Czech It Out! I'm A Somewhat Legitimate Poet!

Here it is!
A mighty thank you to PressBoard for publishing and posting a bit of my work. I've posted the two poems "Rockwell" and "Infini-tea" on here before so it's nothing new for you regulars (if there are any regulars...*cricket cricket*). Anyways this is very cool for me and much appreciated!

http://pressboardpress.com/2013/03/06/two-poems-by-chris-franz/

Godspeed,
C.B. Franz

Antiquated Biofeedback

The In-Laws

Want to watch the world fall

and think of ways to build it up,

know all the ways to cry?

What will you think when others die?

Hell fire & Skeletons.

Be my Helter Skelter.

Is there a line between eroticism & artistry?
Will you make both me?
Understand my hypocrisy

when I say this world needs to change

then stay home to watch TV.

Know I have a dozen tattoos

no intention of getting a single one.

Don’t watch while I air guitar

This world is my own,

know I can’t let you into all of it.

Can you follow that

I’d love nothing more

than a mattress on a loft floor.

but that hope carries a past.

“Awesome” is a phrase

from my Jesus-lovin’ days

and I’m not sure where they went

I had a family back then.

And to keep them happy
I’ll still go on Sundays.

I want to save this world

and I know so little beyond.

I don’t know what’s wrong

and I want superpowers.
And I’m telling you all this

because I know you don’t exist.

An Analyst

Chapter One:

Hemingway

Miller, Mamet or Hammett

never found themselves on the chaise

Cummings & Eliot

Sylvia and Levy had their own way

but never needed to talk about Daddy

(No, yuck. I don’t even know that for sure.

plus there’s too many allusions. It’s like
Saturday
Night

Live

on Prozac.)

and I feel as though

if Franz should be the one they’re alluding

then with hard liquor &brooding

That’s the way to do it.

New Yorke tunes  & pathetic scrawl

I’ll publicize the worst, almost all

except I must stay (husshhhh )

cause that’s oh so (husshhhh)
Stalling till I kick it cause

post-mortem is where it’s at, man.

Leftovers

He hadn't counted sheep for weeks

Until he heard your name

Two syllables bounced ear to ear

As he desperately tried to wrangle

Ewes turned black with fear

Over a section of wood fence

And they fell as his head tilted.

A hypothetical made possible for him,

He understood what he had done

And what he was doing as he looked through

Texts to exes

He only has one ex.

Less sex, more drunk sunken thoughts of flirtation

At occasions with women & boys where the main attraction

Isn't a fraction of how hard he’s pressing his back against the wall.

Leaving smashed and paranoid for home so he won’t face the

potentiality of  understanding that acquaintances like

Dirty Dancing 2.

And friends can amend but they won’t tell him of their future

Because now he understands what he’s done.

It’s a slippery slope and he’s got his ski’s on.

Because he wants to get his fling on

A kiss with a girl he’ll never miss at the home of

A friend with a girl he adored a love requited then withdrawn

Breathing in smog from a bong in a toy house of a little sister

To forget two syllables

And start thinking about sisters and leftovers

Spit shining sloppy seconds to swap spit for seconds

At a showing of “Friends With Benefits” without any.

Taking the TP with him to the dining room seat.

In the basement there’s a VHS of “Titanic”

Playing and they watched the whole thing with no interruption

But I’ve never seen “Chocolat” the whole way through

And I don’t intend to. 

_______________________________________________________________

My, my, my it has been a while hasn't it? This is actually good for us though, we needed some space didn't we? To be honest I wish I had posted sooner and to be even more honest these poems aren't all that new. I was flipping through the Word Doc. where I keep all my poems and I found these three little gems and was surprised that I hadn't posted them. To be honest I think the needed to breathe a little, to age a bit. I hated "An Analyst", I thought it was too pretentious & forced when I wrote it but now it's pretentious and forced but I like it. 

I also have some good news!
The site PressBoardPress (Pressboardpress.com) , which publishes short stories and poetry, has selected a couple of my poems that I submitted and are going to be publishing them tomorrow/today (Wednesday, March 6th) at Noon! So now, I am almost officially a published poet somewhat. Next step is to ACTUALLY be published on good 'ol fashioned paper and be sold to middle aged house wives in grocery stores in paperback with hyper-realistic sexy covers.

Anyways I will be posting the publishing tomorrow when it is out and letting you all know again. 

This is also the reason I am posting three hot from the oven poems for you all because I wanted to have some new and interesting material for newcomers (Hello to all you fresh young bluejays!) who see the PressBoard posting and come to check the site out.

Well that's all I have for you tonight and as always

Godnight & Godspeed,
C.B. Franz 

10cc Of Profundity

A few things tonight:
I have gone through and changed all my poems from Lucida Handwriting font to Times New Roman.
Whoopee. I'm sure you all care. The reason I did this was to create a more professional looking blog* and so that my poetry is easier to read.

The poetry and music page should be up to date now, I haven't kept up on that for a while and I do apologize.


*The word "blog" itself is the most unprofessional word in the English language.


Also, as I was going through old posts I found this:

I tell you this, because I know to be true

When you hang your life by a single thread

you're bound to fall through.

And when you'll look for those you'd hope would catch you.

It seems they rarely do.

Little diddy I wrote back when I was a bit more cynical, however I still find it to be pretty truthful and relevant to how I'm feeling and somethings I've been dealing with and talking to friend about.

To end this evening we will have some good music from Little Comets and 21 Pilots.

(There are annotations in both videos to link you to all the songs in each artists prospective album.
They're both some of my new favorite artists.)

Godspeed & Goodnight,
C.B. 

Skittish Invasion

Rockwell

Again I shall call myself out.
Let it be on record & shitty reference:

Discretion be damned.

I can hold my drink,

that’s what I’m here to show.

Clever.

(like that

“habeas corpus” line.

which loses depth

when you truly know .)

Stoned,

you drew a tiny robot.

Drunk,

I drew one, worse

Handed a sharpie,

left my mark on your coffee table.

And yours are clearly better

Mine born hushed on a syllabus out of boredom

& transparent flirtation.

You’ll be defended in a diner

the next morning.

by a friend who wouldn’t be

if he found the page titled Her.

falling from my notebook.

This is my nocturnal admission

Before the fire station is a street sign

with your name that

precedes a second with a

misspelled music school

where another name I’d like to

have you etch out on my shoulder attends.

A phone full of

Unfinished Bettys

in this less than

Norman Rockwell life. 

_______________________________________________________

Girls & boys we have a very special guest today.
Maddy Weiss is not only a good friend but a kick-ass poet and she's actually like been published online unlike someone who just posts his awful poems on a blog. I digress, honestly her poems are really awesome. If you like my writing you should check out the link below and if you don't like my writing stop coming here but still consider reading her poetry below. 

Here's one of her poems that was/ is on Press Board Press:

Your body can be divided into small planes that are flat on the small of your back and they curve where your shoulders are. I will divide your body into small planes to measure surface area and to measure the complexities of why you love me in a spider web or across the white board of a sorry math professor that is forced to measure how much you love me based on surface area. I love your geometry and the noise of your sigh. You love to press down on the curve of my hips and my geometry.

by Madeline Weiss

Here's the link to "Six Poems" (which includes the one above) on Press Board Press. Cheers.
http://pressboardpress.com/2012/11/19/six-poems-by-madeline-weiss/



Also, Beatles.

Godspeed & Goodnight,
C.B. Franz 

Poems As Shitty And Unforgiving As Your Dorm Shower

Futon

I don't think you know what it is.
I think you know what sex is,
what movies,
pop,
&
paper-back grocery store novellas
have told you.

I've been trying to avoid
t y p i n g it because it's
just what a poet would say.

I guess that's it.

_____________________________________________________________

I don't know if this is a first because honestly I don't keep track of things that well but I'm pretty sure this is the first "poem" I've ever written straight on the blog without having it on a piece of paper or other doc. So that's exciting I guess. You guys also deserve a song because it's been a while and this is a really crappy return poem.

I'm working* on a collection of essays kind of like the few I've posted on here.
It's working title is called "Tattoos, Monopoly & Other Things I Can't Commit To."
So that might happen.
Also I'm considering on switching all my poems to just regular Times New Roman or something to make them easier to read and more legitimate professional poems on a completely legitimate and professional...blog. Thoughts?

Here's some St. Vincent too.

*Thinking of working

Hands & Heart Full OR Morning Class

9:40am

please please

please  forget

                    when I spilled

              flat diet pepsi

                     in front

                    of you.
                I was late.

                   you are cute.

                     flustered.

on the floor of the lobby I must’ve seemed like such a little freshboy.

               stu    crazy                         straw        stupid stupid.

What               pid        a way               lid cup      to start the day

Threading The Fuse

No Farseers

Because tonight,

i'll lack the pen

to yell what i feel at those who'll listen.

The past surrounds me

and i move

with it to darker days.

And the music will ring out and take me back,

to lesser days of lesser pains and running ink.

I'm no killer, but to be an arson would be fun.

Can't i watch sparks fly without getting burned?

But boys who play with fire often leave with hands full of ashes.

Children learn not to touch the stove, but i guess we aren't children.

Those kindergarten songs burned with the bridges we crossed,

wood burns faster than blood,

so we'll build on that and sink to our waists,

but still breathe.

Barely can one ever swim, but it only gets deeper.

So wait an hour or a year, find your heart, cry my dear

in the crimson waters. We'll wade together

but i'll wait if you want.

I'll pour the amber liquid and light the match.

I'll burn down this town to find you.

For i can burn the words, but never the persons.

For this is the song, oh this is the song of Free Arsons.

La Douleur Exquise Or Pardon My French

" I decided to stop pitying myself. Other than my eye, two things aren't paralyzed,

my imagination and my memory."

Felt Pen 

Take away the distractions and what am I?

Just a frightened little reference to something you can relate to.

When you get to brass tacks you find the log in your eye

and they’ve taken the spring from your step

stopping

at every ledge, place to lean to check the sheen of

Pushed in push pins in your sole &

walking on the heels of every

nice, decent, semi interesting, semi attractive girl who talks to me

or doesn’t.

And then I sit down and wait a year because then I can add

to the bad collection

of needles in my arch
I will see my own idiocy when someone’s coming after me

or at least it seems, whatever my vanity leads me to believe.
And on the days of the week I think

“I don’t want to be so weak, I want to be confident and honest

And sweep them on my feet.”

A stunning girl

I can’t have 
steps into

my home

and I shut up like a clam.

What do I say, with a glass of orange juice in hand?

I wish I could say interesting things.

And the universe, she likes to teach me things

And with each thing I think I’m an ass

Which I am.

Oh, what I am.

La Douleur Exquise, what a wonderful phrase.
Suspicion made certain would let the wide awake lie.

Your shoulder in my hand, with a man,

Could I have done something were the head with the man?

Return, I’ll clean up.
Until then

To sprint around with mason fisted jars

after every pixie & dame

who piques my gaze.
Perks of being a solitary coward

allow me to stare from a distance.

Your dress is so inviting.
Cut off my hands,

You can take them in a box.
to hold every now and then

I’d be luckier than most men. 

Reality

I tell you this,
my sometimes friends,
do not trust words written in pen.
Do not believe the sights you see

Or the things you hear from listening

Do not trust your art

And do not trust your friends

Your loved ones

And acquaintances

Do not trust anyone you can or cannot see

And most important,

Do not trust things said by me.

And even more important,

Do not trust yourself, never ever trust yourself.

For the saying goes, keep your friends close and your enemies closer

And who is closer to you than thee? 

14

We never made it to this day,

On it I felt awkward.

Obliged to meet you at your locker door

Now,

5 months till the day I worry.
I waited with baited breath

As all my school chums go steady

And I pin myself to that indulgent title of “Lonely”
“Little Miss Depression”.
To be pitied, how lovely.
I wanted to be wanted

& left alone.

Sgt.

What a concert of a woman.
Commuters I’ve seen

a dozen on the street

But she’s

A patched burlap green girl

I want to understand what she does

Why she taps her foot to her songs

Is it the same reason I tap mine?
I want to strong arm to the front

For a meet-and-greet

Be impolite to get the best seat,

See front seated be up front

With her & know.
I like when my friends don’t understand

Staring.

Flailing, time signatures

Through hair whose name I have yet to have.

You seem nice

And I hope that’s not the case.
I hope you’re diabolical

And over mint chocolate chip

I can tell you my brave new world.

This used to be a discolored ballad

Let me show you waterworks for colours.

Let’s worry about nothing

and whisper sweet somethings

What is your name?

Infini-tea

Dressed to the toe

So people look

Let them look

Can’t tell if they’re impressed

Hope it turns you on.

All who wonder will lust

This wonder,

Of impending pressure

On a house of discontent

And the dress on your habeas corpus

Let the lost eyes wander until they're caught.

To not be charged till the touch.

Seconds are not choice

But one man’s treasure

Is another man with similar tastes venture.
Captial T, Treason

Any thing less wouldn’t be quite grammatical

Don’t mind my stuttering

It means you've tied my tongue

with the idea of yours. 

My, my, my, my.
It has been quite a long time since I've given you lovelies anything to read.
Well here's 5 relatively new poems.

It's been so long, I have so much to show & tell

Movies, art, poems, music etc. etc. but that's for another night, I am quite sleepy.

We've got a lot of catching up to do

Godspeed,
C.B. 

Ahhhh-ahh. Ahh-ah. Ah-ah.

A little bit of what I've been listening to lately. It's not that a lot is on my right now but... feels like 2 or 3 half finished ideas and thoughts are just spreading out like spilled milk. No use crying over really but I don't know what it is. I'm shameless about my "clever" thoughts.

Godspeed,
C.B. 

(Saw Ghostland this past Sunday. One of the best concerts I've been too. It was so much fun, many reccomends.)

Matchstuck Men & Other Freaking Clever Titles

Just Vague Enough To Work

½ the time my clothes don’t

Even feel comfortable

But I think people will think
I have something.
Just jokes people want anymore.

Jokes & agreement & difference, they want me to seem

Cool.
When I say difference,

I mean difference agreeable

Comfortable.

Fitted, lookin’ sexy, difference.
Difference we can market at social gathering
You’ll be a hoot, you old night owl.

You old wordplay, sell out single.
I ran out of jokes and people got mad

And I got sad

So jokes, no more jokes it all feels so fake

We all say that. I’ve run out of originality.
I ain’t marketable any more

I’m vain, mental masturbating prophet without profit

And money managing skills

And the idea that rhyming will make the poems better.
I can’t even get mad at you for not respecting,

Understanding,

Not making fun of

Me cause I have no clue who I am.
It’s all defined by what I own and what I listen to.
What a sad life.

My death will be shitty at this rate.
I’m trying to be artsy,
I look up things to impress.
But there’s a method to these matchsticks

It’s not just a name I came up with.