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Boredom is always counter-revolutionary. Always.

quote by Guy Debord
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Tale XVIII

THE WAGER.

Counter and Clubb were men in trade, whose pains,
Credit, and prudence, brought them constant gains;
Partners and punctual, every friend agreed
Counter and Clubb were men who must succeed.
When they had fix'd some little time in life,
Each thought of taking to himself a wife:
As men in trade alike, as men in love,
They seem'd with no according views to move;
As certain ores in outward view the same,
They show'd their difference when the magnet came.
Counter was vain: with spirit strong and high,
'Twas not in him like suppliant swain to sigh:
'His wife might o'er his men and maids preside,
And in her province be a judge and guide;
But what he thought, or did, or wish'd to do,
She must not know, or censure if she knew;
At home, abroad, by day, by night, if he
On aught determined, so it was to be:
How is a man,' he ask'd, 'for business fit,
Who to a female can his will submit?
Absent a while, let no inquiring eye
Or plainer speech presume to question why:
But all be silent; and, when seen again,
Let all be cheerful--shall a wife complain?
Friends I invite, and who shall dare t'object,
Or look on them with coolness or neglect?
No! I must ever of my house be head,
And, thus obey'd, I condescend to wed.'
Clubb heard the speech--'My friend is nice, said

he;
A wife with less respect will do for me:
How is he certain such a prize to gain?
What he approves, a lass may learn to feign,
And so affect t'obey till she begins to reign;
A while complying, she may vary then,
And be as wives of more unwary men;
Beside, to him who plays such lordly part,
How shall a tender creature yield her heart;
Should he the promised confidence refuse,
She may another more confiding choose;
May show her anger, yet her purpose hide,
And wake his jealousy, and wound his pride.
In one so humbled, who can trace the friend?
I on an equal, not a slave, depend;
If true, my confidence is wisely placed,
And being false, she only is disgraced.'
Clubb, with these notions, cast his eye around;

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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I Am A Cliche

I am a cliche I am a cliche
I am a cliche I am a cliche
I am a cliche you've seen before
I am a cliche that lives next door
I am a cliche you know what I mean
I am a cliche pink is obscene
Yama yama yama yama yama yama
Boredom boredom boring boredom
Yama yama yama yama yama yama
Boredom boredom boring boredom

song performed by X-Ray Spex
Added by Lucian Velea
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I Am A Cliche

I am a cliche I am a cliche
I am a cliche I am a cliche
I am a cliche you've seen before
I am a cliche that lives next door
I am a cliche you know what I mean
I am a cliche pink is obscene
Yama yama yama yama yama yama
Boredom boredom boring boredom
Yama yama yama yama yama yama
Boredom boredom boring boredom

song performed by X-Ray Spex
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In Memory Of The Unknown Poet, Robert Boardman Vaughn

But the essential advantage for a poet is not, to have a beautiful world with which to deal: it is to be able to see beneath both beauty and ugliness; to see the boredom, and the horror, and the glory.
T. S. ELIOT

It was his story. It would always be his story.
It followed him; it overtook him finally—
The boredom, and the horror, and the glory.

Probably at the end he was not yet sorry,
Even as the boots were brutalizing him in the alley.
It was his story. It would always be his story,

Blown on a blue horn, full of sound and fury,
But signifying, O signifying magnificently
The boredom, and the horror, and the glory.

I picture the snow as falling without hurry
To cover the cobbles and the toppled ashcans completely.
It was his story. It would always be his story.

Lately he had wandered between St. Mark’s Place and the Bowery,
Already half a spirit, mumbling and muttering sadly.
O the boredom, and the horror, and the glory.

All done now. But I remember the fiery
Hypnotic eye and the raised voice blazing with poetry.
It was his story and would always be his story—
The boredom, and the horror, and the glory.

poem by Donald Justice
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Sneaky With the Looks

Sneaky with the looks that they give.

I perceive myself alone.
I feel a curiosity directed.
At first I am not sure,
If the curiosity is directed towards me.
And I look around.
Nothing is there to block my steps.
And I begin to whistle in nervousness.
To then talk to myself...
In a calming peacefulness.
I admit is beginning to get a bit restless.

Sneaky with the looks that they give.

I am among the trees.
Alone in fresh Spring breezes.

Sneaky with the looks that they give.

I begin to hear the chirping of birds.
Conversing to break the silence,
With a charm that does not disturb.
And they fly high between the trees.
Trying to hide within the leaves.

Sneaky with the looks that they give.

I follow a path made clear of obstacles.
I stop.
So does the chirping.
I pick up a small rock,
To toss as I also pick up a twig.
There is a wind.
And I continue my journey.

Wings flap as if there is clapping.
I adjust my cap.
And two squirrels chase...
Across my path!
To play tag and hide and seek.
I stop to watch.

Sneaky with the looks that they give.

I look up!
And there they all sit.
As if in conference on a branch.
Together...
Laughing!

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Pantomime – Red Skelton and His Cat

The old man comes cautiously down
The stairs to the kitchen.
He takes the last step
That isn't there -
A bone shuddering stop.

Pausing, he searches the dark room
For the dangling light cord,
And moves toward
The center of the room -
Carefully.

It's unfortunate as the cat
Is discovered sitting in the middle of the floor.
As the old man steps on its tail,
It howls it great pain -
Startling the old man.

Finally, after groping the empty air,
He finds the cord.
Pulling it; he is
Blinded by the sudden light -
Causing him to cover his eyes.

Looking about the room.
He sees, in the corner,
The offended cat.
He ask for forgiveness -
Stoops to pet and caress.

He stands, with apparent pain,
Moves to the kitchen counter,
Sees a number of cans,
That must be cat food –
And selects one.

He shows the can to the cat;
Returns to the counter and
Taking a hand-cranked opener
He begins -
To open it with great difficulty.

Finally opened,
He places the lid on the counter,
Raises the can to his nose,
Smiles appreciately, bends and -
Offers the cat a smell.

Bracing his back he stands.
Takes a spoon,

[...] Read more

poem by Sidi J. Mahtrow
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Gioconda And Si-Ya-U

to the memory of my friend SI-YA-U,
whose head was cut off in Shanghai

A CLAIM

Renowned Leonardo's
world-famous
"La Gioconda"
has disappeared.
And in the space
vacated by the fugitive
a copy has been placed.

The poet inscribing
the present treatise
knows more than a little
about the fate
of the real Gioconda.
She fell in love
with a seductive
graceful youth:
a honey-tongued
almond-eyed Chinese
named SI-YA-U.
Gioconda ran off
after her lover;
Gioconda was burned
in a Chinese city.

I, Nazim Hikmet,
authority
on this matter,
thumbing my nose at friend and foe
five times a day,
undaunted,
claim
I can prove it;
if I can't,
I'll be ruined and banished
forever from the realm of poesy.

1928

Part One
Excerpts from Gioconda's Diary

15 March 1924: Paris, Louvre Museum

At last I am bored with the Louvre Museum.

[...] Read more

poem by Nazim Hikmet
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War is Boredom

War is Boredom

War is Boredom

War can be defined as long periods of boredom, short burst of terror, seemingly lasting forever, To those who are there, Waiting for another outburst, which never seems to cease.
You Pray, you count all your blessings, the outgoing not what you fear, its the incoming that can't be trusted.
War can be defined as boredom, for those who's life was spared, as the days in between that matters, on those who life spent there.

2008

poem by Charles Garcia
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Between The Thin Line

He was a bright, happy, smart kid to begin with
who always kept to himself by the dried lake
playing with the rainbows and butterflies
messing with the true colours of the world

So one gloomy Sunday boredom went to see him
to let the kid taste how bitter the reality really is!
but unexpectedly, the boy kicked the boredom in its ribs
and the boredom laughed so hard that its teeth fell off…

The good thing is after that day the boy learned one thing
he learned that boredom is a one ticklish son of a bitch!
so of course he, the boy kept doing what he loved doing
without giving a rats-arse about the rest of the god forsaken,
cruel, rat-trap of a world which he knew was surely out there

He yelled his lungs off at the empty, cloudless skies
jumped as far as the moon and breathed some fresh air,
swam through the seven oceans, walked a thousand miles,
flew over the skyscrapers and winked at the cute girls
who stood open mouthed, staring at him, behind windows
and rode the lightning across the tallest mountains

and so finally when the moments stood up on him
he simply refused to lose to the jumbled mess of confusion
which each and everyone out there refered to as life.

poem by Pamuditha Zen Anjana
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La Muse Vénale (The Venal Muse)

Ô muse de mon coeur, amante des palais,
Auras-tu, quand Janvier lâchera ses Borées,
Durant les noirs ennuis des neigeuses soirées,
Un tison pour chauffer tes deux pieds violets?

Ranimeras-tu donc tes épaules marbrées
Aux nocturnes rayons qui percent les volets?
Sentant ta bourse à sec autant que ton palais
Récolteras-tu l'or des voûtes azurées?

II te faut, pour gagner ton pain de chaque soir,
Comme un enfant de choeur, jouer de l'encensoir,
Chanter des Te Deum auxquels tu ne crois guère,

Ou, saltimbanque à jeun, étaler tes appas
Et ton rire trempé de pleurs qu'on ne voit pas,
Pour faire épanouir la rate du vulgaire.

The Venal Muse

Muse of my heart, you who love palaces,
When January frees his north winds, will you have,
During the black ennui of snowy evenings,
An ember to warm your two feet blue with cold?

Will you bring the warmth back to your mottled shoulders,
With the nocturnal beams that pass through the shutters?
Knowing that your purse is as dry as your palate,
Will you harvest the gold of the blue, vaulted sky?

To earn your daily bread you are obliged
To swing the censer like an altar boy,
And to sing Te Deums in which you don't believe,

Or, hungry mountebank, to put up for sale your charm,
Your laughter wet with tears which people do not see,
To make the vulgar herd shake with laughter.

— Translated by William Aggeler

The Venal Muse

Muse of my heart, of palaces the lover,
Where will you, when the blast of winter blows
In the black boredom of snowed lights, discover
A glowing brand to warm your violet toes?

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Baudelaire
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BOREDOM in retrospective shades

It mostly rained mid afternoon

Pressed against the window

Dark dreary

Feeling nothing

Listless sad damp saturdays

Curtained off from the day

And sunless

Full of football league results

And muttered conversations over steaming tea

Football saturdays full of rain and nothing

With winter pressing in like night

Midday and waiting

For the boredom to sink in!

The hot cat slinks in

Lazy in summer pose

Limbs stretched over half read papers

Leaving pawprints across the broad sheet in repose

Forgotten bodies lie abandoned on the lawn

Waiting for post mortem

All thoughts of tomorrow suspended

The ice cream thawing slowly the thermostat is blown

Who wants to know about the weather?

There in the graveyard for the idle

Birds have nested made their home

Boredom

[...] Read more

poem by Yvette Smith
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Revel In The Joy Of Books

Revel in the Joy of books

Revel in the joy of books
On the joy of get hooked
It’s an addiction that’s boredom proof
Indulge, it’s fun to revel in the joy of books

Take up a book and get hooked
Nothing’s wrong with getting hooked on the joy of books
Don’t’ be a fool change your outlook take up a book
Look into the joy of books

Revel in the joy of books
In monotony don’t remain stuck take a journey with a book
Find adventure and excitement in the joy of books
A book will certainly change your gloomy outlook

Take up a boot and leisurely get hooked
Books are enlightening just try reading
Free your imagination with a book allow it to roam freely
Shucks get with the program revel in the joy of books

Books they are boredom proof just revel in the joy of books.

Anthony S.Phillander©280112

Revel in the Joy of books

Revel in the joy of books
On the joy of get hooked
It’s an addiction that’s boredom proof
Indulge, it’s fun to revel in the joy of books

Take up a book and get hooked
Nothing’s wrong with getting hooked on the joy of books
Don’t’ be a fool change your outlook take up a book
Look into the joy of books

Revel in the joy of books
In monotony don’t remain stuck take a journey with a book
Find adventure and excitement in the joy of books
A book will certainly change your gloomy outlook

Take up a boot and leisurely get hooked

[...] Read more

poem by Anthony Shurland Phillander
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Stardom or Boredom! A LONELY RED BIRD Flies in My Natural Kingdom!

I am eight and twenty, a lonely rose – no one close to sit with;
Here are no companions nor kin and kith, I live in lonely myth!
Sitting in the empty hall by myself at the day dawn in the white;
I feel awful – awful beyond all – crying gently dusk in the night.
Stardom or boredom! A lonely red bird flies in my natural kingdom!
Harum-scarum! Humdrum! A solo bird beats the lonely drum!

Aloof I am, sitting in the dark; aloof I am, with my lonely bark;
Aloof I am, butterflies helter-skelter in me at lonely gaze!
Aloof I am, there is a void; there is a vacuum in my lonely daze;
Aloof I am sitting with empty ache; aloof I am – a lonely lark.
Stardom or boredom! A lonely red bird flies in my natural kingdom!
Harum-scarum! Humdrum! A solo bird beats the lonely drum!

Aloof I am, these many shocks, lonely talks only for me, tell me why?
Aloof I am, I beg thee – don’t enter my only soul everyday, I say....
Aloof I am, I don’t want to be aloof in anyway – even on holiday;
Aloof I am, I say thee – I don't want to live, I want to die for lonely sigh!
Stardom or boredom! A lonely red bird flies in my natural kingdom!
Harum-scarum! Humdrum! A solo bird beats the lonely drum!

Aloof I am – a sole flower in a field; a sole child does not shield;
Aloof I am – a moonless night, stormy weather sets the tone…….
Aloof I am in turbulent weather, me a solo feather in deserted scene;
Aloof I am, in lonely battle, with a fresh cut I gave up! I yield!
Stardom or boredom! A lonely red bird flies in my natural kingdom!
Harum-scarum! Humdrum! A solo bird beats the lonely drum!

poem by Harindhar Reddy
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David Bowies Revolutionary Song

When people call us revolutionary
Theyre just tryin to see
All that we choose
When all we want is everybody free
The universe would be one brotherhood
It isnt wrong to be prepared to fight
Together to unite if we believe
In giving everything our heart and soul
Until we reach the goal we should achieve
It shouldnt matter if were brown or white
Yellow or black as night to anyone
Were all born equal with the self same rights
Sharing the same daylight under the sun
If loving freedom makes me quality
Of opportunity is where revolutionary
Constantly, fervently, firmly
Revolutionary

song performed by David Bowie
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Boredom Is Death's Luxury

BOREDOM IS DEATH'S LUXURY

Boredom is Death's Luxury,
The idle wasting of an idle life.

What Chance do we have to dream
When inside all is
Empty and Ended
Lost?

Oh we will begin again somehow, somewhere else.

But today now inside
Is only this Nowhereness
This Endless Stillness
This Nothingness.

Boredom is the Horror of Everyday Life
I feel this now so deeply
as I write this.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Lonely:

Lonely,
So, so lonely,
I feel like that flower I seen today,
It was in a yard surrounded by nothing but weeds and grass, none of his flower friends were out with him swaying along with him in the breeze,
So he was swaying all alone in the breeze.

Lonely,
Lonely,
So, so lonely,
Along with the loneliness, comes along boredom,
To make me feel even worse,
Great!
Fabulous!

My boredom is growing old,
So, so old,
I am about to scream,
So as not to be board anymore,
Who is with me?
On this road of pure boredom?

poem by Sherry Painter
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One Day

Dont get me wrong
I think Im in love
But the feeling in the word is more
Than your crystal eyes will ever see in me
Dont get me wrong
Open your eyes
Although I cannot show my heart
Ill watch and hope while you are near to me
One day Ill capture you
And call you to my side
One day Ill take you from
The boredom of our lives
One day well fly away
To the kingdom of my dreams
One day Ill find myself
And wrap it in my love for you
Birds of the sky, may I borrow your wings?
Very soon Ill ask my love
To travel with me to the world outside
Cherry trees, may I borrow your bloom?
Very soon Ill ask my love
To come inside the nest Ill build alone
One day Ill capture you
And call you to my side
One day Ill take you from
The boredom of our lives
One day well fly away
To the kingdom of my dreams
One day Ill find myself
And wrap it in my love for you
Animal friends
Help me decide
When should I ask my love to leave?
Ill beg of you that shell say yes to me
Breathe in deep
Now is the time
She looks at me and gently smiles
As if she knew Id ask her all the time
One day Ill capture you
And call you to my side
One day Ill take you from
The boredom of our lives
One day well fly away
To the kingdom of my dreams
One day Ill find myself
And wrap it in my love for you

song performed by Genesis
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The Twelve

III
Our sons have gone
to serve the Reds
to serve the Reds
to risk their heads!

O bitter,bitter pain,
Sweet living!
A torn overcoat
an Austrian gun!

-To get the bourgeosie
We'll start a fire
a worldwide fire, and drench it
in blood-
The good Lord bless us!

-O you bitter bitterness,
boring boredom,
deadly boredom.

This is how I will
spend my time.

This is how I will
scratch my head,

munch on seeds,
some sunflower seeds,

play with my knife
play with my knife.

You bourgeosie, fly as a sparrow!
I'll drink your blood,

your warm blood, for love,
for dark-eyed love.

God, let this soul, your servant,
rest in peace.

Such boredom!

XII
... On they march with sovereign tread...
‘Who else goes there? Come out! I said
come out!’ It is the wind and the red

[...] Read more

poem by Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok
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Spleen (II)

J'ai plus de souvenirs que si j'avais mille ans.

Un gros meuble à tiroirs encombré de bilans,
De vers, de billets doux, de procès, de romances,
Avec de lourds cheveux roulés dans des quittances,
Cache moins de secrets que mon triste cerveau.
C'est une pyramide, un immense caveau,
Qui contient plus de morts que la fosse commune.
— Je suis un cimetière abhorré de la lune,
Où comme des remords se traînent de longs vers
Qui s'acharnent toujours sur mes morts les plus chers.
Je suis un vieux boudoir plein de roses fanées,
Où gît tout un fouillis de modes surannées,
Où les pastels plaintifs et les pâles Boucher
Seuls, respirent l'odeur d'un flacon débouché.

Rien n'égale en longueur les boiteuses journées,
Quand sous les lourds flocons des neigeuses années
L'ennui, fruit de la morne incuriosité,
Prend les proportions de l'immortalité.
— Désormais tu n'es plus, ô matière vivante!
Qu'un granit entouré d'une vague épouvante,
Assoupi dans le fond d'un Sahara brumeux;
Un vieux sphinx ignoré du monde insoucieux,
Oublié sur la carte, et dont l'humeur farouche
Ne chante qu'aux rayons du soleil qui se couche.

---------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------

Spleen

I have more memories than if I'd lived a thousand years.

A heavy chest of drawers cluttered with balance-sheets,
Processes, love-letters, verses, ballads,
And heavy locks of hair enveloped in receipts,
Hides fewer secrets than my gloomy brain.
It is a pyramid, a vast burial vault
Which contains more corpses than potter's field.
— I am a cemetery abhorred by the moon,
In which long worms crawl like remorse
And constantly harass my dearest dead.
I am an old boudoir full of withered roses,
Where lies a whole litter of old-fashioned dresses,
Where the plaintive pastels and the pale Bouchers,
Alone, breathe in the fragrance from an opened phial.

Nothing is so long as those limping days,
When under the heavy flakes of snowy years
Ennui, the fruit of dismal apathy,

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Baudelaire
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The Flowers In Your Garden

you are telling me that the flowers in your garden
must not be of one and the same kind
or else there will be so much boredom

you are telling me the need of variety:

roses and jasmines
and suntans and daisies, colors and scents all in multiplicity

as you talk your eyelashes curve a little lower than i expected
and your mouth twitches a little bit just to show your dislike
and contempt of the word:

boredom

unnecessary uniformity, that human need of variety
equated with a taste for something new
and even unusual

i completely agree with you.
Let me take you inside my heart
where my garden lies:

flowers of different colors and scents

i have grown them all inside my heart,

feelings of love and
desire, in a variety or sorts
in a diversification of breeds

and if by now you ask me and demand
that i may tell the truth
inside my heart, in my garden of love, you are a very beautiful flower
so sweet scented and well loved and cared by me

but there are other beautiful flowers growing in there,
you are not
just the one and only, as you would like to think
that to be

and i will tell you again,
I agree with you, there is a need really
for a variety,
the one that removes the word

boredom

from the beautiful garden of our vocabulary.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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