Alexander Shaumyan's blog: "Random Ravings"

Internet Women Gina lives in Florida, Next to some Nicole Who's dating Eric With an artistic soul. Heather likes to gossip About some kinky Liz-- A real sexoholic, Who really likes to please. Ashley looks fantastic In her birthday suit-- Is it any wonder She is everyone's pursuit? Stephany is blogging About another ex, Giving tips to everyone On the joys of sex. Jenna is a lesbian-- Forget about her-- Better talk to Courtney Who'll make you purr. Pamela looks tasty For someone of sixteen-- Look for someone older If you know what I mean. Well endowed mothers With some racy pics Blog about literature And Realpolitik. Is it any wonder That I'm so shy?-- With so many choices, With so many lies. Maybe it is Nadja, Amber, Jill or Kate, To give me inspiration For another day. Jessica is dazzling, Kimberly's a star, Looking so sexy, Yet living so far. If I lived in Texas, Would you love me still? Would we still be kissing In beautiful Brazil? In the streets of Italy, Or in German bars, Would you be my lover If I had no car? Would you whisper softly Every single day: "Mi amor, te quiero" In some small café? Yes, these streets are lovely, Like these passing cars, Like these lonely strangers, Smiling from afar. --Alexander Shaumyan January 14, 2009

Command of the Language I have the command of the language When it comes to frisky sex and Mathematics, For I adore every conic section Of your perfectly proportioned Surface area-- From your sumptuous cones To your magnificent ellipses, And the congruent circles Of your areolas-- Hidden by the hyperbolic veneer Of your bra and your symmetric G-string, Don't get me wrong, for I've Studied the subtle dimensions Of your curvature, And went off on many a tangent, Deriving your continuous Sexual functions, That led me to your delta of Venus, As my y changed with your x, In the act of orgasmic Integration-- Since then I've learned That pi is truly a transcendental Number, That no rational number can Approximate, And you are boundless In your beauty, Opening up my mind To infinite possibilities. January 12, 2008 --Alexander Shaumyan

In a Manner of Speaking In a manner of speaking, I want to kill you, said the drunk redneck to his wife, In a manner of speaking, I don't love you, said my ex (turned vegan) to me, as I returned from a psych ward, hoping for some sort of reconciliation, And in a manner of speaking, the whole world has gone to shit, that no mentally unbalanced poet can improve upon, In a manner of speaking, I was just a haiku before I birthed an epic poem in 2008 and it went something like: In a manner of speaking… In a manner of speaking, there is plenty of beer and loose women, In a manner of speaking, there is plenty of internet journals with useless information, In a manner of speaking, there are plenty of assholes writing about getting laid and anal sex on MySpace, In a manner of speaking, my friend got raped a few years ago and now has occasional herpes outbreaks, which are quite disturbing to her husband, In a manner of speaking, I'm losing faith in humanity and love at times, In a manner of speaking, we just go through the motions, hoping for something to change or something spectacular to happen. But I don't really know any more, trying to make sense of it all, screaming for some sort of sanity that eludes me, In a manner of speaking, I feel alone here, unable to connect to what's around me-- I just told some guy at a bar that I was a Dallas Cowboys fan and I don't even watch football, and he told me to come in my "gear" on Sunday, In a manner of speaking, I feel somewhat liberated because I have no clue as to what I'm doing, knowing that there is really no escape. January 8, 2008 --Alexander Shaumyan

Rebel Sun Rebel sun, you've come undone-- Can I finish what I've begun And is it real, is it real In the end? Thousand fears, thousand lights, Thousand doubts, thousand fights, Keeping me wondering Why did you ever leave me? Thousand steps, thousand miles, Thousand tears, thousand smiles, Keeping me wondering Where did you ever lead me? Look around me, all I've got-- Thousand fools in a parking lot, Drinking, carousing and Admiring nothing. Thousand loves, thousand hates, Thousand nothings to create And still you have risen. Thousand lives, thousand deaths, You were a dying man's last breath But still I believed it. So you rose, you rose high Up in the glorious morning sky, Setting afire the dreams I made, Setting anew the plans I laid Till they were visible To all who wished to see. Rebel sun, you were my light, As I was walking through the night, Drowning in this sterile swamp Of mediocrity. Rebel sun, you saw me through For who I am, and I love you For being there through All these years for me. And if tomorrow I should die, I know you'll still be in the sky, Lighting a path To all who wish to see. January 4, 2008 --Alexander Shaumyan www.shaumyan.com

Thomas Chickenbone He was demented and well-known By those who knew him not at all-- The thundering Thomas Chickenbone, Who walked these famed poetic halls. The younger lemmings aped his writing, That came from his almighty quill, That wrought much jealousy and fighting Among his peers of lesser skill. Larger-than-life, he walked alone, Like some half human and half beast-- The brazen Thomas Chickenbone-- The bomb of poetry released. He rolled his r's and hissed his s's In every poem he would write Like presidential addresses, That he delivered day and night. He was determined like a stone, And no one could break his will-- The feisty Thomas Chickenbone With balls of fire in his quill. Some women said that he alone Had stamina of a thousand men, For mighty Thomas Chickenbone Was very potent with his pen. --Alexander Shaumyan August 18, 2007 www.shaumyan.com

For Kit Kit's lovely like the blooms of May That open in the dazzling sun-- She's a girl whose beauty stuns Like a magnificent bouquet. Her eyes are radiant and wide, That with a strange excitement beam-- Kit's eyes are lovely like a dream That glow like the stars at night. No prettier girl you'll ever meet-- Kit's lovelier than all the rest-- Her smile alone would arrest All traffic on a busy street. And if you ever meet this girl, Perhaps you'll glimpse that inner light Within her spirit free and bright That brings back joy into this world. April 24, 2007 --Alexander Shaumyan www.shaumyan.com

I Don't Want to Be a Poet I'll be a Marxist, a Communist A pacifist, an anarchist, a Democrat Red, white, green or blue Whatever I can do To get in bed with you --The Bastard Fairies, Memento Mori I don't want to be a poet Just to be heard by other Poets or would-be poets At some phony Open mike poetry Readings or poetry Slams with everyone Desperate for attention-- I don't want to be a poet Just to be lost in the Nameless crowd of others Like me, analyzing my style And imagery, taking notes Of what works and what Doesn't-- I don't want to be a poet If being a poet means Being a part of some Closed and exclusive Community of those Who think they know The true meaning Of my words-- I just want to walk the Streets away from other Poets because that is What I do best when I am alone-- For poetry is a personal Business, not to be Confused with some Circus performance Or competition of who Has the most spectacular Act in the show-- For I have left the Show long time ago To the pretty boys With acoustic guitars, Serenading pretty Young girls With overactive Libidos-- No, I don't want to be a poet Just to get laid Or get some rise out of you, Or to hear you flatter My choice of words, So that I can flatter You in return-- I don't want to be a poet Just to pretend that I know where you're Coming from, For I have no idea Of who you are Or what you're after-- A new lover, a new car, A million dollar jackpot, Or a following that Worships your words? No, you have never been In my shoes, nor I have Been in yours, So let's not pretend That we believe Or feel the same way-- And you can call me Or write me, Telling me all about it, For in the end you Just want someone To pinch your nerve Or to tickle your throat, To lick your nipples Or to caress your crotch-- But I'm probably Not the one To do the job-- I don't want to be a poet To give you an orgasm Or to make you Feel good about yourself-- I'm just here masturbating With my words, and if It tickles you or Disturbs you--it's just Fine with me, And if it makes you Get up in the morning And look at things In a different light-- It's really OK-- But I had nothing to Do with your getting laid With that girl that You tried some bullshit on-- That was you, not me-- For I'm just another man, Expressing who I am In this fucked up world Of oversexed and Brain-dead idiots... And nothing more. March 26, 2007 --Alexander Shaumyan