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Roy Orbison was no Luciano Pavarotti, but then Luciano Pavarotti was no Roy Orbison. Born in Nowhere, Texas, Orbison had an inauspicious musical beginning. He was shy growing up, but got a guitar at an early age. He drifted around tiny towns as he tentatively began his career and over the following years signed with several different recording companies. He remained extremely self-conscious as he slowly gained some success and wore dark-tinted glasses to allay some degree of his unease on stage. But in the late 1950s and early 60s, Orbison made it big, so big, in fact, that his songs went to the top of the charts in the U.S. as well as Europe and Australia. But by the mid-60s with the musical invasion from the United Kingdom--ironic though it was, he became close friends with the Beatles who admired his talent and songs--and the dramatic culture-change in America, Orbison's career and his popularity waned terribly. It was not until the 80s that Orbison experienced a grand resurgence of popularity, which pleased him so. But he did not have long to enjoy it. He died of a heart attack in 1988 at the age of 52. He was buried in an unmarked grave.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
A graduate of Andover and Columbia College, Columbia University, Tod Howard Hawks has been a poet, an essayist, a novelist, and a human-rights advocate his entire adult life.
Simon Soane Jun 2020
I walk past the window
where you were
I begin to wave,
but as I start the hello motion I remember
you're not there anymore,
just a empty seat
behind a full green door.
Oh Roy.
But at least there are still sinews
that move
in anticipation of you,
and muscles connected to bone
the space you left.
Now everytime I walk past your window and raise a hi
it's mixed with the love
of goodbye.
Words' Worth Mar 2019
A queer and epicure
A problematic diet
A teenage workout
I had to go to the prison bar
Lcked out my cell
Push ups on the go
With the trust in my heart
There was despair
I was raised to go
Stay at home
Different shades
Take it from here
Better believe
You never stay same similarly
Indeed there's a reassurance
Somthing in your mind
Hard ot get, hard to figure out
SOmething bothering you
Man the racism isn't
It's the hate
THe sympathy and liberty
With the justice of a sullen symbol
Of sudden death
Of sombre nation
With the fearlessness
With the challenge of scale and bellicose resistance
I better work and stomp out the hate
THat I have
I was little I wanted to stay at the home
Away from the cigarettes that close ones ask for
If you knew me my face
Even the Devil wouldn't recognize
Trust me a face in the
Neu ce fleur
Friends with you and take it in deep and keep calm. Basically, go rub yourselves and scratch yourself in the head. if you read this, I bet you'll want the lock of poetic eyes closing in on those windows. Of your nervous eyes that serried in the shade of the moonlight. Do you like it? Please Like
krm Mar 2018
Oh, Andy-
speak to me in paints:
red, yellow, blue

When I told you I wouldn't be good at this,
an inability to sketch hands that punched at everything leaving me weak.
Keane's sorrow filled eyes upon oil made more sense to me.

I was never angry or mean, just sad and hopeless.
Lichtenstein was more your speed with obscene images of ******* women
and dialogue of broken hearts.

Van Gogh never made sense, but his attention to detail caught my eye.
To not know what goes on in your own head is identifiable so,
my head is art crafted by Picasso.

they hospitalize you once you've lopped your ear off
when giving a part of themselves to a lover.
I'm not cut out for this- the starving artist,
the tragic sketcher,
or the natural- born painter.

I've calloused my hands,
shed tears on pages of sketchbooks
put paint that looks childlike
and nothing worthwhile,
in all the time spent learning,
I've never learned how to be an artist.

I thought it was the mantra to be pained and miserable,
but you accounted for bold choices and vivid primary shades.
I feel betrayed, that my art alone, isn't enough to be good.

They will never frame my name,
or immortalize flaws in which could never be erased.

Like our conversation in my dream:
"I can't be mean." -Me
"Killing yourself isn't much different" -You

So Andy, what is the color I'm feeling? If it isn't blue?

A dream I had of speaking with Andy Warhol
Roy Esnarom Mar 2015
I wish I could tell you
that you'r beautiful to me
But you'r beautiful to all of them
even those who can't see

I wish i could tell you
no one will ever love you like i do
But you are so lovable
i would be lyin' to myself if i tried to

I wish i could tell you
that i will give you the stars
But you got them already
in your smile and your eyes

I wish i could tell you
that i would make you happier than ever
But you'r already happy
and the last time i was i can't even remember

These are the things that are keepin' me quiet
letting' me let you go on with your life
I got the blues, my guitar and my writin
you have yourself and your man and his love
idk when i wrote it but it was put out there for the first time around: 25/11/09

moved here from wordthingies on blogspot
Kevis Seymore Feb 2015
I gazed into the masses once again,
As oft I do each day jus' 'fore the morn ray,
This, to divert myself from the perpetual nothing,
And so they passed, eyes shifting now and then,
The parade of the endless masquerade,
Moving with undying fixation throughout the day,
Before such a bleak spectacle,
I sought intrigue, lest I fall in my folly, something,
Amongst such monotony could bring some solace,

(What is their purpose?)

In this pursuit of novelty I found him,
Not unlike the rest, an exact replica of masterful precision,
No fault could be found in this transcription of flesh,
Detail seemed as crystal though the morn still dim,
Yet, with the greatest of scrutiny the answer would remain
No equation nor system for separation,
Not but by the work of chance was he chosen,
While focused, only with my eyes did he I thresh,
Before me, now, was only the man and the street which he tread,

(How can they see?)

I thought as to what action of inquiry to pursue,
For never had I followed them in their repetitious vigil,
Perhaps I could lean insight as I stray from my languor,
May it, this spark of macabre curiosity, subdue,
And so did I step forth from my vantage above,
Approaching I saw he bore no symbol nor sigil,
This I sought as some slight piece with which to identify,
I had known there would be none, yet it chilled me to the core,
I fell in behind him, despite this feeling of trepidation,

(Where do they come from?)

Instead of walking forth, they shambled on,
It seemed to me as it were a single entity, each bound to the next,
Yet, they bore only illusory shackles and masks,
What were these phantasmal creations they had don,
As I focused on his own it seemed to coalesce before me,
It appeared ever-shifting, but never changing, leaving me perplexed,
None of it's forms could fit any description,
So alien, but familiar in the face of the facts,
A feeling of great discomfort came from the spectacle before me,

(What are they?)

As we continued on a second oddity was unveiled,
The masses had always been youthful in form,
But now, as I walked, they aged before me,
Slowly, the man's lids drooped and his skin paled,
Watching in horror, I felt fear coarse through my being,
They did not slow or act as their bodies continued to deform,
Instead they, and the man, remained in their endless exodus,
It was then that I wondered if perhaps they did flee,
For, though their actions disorderly it seemed prearranged,

(What do they seek?)

After some time an antiquated cemetery came into view,
I knew this place, though I had never before visited,
It was in some surreal recollection came the memory,
A place of ashes, dust and the morning dew,
But long had it been since the morn passed away,
I could now make out the moon, though my view limited,
Time had left me on my venture, thus had the day,
And so now sat the moon as the clouds did carry,
But they too trekked on, even as they and the man,

(Where does their path end?)

Ahead they entered the place before and on past my sight,
The man approached the gates and passed inside,
I trailed along to the archway of dark iron and steel,
It's form before me grew menacing, as some strange blight,
It had corroded, but not rust so that it was jagged and bent,
For the first time hesitant, I moved with a tentative stride,
I had resolved to sate my curiosity and I could not were I to stop,
I reached the gate, but passing through a hand I did feel,
It pulled me back with great force and I heard a soft voice.

Only the dead may pass.
Kevis Seymore Jan 2015
Rise in the morning,
Fall back without a fight,
Right back into the night,
Falling 'till the mourning,

As the emptiness grows,
Time simply slips into the void,
The endless repetitions only shows,
Please the people, please the android,

The rain has been pouring,
Yet, the glass hasn't filled,
Though, never has it spilled,
And the answer they are ignoring,

No one knows,
Oh, the hollowness that exists,
The endless repetitions only shows,
These the worlds, these the cysts,

There has been given a warning,
Of this their creations of great sleight,
To achieve such false height,
But, still their hearts they are adorning,

And so it goes and goes,
While they raise their fists,
Right until the final throws,
The world fades into mists,

Meaningless is this warring,
Of a world that remains untilled,
Of dreams that remain unfulfilled,
Look on vacuous, look on abhorring,

As the emptiness grows,
Time simply slips into the void,
The endless repetitions only shows,
Please the people, please the android,

Rise in the morning,
Fall back without a fight,
Right back into the night,
Falling 'till the mourning.
Kevis Seymore Jan 2015
Blue, green, scarlet, and you,
Things that often fade to black,

Catch a fish with bait,
Teach him to cast,
Wrap him up with hate,
Save him for last,

Castles crumble, kingdoms fall,
Some will rise,
Listen for the call,
Die for the prize,

Blue, green, scarlet, and you,
Things that often fade to black,

Heavy clouds ride high,
Daisies in the field,
All is still, close your eye,
As the watchman turns to yield,

Catch a fish with bait,
Teach him to cast,
Wrap him up with hate,
Save him for last,

Blue, green, scarlet, and you,
Things that often fade to black,
Kevis Seymore Jan 2015
Broken the diagnosis,
Change the cure,
Perhaps with prosthesis,
The subject may be pure,

Twist here,
Turn there,
Do not fear,
On to tear,

One looks on,
What ailment scars,
What is this spawn,
Behind phantom bars,

They tried to fix,
Tried to hear the clicks,
They tried to mend,
To make it bend,

A shriek cries out,
It is done,
To clear all doubt,
All saved but the one,

Though, what is not spoken,
It was never broken.
Kevis Seymore Jan 2015
Life, passing and fading,
You frown as it moves on by,
Life, calm and sedating,
Yet your beginning to wonder why,

Living, living in a box of your design,
Oh, it's quiet and nice,
Yes, and you've paid the price,
Living in a box of your design,

Why can't you see,
In this cage of rust,
Who can't you be,
When your world turns dust,

Still, you stay there,
Still, you see it,
Yet you wonder where,
In this life,

Passing and fading,
You frown as it moves on by,
Calm and sedating,
Your beginning to wonder why,

Walls fall down,
When the crows cry,
And the king has lost his crown,
Then truth begins to die,

Now you wonder,
In the field of debris,
If this were a fateful blunder,
Or an act to be set free,

Though, amidst loss,
Memories alone beside you,
Are alone to guide you,
Had it been better,

Living, living in a box of your design,
It was quiet and nice,
Yes, and you'd paid the price,
Living, living in a box of your design.
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