
    We'll water it like a tree,
    Love is you and love is me,
    Smiling, dancing, singing songs
    No, our love just can't be wrong.
    I'm smiling like a child--
    Restless, carefree and wild--
    Let's not worry what love is,
    Kissing in the summer breeze.
    Love is now, love is free,
    Love is you and love is me,
    Smiling, dancing, singing songs--
    Honest, fearless and strong!
    July 15, 2002
    Copyright © by
    Alexander Shaumyan

    The Wind

    The wind is raging--
    Soon the rain arrives.
    The summer ends--
    The summer of our lives,
    While I'm wondering
    If you all had fun--
    Yes, you out there,
    Tanning in the sun,
    And you alone,
    Drinking in a bar...
    The wind is raging
    At the passing cars
    That go by like
    Seconds on a clock,
    While opportunity
    Always seems to knock
    And knock forever
    On somebody's door,
    And I don't really
    Know anymore
    What summer is,
    What's autumn?
    And what's spring?
    To me the cold and frost
    That winter brings
    Remind me of the cold
    Inside our hearts...
    And what is poetry?
    And what is art?
    And do we really want
    To see the truth?
    Why do we waste
    Our energy and youth
    On sports, success
    Or some elusive dreams?...
    The wind is raging,
    And it somehow seems
    To be a vain
    And superficial chase,
    While we can never
    Really come to face
    That which we are--
    Our self-important masks
    Are much too grand
    For our own good.
    Yes, there's literature
    And even Hollywood,
    And I could write
    About the lakes and trees,
    The scenic mountains,
    The technological disease,
    The infrastructure,
    And the social ills...
    There's a storm in me,
    But I'm still,
    Not knowing where I am
    Or where I'll be.
    August 27, 1995
    Copyright © by
    Alexander Shaumyan

    Creative Drivel

    As they all keep drooling
    over your drivel,
    I wonder when you'll
    ever write anything
    of significance--
    I, for one, do not
    believe that there's
    anything particularly
    holy about my saliva
    or anyone else's,
    except that it serves
    its purpose of a
    temporary lubricant,
    Just like alcohol
    lubricates
    certain social
    situations--
    and I have seen
    babies drool all
    over themselves and
    have their mothers
    wipe off their spittle,
    forgetting that there
    might be a genius to be
    discovered in their
    salivary glands--
    for it could heal
    the sick like
    Jesus, but he
    appears to have
    been a mythical figure,
    just like the gods
    and heroes long before
    him, but people
    will believe anything
    as long we spit
    the words from our
    collective drivel--
    Alas, poetry is
    to be lived and
    not to be worshipped,
    and among all the
    oohs and aahs of
    your entourage,
    I wonder how many
    really live half
    the things that
    they scribble,
    but they keep on
    scribbling anyway
    about some gods and
    goddesses, trying
    to warn us before
    it's too late to
    change our ways--
    But I don't see
    anything changing
    except the empty
    exchange of words,
    drool and saliva,
    and I wish there
    were less spitting
    and drooling and
    more intelligent
    and coherent
    writing.
    January 23, 2006
    Copyright © by
    Alexander Shaumyan
    Your Brain is 53% Female, 47% Male
    Your brain is a healthy mix of male and female
    You are both sensitive and savvy
    Rational and reasonable, you tend to keep level headed
    But you also tend to wear your heart on your sleeve What Gender Is Your Brain?
    You Are 4: The Individualist
    You are sensitive and intuitive, with others and yourself.
    You are creative and dreamy... plus dramatic and unpredictable.
    You're emotionally honest, real, and easily hurt.
    Totally expressive, others always know exactly how you feel. What Number Are You?
    Your Birth Month is July
    Introspective and intense, you tend to be a deep thinker.
    You are quiet and spiritual - and you have a unique perspective on life.
    Your soul reflects: Lightness, luck and an open heart
    Your gemstone: Ruby
    Your flower: Larkspur
    Your colors: Green and red What Does Your Birth Month Mean?
    Year of the Tiger 1914, 1926, 1938, 1950, 1962, 1974, 1986, 1998, 2010 Tiger people are sensitive, given to deep thinking, capable of great sympathy. They can be extremely short-tempered, however. Other people have great respect for them, but sometimes Tiger people come into conflict with older people or those in authority. Sometimes Tiger people cannot make up their minds, which can result in a poor, hasty decision or a sound decision arrived at too late. They are suspicious of others, but they are courageous and powerful. Tigers are most compatible with Horses, Dragons, and Dogs.

    My Blog

    Poetry by Alexander Shaumyan: Table of Contents

    Welcome to my poetry blog. I want to thank Maddy Blue for showing me how to make this table of contents. Read my interview with Laurel Johnson. Articles, Essays and Stories Debra Lafave and Cultural ...
    Posted by Alexander Shaumyan on Mon, 01 May 2006 06:23:00 PST

    Poetry by Alexander Shaumyan: Table of Contents (continued)

    Poetry by Alexander Shaumyan: Table of Contents (continued) Once There Was a Song in Me America, Don't Work Too Hard Rasta Revolution Mana Single Soldier of Love God Is Our Collective Psychosis A...
    Posted by Alexander Shaumyan on Sun, 04 Jun 2006 07:05:00 PST

    The Splendor of Your Bullshit

    The Splendor of Your Bullshit Look, dude, poetically speakingOr not, your bullshit does notImpress me--no matter how you say it--Briefly or otherwise; just knowThat I am here to have fun, that's all--...
    Posted by Alexander Shaumyan on Sun, 22 Jun 2008 04:27:00 PST

    Science Fiction Woman

    Science Fiction Woman She was my science fiction woman,I was her science fiction man,Yet our love was no fictionIn our science fiction land. I wore my science fiction spacesuit,She wore a spacesuit ju...
    Posted by Alexander Shaumyan on Tue, 17 Jun 2008 10:33:00 PST

    Mary Had Six Little Lambs

    Mary Had Six Little Lambs Mary had six little lambs--Six in all had she--And they did some weird stuffIn their privacy. Johnny chewed her underwear--Such a naughty lamb--While exposing his partsOn a v...
    Posted by Alexander Shaumyan on Thu, 12 Jun 2008 06:43:00 PST

    He Was Known For His Ability

    He Was Known For His Ability To create nonsense, come suchand what not (flailinglyand surreptitiously) hewas unopened, when she(darker than life) underwentthrough the narrow passageof his undergarment...
    Posted by Alexander Shaumyan on Tue, 10 Jun 2008 06:12:00 PST

    The Enormous Penis of Nothingness

    The Enormous Penis of Nothingness Just when you think of writingA halfway decent poem,It hits you over the headLike a ruthless giant hotdogWithout a bun--The Enormous Penis of Nothingness. I...
    Posted by Alexander Shaumyan on Tue, 03 Jun 2008 05:35:00 PST

    I Want to Be Where the Palm Trees Are

    I Want to Be Where the Palm Trees Are I want to be where the palm trees are,Upon some sunny and sandy beach,I want to be away from it all--Out of touch and out of reach. I want to lose myself in the s...
    Posted by Alexander Shaumyan on Fri, 30 May 2008 02:48:00 PST

    A Literary Giant (poem)

    A Literary Giant He wore a grey overcoat,A black fur cap with earflaps,Felt boots and galoshes,Addressing a large crowdOf young writers in Flint,Michigan, declaringWith a thick Russian accent: "You, m...
    Posted by Alexander Shaumyan on Mon, 26 May 2008 06:24:00 PST

    Your Insanity (poem)

           Your Insanity It took me years to understandYour insanity--Your flowery rhythms andYour mismatched attireAnd shoes,That smiled upon meEach time you spokeSomething ...
    Posted by Alexander Shaumyan on Wed, 21 May 2008 11:27:00 PST