I can barely stand certain music now
Each song holds a memory locked into it
Multi-Love for instance
It's fitting that I'm burning incense right now
Because this song brings me back to December
You were into hookah at that point
The sweet and smoky scents danced around us
As your sonos speakers
Cascaded those guitar riffs into our ears
I thought you were ecstasy
But you became an addiction
And like that smoke in my lungs
You burned me instead

O
The Who
belted out adolescent
stress
through edgy
guitar riffs
like they still had
pimples
long after they
became
famous.

And me
I
I
often forget
that
I'm
I'm
supposed to be
becoming
a
Man
or something
like that.

My hands are bleeding surely:
my guitar pick isn't my fingers
but soon I'll write these nonsensicals
in blood. But nobody should scream
out for that. Nobody should buy
my words like rock-albums.
Nobody should ask Who
is he and Who
am I because

me
I
I
often forget
that
I'm
I'm
supposed to be
becoming
a
Man
or something
like that.

While
The Who
O
The Who
belt out
out adolescent
stress
through edgy
guitar riffs
like they still have
pimples
long after  
becoming
famous

like Who?

Beg
sometimes
please
dripped pleasure
a game of chess
pieces, our bodies
board, the cosmos

River soft merging
with adored gentle
roughness, seductive
riffs abound

It’s early Friday afternoon and,
over plates of greasy spoon dinner,
the musician and the businessman
repeat their weekly ritual.
The businessman has his problems at home
and spills his guts to his musician friend.
“It’s been a real long time coming,
but she’s still been such a bitter *****.”
They’ve met this way since
their college days and nights
spent studying the bottoms
of whiskey bottles.  And, as usual,
the businessman’s hair sits sprawled
on his head like a rag, and his tie
is loosened.  The musician doesn’t understand
divorce: “You look like hell.
You know, if you need a place to stay,
Helen and I and the boy
can always make some room for you.”
They light a pair of cigarettes and wait
for a waitress to kick them out.

Into the haze of a Lower East Side crowd
the musician and his band play
his newest pieces, riffs on the happy swagger
of the Duke.  His critics—
and he has many—
write that his jazz sings
the inescapable ******* of suffering
through the life of every oblivious body,
which makes the musician’s music
sound more like the blues
than jazz.  But it’s jazz all the same
and perhaps it was the intensity
of the growling bass that shot
spirits down the throats in the audience,
reeling drunk in time to the beat
of the musical suffering.

The weekdays die and it is Friday again.
He has a big view of midtown,
the businessman, and though the window the falling
sun horizons over his socked toes,
parked on his desk in triumph over
all those stockholders.  It’s a pain
to lose your family,
but the businessman puts on
a good face, and drinks.

This Friday, the musician and the businessman
are not in the mood for talking.  
But a scotch thrown down,
and the two are tighter than
thieves.
The businessman complains of life at home
and the musician’s eyes cross.

That night, the musician skips his performance.
His wife cries in their bed,
shuddering with worry and asking him
what makes him so distant? she asks—
it’s a mystery even to himself.
He is sweating whiskey—
which suits him fine—
and he spends his night on the bridge.

One week later and it is Friday, finally.
Today, the businessman will see
his children at his former home
for the last time for a handful of months
at best.  The musician has not been home
for three days.  He stays at a friend’s apartment,
puts on his ***** blazer
and a record of the Duke’s
before he throws himself down the airshaft.
The businessman jumps on the 5:44
out of town and calls his friend the musician
to cancel their usual Friday meeting,
but his phone keeps ringing,
ringing, ringing, ringing, ringing.

it's simple really, nostalgia is buried in a melody
the same way humans are put in coffins--
deliberately heart-wrenching, a science.
an old transistor radio climbs lazily in the background,
buzzing, humming but then hear it--
blank stares as the road carries on, gradually,
slow mascara rivulets kiss cheeks like the intimacy long forgotten only to come rushing back--
songs that we said were ours were never ours to have,
an old familiar lyric that we claimed to spell destiny,
auditory memories that taunt and torture:
the chorus only instigates barbed thorns to lonesome hearts,
major chords aren't happy,
but cause discordance--
clenched fists on the steering wheel, you must pullover--
you can't pause or rewind, you can't stop--
yes, change the channel--
but the music still plays, and the riffs hang in your head,
remembered and reminisced over static--
but nothing is white noise when the final notes linger on your auditory palette,
the taste like the stare of a cold gravestone...

but even colder still,
the empty seat next to you.

I want to go to a record store with you
we can spend the little money we have left
on The Smiths, The Rolling Stones, The Who, Pink Floyd
for an hour or two we can be angsty teens in the 80s
who drink cheap beer and steal our parents cars
lets pretend were running away
from home, from school, from everything we know
I wanna lay on the floor of your apartment
put a record on the turntable and hear that sweet crackle
we'll listen to what we've bought
and pretend we're watching the stars through the ceiling
they'll dance to the beat like a laser show in our eyes
while mind blowing guitar riffs and drum beats fill our spirits

-kk

Months have gone by and still
you echo in my black hole,
your lips still brushing mine
in the wind that caresses my face,
your voice whispering through
the riffs and chords of songs,
your body visible in the contours of trees,
your face in the curves of the clouds,
and looking up desperately at
the night sky,
I envision you glancing at the same stars,
your soul having been imprinted permanently
on the Earth's ceiling,
so even when I close my eyes
you linger in the corners of my mind,
a universe of
constellations and planets,
galactic clusters of
immortal memories and undying
desires.
Months have gone by as I
continue to orbit around
the memory of you,
tilting onto your axis,
spinning round and round as
I try desperately to get back
to you, but you're
galaxies away.

Apathy


Don’t tell me how to feel, when I feel like this;
Don’t tell me that you’re happy, when I’m so depressed.
Don’t sit there with your girlfriend, giving her a kiss;
Because I just don’t care, about your life of bliss.


I do not care for your sympathy,
Because I live in a town called Apathy.
The town of no-hopers and the town I’m in;
The ****** little town called Apathy.


So don’t sit there with a smile upon your face.
Don’t dare utter those words:
‘The world is such an amazing place.’
Because I live in the rain and I feel like ****.
The sun never shines down on Apathy.


So I do not care for your sympathy,
Because I live in a town called Apathy.
The town of no-hopers and the town I’m in;
The ****** little town called Apathy.


If you feel the same as me;
Or you live in a town like Apathy.
A town of losers; a town of ****!
Then come with me down to Apathy.


Let’s take it over and change a few things.
Let’s welcome only rockers and eject all the trendies.
Let’s all sit down and smoke a spliff.
Let’s drink tequila and rock a few riffs.


I do not care for your sympathy,
Because I live in a town, called Apathy.
The town of no-hopers and the town I’m in;
The ****** little town called Apathy…


Yeah, I live in a town called Apathy,
And it has become like home to me,
For I never want to live outside Apathy,
Because I only care about, the cool people and me.


(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

And honestly,
At this moment
All that's running through my head,
Is rock n' roll,
And near memories..
Cotton candy sky,
And oxygen breeze.
My droopy eyes
Are that of relaxation,
Not any earth-grown happiness.
My slow heart beat is smooth sailing,
Not candy-like pills.
natural high
So beautiful in a way,
But darling..
Do you remember being high with me?
High on life and love..
Together,
Our hearts beating a irregular tune.
But that's no longer,
So I sit and listen to angry melodies,
Screechy guitar riffs
And lay here,
High alone.
Not nearly good as being high with you,
I can no longer hear your heartbeat..
Nor mine..

If to you music is Euphoric
Then to me you are music
Like a needle in a groove
My heart kicks like a drum
Double petal
              Metal
It's almost mental
So good I'm off tempo
Lost in an ocean of bass riffs
Based
Cought by your waves like a music castaway
Overcame by your frequency
I could change the station
Hum a different tune
But it would be no use
I'm addicted
As if hearing music for the first time
All I can do is close my eyes
Let my ears guide my wayward heart
As I fall in love with you

There’s nothing special here
Hearts are trampled by and by
Lost looks go searching for lost loves
There’s nothing special here
Long thoughts and short lives
Descending riffs rush by every day
There’s nothing special here
No tour bus stops for the lonely souls
Smoke drifts wafting lazily
Hazily the air never clears
There’s nothing special here
High times never made it through
The door stays shut as often as not
Slumped shouldered fools look down
Frowns etched sketched amid the lines
There’s nothing special here
Just lost souls and hazy minds
There’s nothing special here

cc0111

Reality is cold,
So am I.
Soul headbangs,
To the riffs of,
a melodic death metal song.
A Soul that dwells,
In a lyrical coma.
A blissful,
escape route,
Indeed!

I am sore muscles, burned food,
lit windows of houses I’ve seen
while standing out in the cold,
dead leaves underfoot, dreams of shoulder blades
pushed against plaster and a lump in my throat,
catching someone check their reflection
when they think no one’s looking,
running after an ice cream truck, airplanes crossing the sun,
laughter shooting from the chest,
vehicles racing along pavement,
the tenderness of the air this morning,
shadows stretching across snow, my gut fluttering
when we’re alone together, poems I write in which
nothing is true, the migration of birds,
lights dimmed and all the music turned up, constellations of stars
I will never know the names of, my thoughts chattering to no one,
driving on ice with a pounding heart,
dragonflies and thunderstorms with one ear-bud in,
a head on a shoulder,
hugs tight enough to hurt,
swerving to avoid strangers in the street,
poetry read on full eyes and an empty stomach,
waking in the middle of the night to
move through the house while everything’s soft and quiet,
leaning into things with base violent passion,
strawberries picked in August,
things I want but will never have, that great numbing beauty,
laying back on an unmade bed,
laughing and sobbing like a *****,  hurling rocks
into the navy monotony of the ocean,
electric jealousy,
inhaling dust of old books,
euphoric indie riffs, photographs pinned to walls,
jogging to catch up with a new friend,
spilled milk, a cool pillow at the end of every day,
shifting seasons, happiness louder than bombs,
lungs full of breath,
affluxes of glitter in my eyes,
a roar building in the space around me,
love and love and love

Empty theatre, no sound.
Spotlight on Marley.
Smoke rises to da ceiling.
The room fills witta rasta feelin'

Dis is no baldhead.
Dis is Marley, the great.
Dreads as soft as silk.
Riffs creamy like milk.

I wanna watch fo' de rest of me life.
Face 'gainst guitar as he wails.
He paints da skies wit his sound.
Catches me wit a reggae trap, I'm bound.

Feels like just yesterday.
He was on dis Earth.
I feel his watch, from above.
Flying tru da sky, like a reggae dove.

Sun Is Shining
Forever Loving Jah
Get up, Stand up
Stir It Up
Redemption Song

He wanted what he all did... One love... Just one...



**Plus, massive bluntz

(papa) lead my music towards marshmallow dreams and woozy hearts

he lay me down in a soft nest of clouds and propped my head up on a mushroom

tucked me in with quilted blankets and goodnight kisses

he stroked my nose until I succumbed to the whims of foreign lands

and he turned the
lanterns off

he played me piano riffs and stroked the strings of my guitar

warmed me and cloaked me in oceans of drowsy bliss

and he'll read me
dreams tonight

We were sitting in a restaurant
Table set for two
One of those single couple booths
Perfect for me and you

We spoke of money and
I refused to let you pay for me
Maybe I have too much pride
But I’m not who your ex used to be

The overhead lights reflected perfectly and
I was sure that you were not a mistake
Your ocean eyes vibrated my soul
And then I spilled my milkshake

Blood rushed to my face
And I looked away in shame
But then I heard you laughing
And something in my heart changed

Somehow you weren’t embarrassed
Or uncomfortable with my lack of grace
But instead that heart-shattering smile
Was plastered across your gorgeous face

And then you surprised me yet again
As you opened up your soul out of the blue
And though you spoke nonchalantly
I knew those thoughts were haunting you

I painted versions of your stories
Across the walls of my mind as you spoke
Memorizing the imagery and your feelings
About your insufficient social support

And while I know I can’t be everything for you
I can try to be better than the last
So you have somewhere safe to run
When you need to escape your broken past

Because although the table spanned miles between us
And we were connected only by our fingertips
I could feel our souls grazing one another
As they tangled together in electric riffs

At that very moment
Staring into your eyes, gold and blue
I felt the first real chance
That I might truly love you

.remember this youtube channel: harakiri diat...

i think this genre of music has a name: brutalism...
last night i watched 50 book recommendations
by the cosmicsceptic...
beside his oxford specific titles relating
to his philosophy and theology degree...
came the fictional books...
i presumed that i didn't read anything going
into this video...

i can be forgiven for not reading a christopher
hitchens when i've read some knausgård...
perhaps i presume to have not read anything...
because... i do quiet enjoy the act of reading...
so much so that... only scraps remain for me that
are: useful...

i can't imagine finding any use from a book
if it's not already in it...
apparently i'm not so under-read as i led myself
to believe...
but this is not about literature...
i was looking for a genre to encompass...
say... vomito *****...
the klinik...
the soft moon...
but i couldn't come to anything of worth...
not until i foraged for the more obscure...
the raw pulp...
primitive knot - ******* of brutalism...
again... the channel harakiri diat
has the music covered...
zeit und geist... i am the fire...
let's keep it clean...
i would go as far as to include
bohren & der club of gore: midnight radio
into this whole mix...

as much as i'd love to push for die krupps...
no can do... their stuff is polished goods...
vomito ***** is polished goods...
but there's still something raw about them...
once upon a time there was this "thing"
about doom metal... electric wizard... etc.,
but i can say... this new brutalism is...
by far... better than a gavin mcinnes diet
of punk... i never liked punk...
i never liked punk as i never liked rap...
hip hop yes and all that jazzmatazz fussion...
some solid grit...

after all... Romford, Essex...
probably the last bastion of the music shop...
a his-master's-voice with a vinyl section...
my idea of a tennis-court,
a cafe, a swimming-pool, a park,
a church even... because you can never really
own too many records...

and between me and you:
what's the difference between me and my neighbor?
he plays his music, mostly rap...
on the speakers... and sings along to the songs...
he finishes the day with some r'n'b and stops
singing... i take over...

headphones in, 6ft2 posture hunched in a chair
scribbling with chicken-pecking precision
some long lost "hierogylphic"...
and of course: in between some, literature...
but it was only about the music...
youtubers ruined youtube as much as
the "legacy media"... or the next will smith...
"vlogger"...

once upon a time youtube was a haven for people
like me: who only used it to find new music...
somehow the glitches started and the music video
recommendations died: youtube thesaurus algorithm
became corrupt or something...

would i ever sing-along to a song?
not if it's as raw as a stake-tartar and the dish
needs to be served with merely thinking to compliment it...
i'll repeat what i've already said:
gentlemen! the jukebox is ******!
- and i was the type to listen and then buy
a physical copy... even though i didn't have to...
i could go back and listen to the same stuff again...
out of principle...

no car = no car insurance no road tax...
no mobile phone = no... bill...
in terms of primitive knot, though?
would you rather go blind or deaf?
that's a tough one...

listening to primitive knot or watching
a latex lucy b.d.s.m. short *****-flick...
i know: it's the obvious synonym overlap...
but at the same time it isn't...
gimp suits or all those other unicorns of the bedroom...
but no... the most forbidden act i ever managed
to fathom in a brothel was a kiss...
one time i pulled out a ***** from a drawer
when she went with the money to the madame
of the parlour and coming back asked me:

do you want to use it?
*** to me is like rye bread...
it's not a ******* croissant...
toasting alone will do the trick...
language is already complicated by necessity...
of crosswords and the boredom
that most mono-lingual people feed not having
learned a crossword of bilingualism...
why would i inhibit this fact of voyeurism?
apparently there's something immoral watching
someone get pleasured...
perhaps i should find some rare footage of
a peter anthony allen hanging...
or Leroy Hall, Jr. at the Riverbend (Nashville, Tennessee)?
perhaps i should start jerking off on
a whim, from time to time...
over execution footage?

perhaps it's that sort of conundrum...
you see someone eating ice-cream and enjoying it...
you therefore? buy yourself a cone?
god almighty... but the added responsibility
of also owning the fridge and freezer
when that spontaneous whim passes...
after all... there's always that diet of...
the girls jerking off into the camera...
which is probably the least guilt-riddled form
of ******* on the planet...

hey! if she's doing it... and you sat down
on the throne of thrones to do the no. 1 and the no. 2...
let's call it no. 3 and taking a baptism later (no. 4)...
esp. if you haven't been circumcised...
at this point: i feel sorry for the circumcised men...
that do not live within the rigours of a hasidic orthodoxy:
the circumcised man: the subservient woman...
the circumcised man: the woman in a niqab...
i guess that's how it works, no?
imagine the problems...
if the man were circumcised... but the woman...
was not supposed to pay any sort
of "penalty"...

then again: one would expect to find the best
***** under the crucifix...
stigmata pin-head and all those dittos...
and heads... but i am a connoisseur... 1970s...
1980s... but it must be Italian...
no... not German... and certainly not English...
chances are: yes, French... but more or less
Italian... and it's always on a whim...
connoisseur... well there are videos where
you can find a pregnant woman parading her bump...
and squeezing her *******...
and that's about it...

i want to imagine what those 9 months
of pregnancy must feel like...
for better or for worse... the oral demands...
perhaps i haven't written about this sort of stuff
for a long enough period...

now an interlude where i smoke a cigarette
is bound to be... exquisite...

it sure as hell is the safest way to arrive
at some sort of *** that's purely plesurable:
a gradation of *** without consequences...
but is this a celebration?
a woman ******* on camera with
her toys is a celebration...
me my ******* and the phantom hand...
there's no theatre in it...
the utility of taking a ****, taking a ****...
doing "it"... then having a shower...
and then "repressing" it...
not having "repressed" it to begin with...

i did a month once...
i came to the conclusion... that i'm more impulse
prone, i was planning my next brothel
visit... after a month i was still planning it...
then i relieved myself and...
would you believe it? the impetus dissolved!
i don't know what these right-wing
europa-identitarians are coming up with...
so much attention on:
i enjoy reading as much as i enjoy taking
a ****... notably the constipated kind
but esp. more of the diarrhoea nature...
hello mr. **** hello mrs. geiser!

perhaps that's why i wouldn't ever be a fan
of ******... i enjoy taking a **** too much...
or perhaps i'm just too old fashioned...
but this began as something orientating oneself
around a music genre...
how did it come down to pornogrpahy?

jean genet: the thief's journal...
i was really hoping for something marquis de sade
-esque... there was still too much:

solo girl does her bit...
so well in fact... that... buying a *** doll
must only remain a h'american thing...
*** is already shamed when marriage comes
along in anglo-saxon societies...
notably the inflateable sheep or doll
on those normie stag parties...
*** and children and the joke is:
you can only have good ***...
if you're ******* for procreative reasons...
bypassing the ****** for the sake
of the children...

otherwise... well no ******* doesn't help...
if... there's no wife in a niqab in public...
or some kosher wifey either...

i still have mine and i will keep that...
as... almost... a security policy...
a prenup...

pauk-mumije (1982 bosnian post punk)...
perhaps brutalism is just post-punk?

i remember it quiet clearly...
i still can't fall asleep without listening to music...
as i couldn't back then...

otchim - james dean...
the bass and no guitar riffs until the chorus
comes... and... ha ha... it's in fwench!
just like i could **** her without listening
to really... atmospheric music...
by 2007 standards that was equal to:
the dandy warhols...
but that was 2007...

these days... hardly candles and
black sun dreamer - post-traumatic stress disorder...
back then it was candles
and type o negative...
the candles and... catching a mouse...
no trap... a labyrinth of obstacles
and she sitting on the bed giggling while
i played being a maine ****...
and i did catch the mouse...
held it by the tail... let it lose on the stairwell...
and then watch its traumatised body try to
find a hole... scuttle and then fall...
to a depth of a greater serenity of
a... vermin's suicide: with no monkey sing-along
of... this mouse has done the cheese...

and it was sad when i was naive and
i accidently killed my hamster in a similar
fashion... but some ***** Abel...
but at least the mouse allowed me to
circumstance a Pontius Pilate relief...
and she asked me: what did you do with the mouse?

oh... it committed suicide.

chicago research compilation... tape CRO15...
perhaps listening to the cure
or depeche mode was once a "thing"...
no... burtalism is not post-punk...
pisse - kohlrubenwinter...
red zebra - i can't live in a livingroom...

my one personal joke...
in england i started calling the livingroom...
the civilroom...
pokój cywilny - if it must stress the St. Cyril...
so it must: комната гражданский..
brutalism is not post-punk...

stiff little fingers... are punk's creamy pie...
oto - bats...
bodychoke - cruelty
       "            - red dog
       "            - the red sea
legendary divorce - age with us...

somehow more of my ****** valnetine...
and less sonic youth...

i do remember pretending to date...
at high school...
the first question was always a nervous
build-up to the question:
'what music are you into?'

weird party - acne puncture...

well would you believe it...
some of us are still after something that
finds no sort of aleviation
in the alternative that's an aydin paladin
video...

POPEiUM - papacidal coronation...
Münn - II. in defeat...
a john peel: a no john peel...
the sort of piano that makes
a debussy or a satie blush...
AMORT - die hexes...

the current standard of... the stoogers...
or stooges... and... air no concern...
the limbo artifact of ***...
formerly known as the... limbo pickling...
of the undead...
and all those that come with an eczema and
the scabs of leprosy...
and vampires: those syphilitic zombies...

susumu yokota, and all those stupid,
solipsictically assured cats, grinning...
menace of the grin!
full cheese impromptu with a display
of teeth!
a night promenade into the forest
listening to: demdike stare's tryptych...

i haven't tried... but from 1pm through to 5pm...
i could phone classic.fm and ask
for... a song to be played in my name...
perhaps i'll phone in...
if i catch the right "once upon a time"...
and find it... as i found...
christopher young's: something to think
about...

**** and music... many interludes...
perhaps some little borat-britain references...
and then: none...
per 1K there's a cult...
per 10K there's a counter-culture...
come the 918 apostles... of jonestown...
there's no leftover for no...
alternative...

the restless mind starts its exercise
in petty squabbling....
why weren't i the respected,
vatican proof for a plumber!
why wasn't i to become,
the undertaker!

i too feel: the claustrophobia
of the ensue of the paragraph...
what is primitive knot contra U2...
mainstream? sod it: knot it a blood
and a sundail!
blood dries... the mercurial mythology
dries a solidity of
something becoming more an echo...
and less a sodden-print of the foot...
which the tide will,
nonetheless relate itself as...
worthy of being erased...

the violin concerto...
the piano nocturnes...
and the symphonies...
and the operas...
later the ballet...
beside... a chopin would write a nocturne...
a debussy would write one also...
but...
debussy writes a nocturne...
satie writes a nocture...
but a schumann?! a schubert?!
they write a concerto!
none of their work could have been written
in solide with a solipsistic monologue
escapade...

perhaps i can only appreciate chopin via
his nocturnes...
otherwise i am not convinced...
the greats wrote.... symphonies...
operas... never accompany pieces
to make their instrument an oak...
a tree... and not something resdual
to later make a mahoganny piano / table
of...

pianists! you only hear of their prowess!
Liszt! Chopin! Debussy! Satie...
exclaim as if to: suprise the "audience"
with either knowledge or...
adoration?
can a violinist make the same sort
of statements?
a pianist will play... with an accompaniment...
he will never become the maestro
predisposition
of the polyphony...

a chopin only heard the piano...
a debussy only heard a piano: solo...
a beethoven or a mozart...
what violin solo? what of a violin concerto?!
is that a trick question?
old father bach...
no instrument: well...
shubert loved allowing a piano ****
a bunch of harem violins in a harem crescendo
of a concerto...

but a nocturne? the polyphony of...
the "polyphony" of...
two pianos playing side-by-side...

- the joint"laura's"1967 kk proto prog freak phych -
no, that's not it...
- and no... it's not omega - gyöngyhajú lány...
- well **** on me...
locomotiv moscow is not a band...
but an f.c.... beg your pardon...

as i do hope that i am wrong about
a minor "technicality"...
somehow classical, essential...
and nothing worth or being able to: hum...
or sing-along-to...
always serious and finding outlets
of a necessity in being: thought of...
perhaps there's this grand:

technicality of not finding oneself sighing
or crying for that matter...
vaughan williams is more required...
for the expanse of a cowboy movie
horizon...
or that technical term...
the: deconstruction of the dutch angle
in the perspective shot...

but we don't talk about *** as much
as we don't engage in it...
and we certainly don't talk about music...
the absolute brutal needs to be found...
a butterfly a lotus a kiss in a brothel...
all else is... the slaughterhouse....

this has been a...
no Friday night in Soho can match-up...
i've spent better nights in
Amsterdam...
and no... the red light district was
never going to be a cannabis cafe for me...
or some Vermont-esque quest for a better
pint of ale...
*** was on sale...
there was not real point of making
any money from it in the medium of fiction...
it was always going to be
ugly, frictive... below par of expectation...
but it was always going to
be fathomable... fathomable in a sense
of it being respected...
as a hierarchical undermining...

oh what since was, truly was concrete...
but the verbiage came along
and fiddled with the fog and the end-result
deems itself abstract...
there's the concrete of drought...
and the abstract of locust.
there's the concrete of a mountain...
and the abstract of a pyramid;
there's the concrete of death...
and the abstract of a mosileum;
after all... a grave is a coping mechanism
of someone who...
never began the inquiry... of mortality...
joking as a child might...
pretending to handshake his own shadow.

as i have found the antithesis of narcissus...
the man who fell in love with his shadow.

Sipping espresso, double affogato of course, topped with cream and
Chatting with Miles, I saw Calliope sauntered in from the rain.
Her dark mascara limped away from her crystal blue eyes
As she waited for the barrister to turn his head.
And when taking her cup,
Somewhere between Bird’s schizophrenic riffs
And Blakey's syncopation.
I fell in love
As I watched  her lips purse and
Blow casually at the lid, cooling the
Fiery liquids inside but igniting mine.
I decided to ask what brought  her in from the
Rain.
My words  queued in my throat as I stood
To speak.
My knees cracked, testifying to the years I stood on them.
My heart tapped out a cadence as I strode
Over to her  table.
I could smell spice and ginger of  a perfume I knew so well.
Her chestnut hair fell in damp tendrils across her forehead.
Extending my hand with a napkin on the end I said, “ I would love if you joined
Me for a biscotti.”
With a sparkle in her eye her painted lips slid across her teeth,
“I am waiting for a friend.”
Walking away I sat dejected but not rejected because as she
Conversed with him she peeked at me
My Calliope
And all was well.

~AD~

I don't want money. I want to be an activist. I want to help other people. I want there to be no little girl or boy that feels like they don't belong in a classroom because they don't fit in or their teachers don't appreciate or believe in them enough. I want little girls to grow up knowing they can be anything they want to be. I want them to grow up knowing that Prince Charming isn't guaranteed but their rights and their education, their future and their body belonging to them and only them, is guaranteed. I want little boys to grow up knowing that they don't have to be the way society has taught them to be for far too long and that they too, can be anything they dream of. I want them to be able to want to study astrophysics and anatomy and not be ashamed. I want them to be able to write something soft and share it without their faces turning red or create a fashion line without being seen as feminine. I want them to know that they don't have to choose alcohol and lust like their some of their fathers did and that smiling isn't a sign of weakness. I want homeless people to believe in themselves in a way they've never been able to, I don't want to see people on the street and I don't want to hear about how everyone on the street only wants money for drugs. I want there to be real help and rehabilitation for drug addicts that doesn't coincide with being thrown in a jail cell so that little kids don't have to grow up without a mom or a dad because, or worse, with a mom or a dad or both that cannot get clean because they have a real problem. It isn't fair to hope for a person who made you and see them fail your entire life because they never got the necessary help. I want religions to respect each other. I want there to be help for mental illness, and I mean real help, which goes along with drug addiction in a lot of ways as well. I don't want there to be oppression because of the color of people's skin or their gender. I don't want to have to hear about a new school shooting because people that should not have access to automatic/assault weapons do have access to them. I want to see more women in the film industry. I want to hear more girls screaming songs and playing noisy riffs. I want to sing my songs and play my noisy riffs on a stage someday and inspire someone the way I've been inspired. I want literature to mean something again and I want poetry to be graffiti'd on the walls of corporations. I want to see flowers on every corner and more trees in places there haven't been in a long time. I want my fingers to bleed paint and I want the world to be my canvas and I want that for many other people too. I want everyone who has felt like me or many others that I know to know they're not alone. I want people to recognize that suicide rates increase almost hourly. I want people to realize white privilege is a thing, and I want people to realize we do not live in the worst country in the world nor the best country in the world. I want people to at least show the slightest bit of love to the president regardless of their own personal opinion. I want the kids in this country to be able to interact with the kids in other countries. I want to see different cultures blooming and coexisting together. I want to see unity. I want to see an end to hatred and a new beginning to love. I want to see less lies in the media and journalism and more honesty. I want the radio to stop telling girls how boys want them to be. I want girls to start deciding for themselves how they want to be. I want older generations to start being less apathetic. I want to see less processed foods and more organic foods going into our bodies. I want people to stop seeing animals as trophies or their three meals a day, and see them as the beautiful living and loving creatures that they are, and I don't mean that everyone has to cut meat out of their diet, just that they should appreciate these beautiful little things that aren't that different from us. I want us to stop killing our home, this garden that gives to us.

I want a perfect world as most people would see it. But I really just want this planet and these insanely beautiful creatures known as humans to be able to stay here for longer than it looks like we will at this point.

I want to make a difference, that's all I really want.

A difference is all we all really need.

Poets in motion
Guitar Lord s Loud
Jimi at the Red House
riffin' proud

Sing Janis "Ball and chain"
John McLaughlin's twelve string
Edgar Johnny white as snow
broke all hearts on "Tobacco Road"

Can never forget Jimmy Page
"Highway to Heaven" is center stage
Eric "The God" "tears in heaven" played
as Santana "Abraxas" displayed
raw emotion skill complex
enough  to make one's soul reflect

And an Allman Brother, Dickie Betts
surely we shall not forget
Tom Petty learned to fly
and listening I thought
"Why can't I?"

my eyes opened to find
the thin lizard dawn gleaming
after the gutter drank its' fill
of the moon last night
the tambourine
buried in my lungs still
vibrating like these walls
papered with cheap roses

last night i found comfort the
only way i know how
in situations like this
beside a girl wearing
a pretty ribbon
twisted around her waist
pomegranate lipstick
wet clay & tragic glitter
smeared across her eyelids

we spent the night
roped together by
half-removed clothing
& my fingers third
knuckle deep
counting the pulse
of the heart
of the universe

while the wild fox
barked on the hill outside
& the mockingbirds
played riffs in the lilac bushes
her ******* ran tight
around her shins &
she sputtered the dark
lyricism of bees
twisting her tongue
backwards around
itself in my ear

our bare bellies
slapped together as
my tongue found her
tooth enamel &
the trees formed
a tight center loop to
harness the sky
for us & i
held my breath
waiting for her
to breathe first

i can feel her chest
& plump **** now
quietly throbbing
against the tight young
flesh of my back but when
i roll over & see her
eyes darting
green like a thin
ocean laser avoiding
my dynamic gaze &
her pouty mouth emitting
a pink yawn i can tell
she's unhappy & ashamed
of me

i tried to run
my fingers through
the butterscotch tumbleweed
of her hair but she just
popped her gum
& sent me
high stepping through
the soft warm mud
& chest high cattails
of her driveway
callow under the clouds
stuck like gnats to
the fly paper sky

And i would listen to paramore
to find those words i relate to
And i would turn the volume up
to numb the pain

The drums rock my mind
In tune with my heartbeat
As i scream out the lyrics
Those words i yearn to tell you
With the strums and guitar riffs
Which my heartstrings play out

I keep paramore on play
To express and numb it all more

Tribute to my childhood hero
Joni Mitchell

The album covers beaten
The player old and worn
The needle barely tracking
From all the scratches borne
Upon the vinyl surfaces
Of albums that were stored
Unlocking wonderous worlds
Of music I adored

I would lie in cloistered darkness
To hear a voice so sweet
There I'd usher in the nighttime
To worship at her feet
Struck by earthy lyrics
But somewhat strange
Unearthly tunes
To trace with disconnected fingers
The most sensitive of wounds

How sad that good songs
Unsung heroes
Like "Morning Morgantown"
Wouldn't live forever
To "buy your dreams a dollar down"

Recall "Big Yellow Taxi"?
You can rest assured I do!
And "Ladies of the Canyon"
And her epic album "Blue"
Most folks recall a song
Entitled "Both Sides Now"
'Bout clouds and love and life
But they do not know
Her poetic expression
Unearthed deep jazzy riffs
Elitism. Hypocrisy.
And "Summer Lawns" that "Hissed"

At the pinnacle of greatness
Her album "Court and Spark"
Will always be a touchstone
For purity in art

A deeply troubled woman
At certain times in life
Loving truely... deeply
In the "Industry" meant strife

A versatile genius
Her lyrics resonate
Fot the very thing that scarred her
Also made her great

---

At times I'd sit and ponder
A self-inflicted crime
But I would postpone the act
To hear her one last time
Her songs touched me so deeply
Places only she could know
With her voice to guide me
I found a place to go
She became my inspiration
My metaphor. My muse.
Joni Mitchell told my heart
To write of its abuse

I aspire to higher standards
A perfection as it were
And should my work be recognized
I owe it all to her.
Though endlessly I search
For perfect sense of art
It's brought on by

INPERFECTION

But a kind and loving heart.

What I saw in her self portrait
Was a humble, gentle face
She was the greatest mentor

a human life could grace


SoulSurvivor
(C) 10/14/2014
Rewritten
(C) 7/17/2015

there would be blank canvasses
empty words
silently echoing the pages of poems not written
of narrative never revealed
from muses overwhelming
spirits overflowing
onto sugar coated melodies
woven into lyrics that
pester and harass and permeate the sacred space of minds

there would be blank canvasses
empty words
of delicate curves or hips, wide like sandy beaches
immortalized  by brush strokes or camera shutters
empty panels of superhero legends forgotten

there would be blank canvasses, empty words
of no church praises hollered over holy rollin piano riffs

but most definitely, most importantly,
there would be blank canvasses, empty words
and
hands that never itched
to craft golden scrolls onto the haggard loose leaves
residing in sharpie stained notebooks
and great wisdoms never told which ****** great minds
moves great minds
with melodious lyricism
which haunts souls
taunts souls
with the burning questions of shoes and ships and ceiling wax

there would be pens never emptied dry
cultivating piles of paper ***** with half *** rhymes, rhythms, and washed up metaphors
muses would never possess individuals
sleeplessly seeking to fill up forests worth of leaves
after suffering from the doldrums of writers block

blank canvasses, empty words
in a world without art

when people ask me 'what type of poetry do you like?'
i tell them that i like real poetry
not fake meaningless poetry with technical words that i don't even know.
i tell them poetry has to have EMOTION
and it doesn't have to make sense.
it doesn't have to rhyme, either.
poetry should be raw. it should be written when you don't think you have anything to write about
like that time you were lying in bed and thought of a single word planted onto paper to create a whole stanza, and then five stanzas.
find poetry in music. in the low guitar riffs and the drum beat. find it in the lyrics and the vocals. find words in trees. in lights. in a bottle of nail polish. in your first love and your last laugh.
find poetry when you fall and a stranger helps you up. find it in a busker at the train station. find it when you give that busker some money and find it when you see that the busker appreciates you. find poetry in poetry.

seGment, bona
                                           smUg
                                             grIns,
                                             inTo cuteness.
                                           imAges
                                              aRe


      ­                                      aGgressively ingratiating, as
                                     that pUnctuates feats.
                                            mIllionaire?” model
           building suspense wiTh
                                                And
        ­  thumps, “genius junioR”


                                        a janGly its
                                             soUnd,
                                                rIffs a
                                          big-Tent sideshow.
                              the contestAnts
                                               aRe

                      introduction seGment, in
                                  cross smUg
                                               grIns, if
                                               inTo
                       cuteness. the imAges
                                             of aRe


                                               aGgressively
                                       that pUnctuates feats.
                                    “who mIllionaire?” model
        of building suspense wiTh
                                      synths And bludgeoning
                            “genius junioR” offers


                                        a janGly
                                       its soUnd,
                                               rIffs like
                                         big-Tent sideshow.
                             the contestAnts
                                               aRe production


                                                    ­        seGment, which
      memberships, memories, kids smUg
                                                            ­  grIns, as
                                                              ­ inTo
                                      cuteness. the imAges the
                                                         kids aRe


                                            aGgressively as
                                    that pUnctuates
                                    to a mIllionaire?”
                                          wiTh synths
                                               And thumps,
                         “genius junioR”


                                          janGly its
                                            soUnd,
          ­                                     rIffs like a
                                          big-Tent sideshow.
                              the contestAnts
                                                aRe the as

Biscuits baking in the oven,
Rain pours down outside -
My head is full of internal noise;
It hurts, but I am not unhappy.
I have learned to ignore those things
which stand in the way of life.
The bass player up stairs is trying,
he practices his riffs
but does not form a song.
A cat sleeps on curtains that have fallen
and no one seems concerned.
I have no thoughts, just feelings
ill formed and unclear yet there.
Stuffed with things I did not choose,
The smell of biscuits bring me back.
They are my anchor to here and now.

Hey you
You on the corner of space and slow time,
With the Wednesday smile that looks like you stole it from a prankster
Are you for real?
Or are you that sidesteppin passerby
Who took two steps off the sidewalk and one into me
Took a knife to the inside of my skull
Wrote down a life I forgot wasn’t mine
Cause sometimes I’ll admit I can’t tell the difference
I’ve been throwin baseballs of the back porch of my soul
Since the day the monster under my bed grew teeth
Hoping for someone to catch up catch them and catch me too
I’ve been running since the day I met God on the banks of a backwards river
Spinning this world like a record played one too many times
Sk-sk-skipping across all the riffs we used to glide over like it wasn’t a sin
He and his pals foolin us for the fun of it
Burnin a driftwood fire just to watch the colors change
I traded in my bibles for a pawn shop prayer
Cause everyone knows that bookstores are just pawn shops
For ideas that people were too drowned to keep on drinking
To keep on keeping


Hey you
Imagine we became all the words we breathed
Out of fairytale pages turned cigarette papers
the night you became a constellation
Us, riding a magic carpet woven from strings
Stolen from Fate when she wasn’t looking
I’d never been one for shoplifting
But that night we made off like barefoot bandits riding on a broken hymn
With nothing but chains of laughter round our ankles
I, the night dancer and you, the day singer
And we two seeing both sides of the moon
Sing me the song that day sung the first time she realized
That the night was more than a coat her dad told her to wear
Because it was raining
The universe ringing with the words of convenience store philosophers
Things people are too scared to write anywhere but on the walls
Of public bathroom stalls so far from the city that
Blackberry picking still involves thorns
I wished I was an ant so that I could carry
Things that were bigger than me without breaking
So that my biggest worry would be microscope lightning
It wouldn’t matter if you only wore your turban on nights so cloudy you thought God couldn’t see you
Cause when’s the last time somebody judged an ant on their headwear?


Hey you
Sometimes when I’m with you I mistake myself for a queen
And right now I’m ruling these words shamelessly
My subjects whose only job is to grow fields of sunflowers in December just for you
Let it sink in
Let it be known that my physical transition fails to interrupt my meditation
That I’ve never known a dream that did anything but embroider the ether
The air between us quit smelling like a cinderblock romance
Your hands a kinetic ignition to my saltwater synapses
That connect in double-time to the electric current runnin from your heart to mine
If you’re just some sidesteppin passerby that took two steps off the sidewalk and one into me
It’s too late cause I’m dreaming of you like pumpkins in spring
I already burned down my fortress of forget-me-nots
When I tried to write your name with a side-split matchstick
I can still see you amidst a mountain of ceiling tiles and plywood floors
Closed doors that I knocked down because they wouldn’t open
You are a brick
I have no shovel
I have hands
Will you take them?