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Ill-lettered functionaries at PBS
Are pleased to announce that Woodstock defined
A generation. In reality,
Generations are not defined at all:

My argument is that women and men
Of conscience, courage, character, and class
Define themselves, and stubbornly refuse
To be counted, conned, or categorized

And only followers would acquiesce

To

Ill-lettered functionaries at PBS
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is: Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com

It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  THE ROAD TO MAGDALENA, PALEO-HIPPIES AT WORK AND PLAY, LADY WITH A DEAD TURTLE, DON’T FORGET YOUR SHOES AND GRAPES, COFFEE AND A DEAD ALLIGATOR TO GO, and DISPATCHES FROM THE COLONIAL OFFICE.
Living moths festoon dark roominess,
whole wide Nitenidus outside black bathrooms,
cheeky creepy cockroaches cockbroach
meathook lapels of Night,
dapper carcass of the blackballed Day.
The Day is well ***,
w/ its blister of red butcherflies.
But yesterday & I
are not so different,
given the ***'s rush out of Existence,
the Country Club of Human Potential.

Give me Night's open plan, dark sky park
blueprint dapslashed in undertaker's bootpolish
over any day anyday.
Universal inkwell we wander into
like spiders in the Beano.
Starlight, millions of runt suns
levy obscure orients at inscrutable heights.
Unimaginable distance is relative,
all my imagination does is distance me.
But tonight I shall stitch my dead moth stichs
of dead moth schtick sewnonymously unto
the Norfolk Night.
My Rorschachwinged write-
up of crispers upon crispers of the critters
will wear you, Norfolk Night, breathlessly & blindly,
like you were a hooded overcoat
w/ no holes to facilitate
thumbtwiddling or gobsight.
By these dead moth odes, I become your host,
5'6 embodiment of a black sock
w/ all my mortal might.

Night, I wear your weary
spidery epaulettes, tramptuft
peek thru your sleepingbag shoulders
of middleaged soldiers' slow suicide
on civvy street (literally, concretely).
A couple of wraps of dead moths
in the breastpocket of Norwich Vice,
1 w/ the Omniscuzz,
heavybreathing slugs honking at slags.
& us angelheaded hipsters
gonna walk down Cattail Street
to Our Work on an alcourier
carrierbagtwizzle mission at 6am.
Lousy Prince Lice & his ex-insect entourage,
dead moth cortege & court of overcocky
carkroaches. What have I got riding
on a bonafide dead moth **** sock
of a mythopoeic deposit?

I am erring on inauthenticity,
as if Turin Cloth
a whimsical medieval weaver
imprinted w/ his soninlaw's
peasant chic, protoWoodstock likeness
to hock as roly helic.
I longago gotout of the bath.

But it's more complicated than that:
poets are undergrowth spirits
who find garments on the ground
that have never been worn.
Do not confuse this w/ chrysalises,
chrysalice's bulb of wings
is ball of collapsible coffinlids.

To inanely ingrain
a Top Of The Pops Of Dead Moths
upon the Night Whoise - how close
is my imagination to conquering infinity?
All the insects that will die tonight
in Norwich to be approximate, best I can get.
Insects, living, are never innocent
or heartening as fishful goblets at night,
dead moth olived bathwater I neck to nail
this noctuary pretensionproof.
What a dead moth & a Dark Poet
have in common is that they are not aloft.
Arcassin B Oct 2016
By Arcassin Burnham


Plastic end of the stick in hopes to never see the inside
Of what your anger stands from,
I put in all the work to love to have you in my arms , it's
Not enough in a continuum,
Constant calling , leaving voice messages in every hour
on the Hour just to gain some hope,
Looking for your soul crossing through dimensions even
In a paranormal state you just looking for a reason to
Just make it so,
So make it so,
Had to pick it up and get off the road,
Revised Woodstock , you don't need no clothes,
Running away is the choice that I chose,
And Lucy's In The Sky With Diamonds With her eyes closed.......

Being graceful with the savage toes,
There's nothing left upon the old railroad,
And if you didn't know , now ya ........
©ABPoetry2016

http://arcassin.blogspot.com/2016/10/railroad.html
rare-and-rad Sep 2014
It was 1969 the day was 15
I was up in the sky
I was only eighteen
White Lake in the town of Bethel, New York
I saw trees being hugged and loved
I saw no one eating pork
The rhythm, the sense of happiness and being free
I was one with everyone
like it was meant to be
I cried from excitement, tears full of joy
It’s like I relived Christmas
when I was just a boy
I made love with the one I’m with today
I have three beautiful children
And that’s how it’s going to stay
I kept the blanket that kept this family whole
all because of 1969
I rest with the blanket with the hole
Brianna May 2014
I can't help but wonder why we are pretending like it's Woodstock and 1969 all over again?

We pretend we know something about peace.
We act like we understand what it's like to be women and have no rights.
(Ladies you have more rights than you think you do)
We act like we know how the men and women in war feel when they come home to protesters and hatred.
(Stop hating on people who are risking their lives to save our country!)

1969.
***, drugs, rock n roll.
Peace and love.

We don't know anything.
We are so young and naive.

I am the same as the rest of you.,
I pretend like equality and legalizing drugs will make this world different, but it won't.
I like the idea of peace and love.
I love *** and rock n roll.

But I'm just a ****** up kid from the 90's.
I love too much.
I live too fast.
I'll die to young.
I like the idea of weaving flower in my hair & I love the Beatles.

Maybe 2014 is 1969 in a more obscene fashion?
Not sure where this came from.
I'm really not political or invoked in feminism don't hate on me. Just trying something new!!!
WARNER BAXTER Apr 2014
WOODSTOCK


They came from The South, The North and The West Coast
450,000 together for peace and music, half a million at most

Richie Havens inspired all while singing his "Freedom" song
Country Joe McDonald dropped "F" bombs his whole set long

Carlos Santana amazed us, as he gave all and sacrificed his soul
Arlo Guthrie with Woody's ****, packed his pipe and smoked a bowl

Canned Heat and The Bear asked us to work together united stand
Levon Helm pounded skins and sang "The Weight" with The Band

Joe Cocker warned us more than once that he might sing out of tune
One after the other, CSNY, Alvin Lee, Sha Na Na midnight 'til noon

Janis gave a piece of her heart along with a "Ball and Chain"
Jefferson Airplane sang about Alice out in the pouring rain

The Fogerty's sang about where they were born and two girls one proud
And for the life of me I can't figure out why The Who played to this crowd

Jimi capped it off with The National Anthem and "Purple Haze"
the perfect ending to four long daze of rock and roll blaze

So if your travels take you to New York Up State
Stop at Bethel Wood, the place where Rock History was written in Slate

"1969, when music was grooved in vinyl and carved in Rock"


inspired by the song "Woodstock"
written by Joni Mitchell

— The End —