Latest Scuttlebutt Says: Two Poems Ahoy
I continue to propogate this silly idea that I am a poet, for whatever reason. On two unrelated notes, vanilla caramel is a delicious flavour for coffee creamer, and Blogger's post update continues to strive to foil me at every turn.
"Hey, hey," sang the popstar, "Baby, baby,"
The teenagers cry out, the lights raise,
This is the gig of a lifetime, the critics rave,
"Love, love, love," the lyrics speak of hearts of gold.
Is this the triumph of love?
Electronic drums, synthesized notes,
Moved by the crescendo, dip an' go.
Drinks after the show, down we plow,
The fertile fields of our minds, seeds a'burstin',
Seeds a'plenty, of doubt, of shame,
"I love you," she slurs, eyes aglaze with passion.
Is this the triumph of love?
Two guitars and a bassline, reel 'em in,
Chorus, bridge, chorus, variation, the end?
"You alright?" he asks over her moans, hair in hand,
She nods, grimaces and gags, "You sure?"
His answer of splashing as she shakes, so pained,
And looses more vomit upon an open toilette.
Is this the triumph of love?
Five men prance 'n synch on stage,
Lights afire as the amplifiers rage.
"This alright?" he asks over her moans, hand in hand,
She nods, grimaces and prepares, "You sure?"
His answer of silence as she shakes, so afraid,
And loses herself whilst he comes à l'intérieur.
Is this the triumph of love?
Fifty thousand screamin' fans adore it,
Fifty million dollars reimburse it.
Drinks in the morning, reap the fields,
The crops of pleasure sown, seeds a'plant'd,
Seeds a'plant'd, of doubt, of shame,
"I love you," he murmurs, eyes aglaze with passion.
Is this the triumph of love?
The gig is over, the curtain falls,
Then, darkness swept o'er them all.
"Hey, hey," sang the doctor, "Baby, baby,"
The teenagers cry out, the questions raise,
This is the gig of a lifetime, the parents rave,
"Love, love, love," the vows speak of hearts of gold.
* * * * * * * *
When the apple falls to pieces,
The capitalists dance in discos,
The church will march in line,
The army pray, the rod divine,
Where the tree stood once.
"Holiest of Holies, holy moley,"
Children whisper under covers,
Flashlights held to lil' golden books,
Crucifix on the wall watching with dead, darkened eyes.
"Gee golly Gosh, darn the luck,"
Women clutching coffee mugs,
Baristas wiping, demons flying,
"Where'd the time go, the time go?"
Worlds of words bound in empty heads,
Hands heavy with mops and buckets,
The blood ran red, unsurprisingly,
"What other colour is there for it to be?"
Prayers on mats in Eastern camps,
Lives locked in lucid dreaming, forever,
Philosophers write their revolutionary essays,
Published in quarterly releases, serialised,
"The Deific Humanisation of Localised Ostentation."
Oranges shaped like planets, floating free,
Orbitting forests of brown and yellow,
Spring is the season of choice, critics say,
Two thumbs up, this is our loveless waste,
Embrace it, as the waters rise.
"Hallelujah," the chorus screams, afire,
The flowers wilt in salty waters,
The arsonist smiles and keeps runnin',
The lilies drift on fresh swamps,
The bodies pile up on Heaven's doorstep.
God doesn't wear a hat, you see,
Neither do I, but that's beside,
Come, sit, stand, salute, sit, sob,
Rust, flakes forming rivers golden brown.
The extra crispy Christ figure, Colonel,
Delicious holy herbs, sacred spices,
Seven-hundred seventy-seven ingredients,
Complete with a side order of manna.
"Where's your God now, Hero?"
"I hear he vacations in Burbank…"
"Really? I've got family there."
"Huh, me, too. Small world."
It's a small world, after all,
It's a small world, after all,
It's a small world, after all.
A survey of a select sample of Southern belles,
Decisively says that Tennessee Williams got it wrong,
And there is hope for family values in the long haul,
That William Faulkner, too, was just a drunken fool.
Red Rover, red Rover, quick, pull over,
Me and my Buddy, my good pal, Frankenstein,
Mary Shelley and Adderal, Lucy Lui to Pearl S. Buck,
(Not to be confused with Rita Pearlman).
"Hasn't this gone on long enough,
All this strife, all this pain,
So many tears,
All alone,
Again."
End?
No.
…
O.
[Adios]
Love Song No. 9
"Hey, hey," sang the popstar, "Baby, baby,"
The teenagers cry out, the lights raise,
This is the gig of a lifetime, the critics rave,
"Love, love, love," the lyrics speak of hearts of gold.
Is this the triumph of love?
Electronic drums, synthesized notes,
Moved by the crescendo, dip an' go.
Drinks after the show, down we plow,
The fertile fields of our minds, seeds a'burstin',
Seeds a'plenty, of doubt, of shame,
"I love you," she slurs, eyes aglaze with passion.
Is this the triumph of love?
Two guitars and a bassline, reel 'em in,
Chorus, bridge, chorus, variation, the end?
"You alright?" he asks over her moans, hair in hand,
She nods, grimaces and gags, "You sure?"
His answer of splashing as she shakes, so pained,
And looses more vomit upon an open toilette.
Is this the triumph of love?
Five men prance 'n synch on stage,
Lights afire as the amplifiers rage.
"This alright?" he asks over her moans, hand in hand,
She nods, grimaces and prepares, "You sure?"
His answer of silence as she shakes, so afraid,
And loses herself whilst he comes à l'intérieur.
Is this the triumph of love?
Fifty thousand screamin' fans adore it,
Fifty million dollars reimburse it.
Drinks in the morning, reap the fields,
The crops of pleasure sown, seeds a'plant'd,
Seeds a'plant'd, of doubt, of shame,
"I love you," he murmurs, eyes aglaze with passion.
Is this the triumph of love?
The gig is over, the curtain falls,
Then, darkness swept o'er them all.
"Hey, hey," sang the doctor, "Baby, baby,"
The teenagers cry out, the questions raise,
This is the gig of a lifetime, the parents rave,
"Love, love, love," the vows speak of hearts of gold.
Words #3: Dismay
When the apple falls to pieces,
The capitalists dance in discos,
The church will march in line,
The army pray, the rod divine,
Where the tree stood once.
"Holiest of Holies, holy moley,"
Children whisper under covers,
Flashlights held to lil' golden books,
Crucifix on the wall watching with dead, darkened eyes.
"Gee golly Gosh, darn the luck,"
Women clutching coffee mugs,
Baristas wiping, demons flying,
"Where'd the time go, the time go?"
Worlds of words bound in empty heads,
Hands heavy with mops and buckets,
The blood ran red, unsurprisingly,
"What other colour is there for it to be?"
Prayers on mats in Eastern camps,
Lives locked in lucid dreaming, forever,
Philosophers write their revolutionary essays,
Published in quarterly releases, serialised,
"The Deific Humanisation of Localised Ostentation."
Oranges shaped like planets, floating free,
Orbitting forests of brown and yellow,
Spring is the season of choice, critics say,
Two thumbs up, this is our loveless waste,
Embrace it, as the waters rise.
"Hallelujah," the chorus screams, afire,
The flowers wilt in salty waters,
The arsonist smiles and keeps runnin',
The lilies drift on fresh swamps,
The bodies pile up on Heaven's doorstep.
God doesn't wear a hat, you see,
Neither do I, but that's beside,
Come, sit, stand, salute, sit, sob,
Rust, flakes forming rivers golden brown.
The extra crispy Christ figure, Colonel,
Delicious holy herbs, sacred spices,
Seven-hundred seventy-seven ingredients,
Complete with a side order of manna.
"Where's your God now, Hero?"
"I hear he vacations in Burbank…"
"Really? I've got family there."
"Huh, me, too. Small world."
It's a small world, after all,
It's a small world, after all,
It's a small world, after all.
A survey of a select sample of Southern belles,
Decisively says that Tennessee Williams got it wrong,
And there is hope for family values in the long haul,
That William Faulkner, too, was just a drunken fool.
Red Rover, red Rover, quick, pull over,
Me and my Buddy, my good pal, Frankenstein,
Mary Shelley and Adderal, Lucy Lui to Pearl S. Buck,
(Not to be confused with Rita Pearlman).
"Hasn't this gone on long enough,
All this strife, all this pain,
So many tears,
All alone,
Again."
End?
No.
…
O.
[Adios]
posted by c.Jay Wrong at
12:01 AM
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