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Julia Child cooked
But Meryl Streep was a feast
Of sheer perfection.

Julie Powell blogs
Gets a book deal out of it
what will come of mine?

Inglourious Basterds

Want a glass of milk?
It won’t leave a Hitler stash-
You won’t forget Waltz.

How did the war end?
Quentin rewrites history
what’s a Jew to think?

Ponyo

A waking dreamscape
of sheer creative brilliance
But I fell asleep.

1 The only things I shoot are movies
2 I slip on ice not roofies
3 I throw punchlines not punches
4 And if I was Minnie Mouse, I’d be fucking goofy.
5 No sax or violins I teach flute
6 I don’t just wear a bulletproof vest I wear a three-piece suit,
7 Ironed and folded too-no creases.
8 Only weight I push is helping heavy ladies cross the streetsss
9 Toss the beat take more shit than what’s scraped off toilet seats.
10 Bug out more than spoiled meats
11 so broke all my bread’s got yeast
12 I murder moments like a PoinDexter
13 I don’t fight like Iron Mike I flea like a Chili Pepper
14 too scared to lie cheat and rob.
15 only blocks I run are Legos and Lincoln Logs.
16 I don’t bop heads I make heads bob

You see I am the famous historical figure of speech.
S to the P double e c-h
I represent perfection in annunciation; give erections to pathologists envying my pronunciation.
I am the synecdoche to the city of whirlwinds of imagination,
The prissy, privately praised prized, preferred poet of alliteration
The superbly, wordy hyperbole with the greatest gift of gab since my hell-bent vocals
stole the soul from me, myself and positively apostrophe I am godly inanimate transaction figure of
speak easy bake me a cake as fast as you can, with bendable bodies of work that stand
the testament of defying time personifying rhyme
with no reason

I rock para-docs that heal disease and misery with sick rhymes that infect minds dizzily.
I embody anaphora with a body of oratory, a body of past and present participles
and a body of frozen words eye-cycling out of mouths with alphabetized DNA
that house
Diligent Neanderthal Academics
genetic codes that
seem to say I’m more of a symbol than cymbals
clashing togetherness with me stuck in between
genius and stupidity.

Linguistically sublime, I spit mystically undefined.
Don’t take me literally- in fact don’t take me anywhere at all.
I’m fine standing cemented to this wall right now right here.
Demanding another demented metaphor telling me how things are not what they appear.
To be
Or not to be
Me is
To be nothing at all.

I am the oracle of rhetorical that has you wondering why am I
the epitome of language arts and craftiness with no real questions
ever answered.

]]> http://scottravent.com/language-poems/5-how-do-you-figure/feed http://scottravent.com/sonnets/5-royally-flushed-an-acrostic-sonnet http://scottravent.com/sonnets/5-royally-flushed-an-acrostic-sonnet#comments Tue, 01 Sep 2009 15:30:09 +0000 admin http://scottravent.com/?p=710 J-ewel fuels fools with popomatic pleasure
Ecstasy infectious, she’s unmeasured
Perfection-projecting sexy treasure
Forty amnesiacs can’t forget her.
If she were letters she’d be mmm-eMs.
The Navasana held up by two ssss-STems
Fucking cupcakes filled with precious g-gems
Or melting mouths like ovened-eminems.
Recliner chair pose more like a stone throne
Adorned with diamond studded ice-cream cones
Kisses should be quickly cloned and flown home
It’s this Queen Elizabeth who owns Ohm.
Now this jester’s jonesing for promotion,
Give me the crown jewels of her devotion!

You were Bad, you Beat It, We Remember the Time, but its seems to me their are some not so Smooth-Criminals trying to make a pretty penny off your tilted-hat and loafers. The world of Man collectively stares In The Mirror and sees you surrounded by stacks of cash some soaked in sadness, others glazed with greed. On TV’s and T-shirts, posters, place-mats and pregnant ladies…tatooed and tickled pink (but neither Black or White) from the way you made them feel-their bellowing bellies bearing mini-kickers waiting for their chance to JAM. You-tube, Me-tube, he-she and it-tube, it’s a 24 hour Mike-Cult

It’s almost as if everyone’s been cramming along the Yellow Brick Road for the 50-year-be-all end-all King of Pop Quiz-WIZ-a-thon pissing on pots of solid gold, platinum, multi-platinum at the end of someone else’s rainbow, consuming as much of YOU as they possibly can, (like, like you’re going out of style). But what they don’t realize is that now that you’re dead you’re not going anywhere, so what’s everyone’s rush? Don’t we have an eternity to enjoy your timeless tunes, groundbreaking videos and everlasting impact upon our civilization, or are you planning to come back and take your music, your memories and your monkey up to James Brown, Jimi and Elvis?

I’m sure it was most Dangerous and difficult- moon-walking through your last will and testament, letting go of your crown jewels (literally and figuratively) deciding how to shake shimmy and split your many assets, but I write asking for your advice as to where MY money should go? Should I buy the 2 disc-collectors edition album from AMAZON.com, the Number Ones CD from the Virgin Mega-Store or your complete discography for just five bucks from the homeless dude in Harlem wearing toe-less white socks with soulless black-shoes.

Should I invest in a professional videographer to properly film and edit this very piece, in order to draw more online attention to my own work, both as a writer and performer or should I donate it to one of the many charities you championed during your lifetime?

When buying gloves should I purchase only one, so that the storeowner may give the second to a one-armed orphan found-shivering through winter…outside a sweatshop…in Antarctica? Should I buy the poster of you and the Jackson Four, your delightfully ghoulish zombie-wolf character from Thriller, or the shot of you sun-shielded umbrella covered coming out of court?

More importantly should I TIVO you on Access Hollywood, watch MTV, TMZ, BET, VH1 or should I stay glued to CNN torn between grieving for you, Farrah Fawcett and Sky Saxon, frustrated and annoyed at Anderson Cooper for not telling me what’s really happening in war-torn Iran, the latest missile launching in North Korea and the state of our troops in Afghanistan? How are we supposed to Heal the World when our biggest band-aid is gone?

I certainly couldn’t afford it, but would you pay upwards of 2000 dollars for a ticket to your own funeral, (cuz that was the asking price outside the Staples Center in Downtown LA. Kudus to Ebay who made it stop when enough was enough, pulling away pass-away passes off their site, but shame on so many other online hubs still selling tickets to your upcoming tour, which at this point (but you tell me) I don’t think you’re really up for.

Just a thought, a morbid one at that, but did you sacrifice your own life to help stimulate the economy during these tough financial times or were you covertly assassinated by the true shareholders of your oeuvre of music and merchandise? Perhaps your still alive, cleverly disguised outside Grohman’s Theater in Hollywood posing as an impersonator of yourself, assuring all profits go directly to you?

Whichever it may be, I just hope heaven or wherever you are is a forvever-ever land of dancing, singing, and playfulness, an eternal childhood where You Are Not Alone and the only currency is measured in reams of rhythm, made from the purest of love and understanding. We miss you Michael. ABCeeya on the other side.

T_A_R_A_Z_E_V_I_T_…Z?

Well “S”hit.

It seems as though 95% all newspaper/magazine articles written about me or my group fail to include the proper spelling of my surely stretched surname. Despite careful dictation of this ten letter mouthful of a moniker letter by letter; followed by the obvious yet accommodating acrostic (”T” as in Testicles, “A” as in Arthritis, “R” as in Ringo all the way to “S.” “S” as in Sam, or “S” as in stupid scribbler scribing said statement and still miStaking…despite all of this, no matter what I do, letter number 26 continually pops up in print.

An honest mistake…I guess…if I had simply said the name over the phone or the deggod writer is deceptively dyslexic or if I said it so fast that the tail end of my SSSSSSSSSS, somehow resembled the front end of my ZZZZZZZZ. But there have been actual times where I have seen the name written correct in said notebook of said journalist, later to receive a copy of the article with the malapropped mark of Zorro, sadly sitting bezides its unfamiliar T.

Never mind assumption being the mother of all fuck-ups, not to mention its sister, brother, and surrogate- I realize there is one other reason for this unfortunate error. So here’s me clearing up a few things, so that in the future we don’t need to go through this.

If you were unaware, yes I am Jewish and given this fact most people assume…”Oh he’s a Jew…then his name must end in z, even though he just told me it was an S, oy vell he must have been wrong.”

Because, nine times out of ten a Jewish person’s name will indeed END in Z, (IE., Moskowitz, Rabinowitz, Levitz, and Berkovitz- to name a few) but what most people don’t know is this: My last name (naturally) is taken from my loving father…Peter J. Tarazevits. Well, Peter or “Jewish Pete” as he was affectionately called by my gentile friends in grammar school actually is a convert to the Jewish faith. So my surname, “Tarazevits” is not actually a quote un quote Jewish name. Over the years it has evolved from its Russian origin, Tarazevich (”C” as in Change “H” as in Hypocrite) to its present state of singular supreme ending in “S” existence.

So, think of it this way, my entire name (first and last included) is like a poor-man’s palindrome, whereas the first letter of my first name is the same as the last letter of my last name. No?

Well…how about this?…Ask yourself before writing my name…who is it? Well, it’s Tarazevits. Actually that’s a little dumb. A lot of dumb.

Either way, however you may arise to your erroneous spelling and whoever it may-be who is to blame; whether it is you kind sir, or you madam, or you Mr. photographer, writer, stenographer, scribe, or caped caption crusader whatever it is you do…please oh please when you encounter me, Scott Raven TarazevitS, son of Mr. Peter J. TarazevitS pleaSe pleaSe with cherrieSSSSSSSS and ScoreSSSS of SkittleSSSSS on top end with an S.