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Words' Worth Oct 12
Life is a long road
Full of metaphors
Full of humor
Life is a long run

I haven't had got the shoes
So, I put myself in someone's skin
They say, the days move by
But, the nights die with the sword

I remember a man hanging
From the crescent moon
With his eyes on the stars
And heart on the lonely earth
Having only his loneliness

Which he couldn't contain
So he shared it
With the world
In the form of love
What is contemporary?
Is it always modern.
Or a form of novelty that takes
On a different form of understanding
That most of share as our own.
Norman Crane Sep 30
our land of the free
mason dixon
lines of *******
cowboys and aliens
crossing the southern border
lands streaming on twitch
live and coming to you from the L.A.
end times
with your host
the ghost of this debt's
gotta come due sometime,
if that don't **** us
first come, first serve
Norman Crane Sep 2
From the eleventh floor
the world looks small
and possible

The cars
     black and white
     parked perpendicular
          to the curb
          to each other
are keys
     ebony and ivory
I reach out
through the window
and play the street like a piano
Norman Crane Aug 25
Wild dogs of the veldt
stocking shelves in aisle three
     stalking gazelles
with me in supermarkets
     in Savannah
Predatory packs of discount snacks
Toto on the radio
but Georgia always on my mind
Yes, ma'am, I will gladly help you find
     the best watering hole
     this side of my primitive soul
But, pray, don't leave me in the morningtime
before I've got the chance to find
a ride home
V Aug 25

An hour to midnight
     low lit lights
     gentle undertones

    stained clouds of moisture
in a glass of wine
as thick
         as ripe layers of fog.

hums of symphonies,
          swells of low pitched voices,
              crescendos of conversation.

     murmurs, whispers of fine China
      and the newest editions of
       oil paintings from Italy

                                      Midnight at the gallery

clear glass, stained with
lipstick and breath --
     Laughter, light and
     undertones of ripe berry
lingered on the tip of glass.  

eyes wandering
over canvases of
lavish art
While stained clouds
of  moisture

are as thick as
ripe layers of fog.
Norman Crane Aug 19
truth be told
there's nothing to be gained from truth
for why speak words that wound
in place of those which soothe
and what is the base utility
of exposition on an existence of such futility
as yours,
said the politician
t Aug 11
a rose by the hour
floral shower
florid stain

the waxy lip
blooms for the sweet
and fragant touch

that young lily

iced and white
with blushed insides
and forbidden

there is a timeless tale
within those pearls
within that smile

of youth



there is a quintessential
beneath that lust
(that noisome desire)

heart beating and breaking
and pulsating and


the light from the room
and the gold from the sun
and the bud
from her mother.

dulcet petal
and grotesque -
posioned by posion
and romantic unrest

a rose by the hour

floral shower


An Observation

The aim of Art is to express its own self by the means of its specially codified articulation. Whether one choses to employ language, paint or plastic, as a mean of expression, it matters little in the outcome. Art has always had its way, and never failed – what has is public reception. In this day, when much craving for realism and concrete is asked for, it has embraced the shape of abstract and ideal. By opposing the modern demands of Life, it stirs us from our sensing percieving, and points to the introspecitive and intuitive. Turning to these two, which go hand in hand,  we are likely to find closely associated romanticism. The meaning of romanticism has shifted its form and rules in the past centuries, but it was always present in them. There is in Thebes the young girl professing she was born for no other purpose than to love. Amongst the reeds, there shifts the nymph into the laurel tree, its bark swollen by sweet – liped god's tears. On the island of Albion the king passes into the shadow of Avalon. Back in Italy, the maiden pots her lover's head with basil and mourns for her life. The young prince in the North sacrifices his life in attempt to avenge his kingly father. The doctor's wife ruins herself and her family, to end her life in sorrow and agony. The modern Narcissus achieves eternal youth for the price of his soul. We feel a certain deterioration from this image in the time that came afterwards, which may be attributed to the external circumstances that spun our beliefs, culture, taste and thought. Something deeply changed grew within the contemporary thought, and through Life realises itself by strict exactness. Through Art, it realises by fluid abstractness. As a result, many refuse it, some agree with it, while the minority strives to feel it. The good question to ask oneself, when facing the contemporary Art, would be how to reach for the meaning with what is present in front of one. For, very so often, we might feel an isolated vagueness scratching at our minds and emotions, and turn away from it. The starvation in the incomprehensible frightens us, because it is the answer to the strict exactness – for which we haven't asked a question. In this light and its shades, we search for the long lost ideal of romanticism. „Romanticism is always in front of life“, Oscar Wilde stated in The Decay of Lying. In the past century we have witnessed a few attempts of applying it to the modern Art, but in vain.  Where Marsyas once used to cease in his song, in his being, there came an ever – fulfilling silence. It is not uncommon to see young readers or admireres of Art returning to the old masters nowdays, and it delights their teachers to see so. What should disturb us, is their lack of notice for their contemporaries. It simply urges us to refine our methods, reach for the pure and unbroken visions – untouched - and confront our self – restrictions. We have become overfocused on self – protection and preservation from crude attacks, imposed by the fashion of our time. What is needed, much as ever, is to embrace the emotions, purified by their sense of rawness. This comes to be the vital substance of all creation. Without it how much longer are our inner worlds to endure?

Oh, give us complex beauty, tender beauty, distant beauty – but always, always – our cry is for beauty.
michael Jun 22
We spend our days watching, by the hour,
The Kardashians in their ivory tower

Fifty-one million one can make,
And yet from the poor we continue to take.

With another tape, they could make more
Here men are, paying, preaching; “she’s a *****!”

Punter, performer; why is only one disallowed?
Sexes sin equally; Mz Davidson would be so proud

But a role model she is! Some also bark.
What about Wu Zetian, Zenobia, Joan of Arc?

They are lost, not as important as ingot
Instead we’ll recall Weinstein, bigot.

Stories of their tweets dominate the BBC
But where is the plight of the LEDC?
Crego Jun 1
Bleed my mind out
Onto paper again
It’s in a cage
I’m full of rage
Things can’t be the same.
**** a phase, this is a chapter
Turn the page, streets in flames
Things can’t be the same.
I feel the pain when I see their eyes
And I can **** near taste it
They wanna rewrite history
But the noise too loud
So they can’t erase it
Things can’t be the same
Light it
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