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#newwave
Dylan got it first, as he often did, That American youth were ignorant kids, Betrayed by the things our parents hid. And we were insulted just a little bit But we listened and took the plunge, Determined to expunge The poison and let out the Id. It was up to us not heed the call up And as one voice we stood up, Saying, shouting NO! Twenty or so legendary years for some; While others sold out, we beat the drum. Our peers oddly died around us but…. Even as we ‘felt those cold hands’ touch our skin, As The Capitalists were closing in— & Some of them were us… We sounded the drum. Later on some hippie-punks or is it the other way(?) Sang about extraordinary girls & then took a fall. Sometimes begged for Novocain Which wouldn’t relieve psychic pain, Like being Ramonely sedated in a concert hall. Nobody knew what to do with them. Except to give them fame. (It was just as bad for them as for the Clash)… Hell, they almost invented the mash-up. And too many anti-hippie punks Loaded on cheap ****** or always drunk, Claimed all those heroes had sold out. But Ziggy would’ve known Ash from Ash. Then came their Blood on the Tracks; They finally saw what Dylan saw, Or, if they saw it before, They got some Real Emotion back. Nothing has changed and everything has changed, Said The Heathen…and he should know. But how do we see, stuck here ‘so far below’, Not remotely in the know; They might be on an intergalactic trip Or as in “A.I”, nothing more than a binary blip? But encased in virtual ice, how can we live? Until the end…and even then… As John wrote, we only get the love we give.
0
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 1:28 PM UTC
sharon-talbot
American Idiot Wind
Dylan got it first, as he often did, That American youth were ignorant kids, Betrayed by the things our parents hid. And we were insulted just a little bit But we listened and took the plunge, Determined to expunge The poison and let out the Id. It was up to us not heed the call up And as one voice we stood up, Saying, shouting NO! Twenty or so legendary years for some; While others sold out, we beat the drum. Our peers oddly died around us but…. Even as we ‘felt those cold hands’ touch our skin, As The Capitalists were closing in— & Some of them were us… We sounded the drum. Later on some hippie-punks or is it the other way(?) Sang about extraordinary girls & then took a fall. Sometimes begged for Novocain Which wouldn’t relieve psychic pain, Like being Ramonely sedated in a concert hall. Nobody knew what to do with them. Except to give them fame. (It was just as bad for them as for the Clash)… Hell, they almost invented the mash-up. And too many anti-hippie punks Loaded on cheap ****** or always drunk, Claimed all those heroes had sold out. But Ziggy would’ve known Ash from Ash. Then came their Blood on the Tracks; They finally saw what Dylan saw, Or, if they saw it before, They got some Real Emotion back. Nothing has changed and everything has changed, Said The Heathen…and he should know. But how do we see, stuck here ‘so far below’, Not remotely in the know; They might be on an intergalactic trip Or as in “A.I”, nothing more than a binary blip? But encased in virtual ice, how can we live? Until the end…and even then… As John wrote, we only get the love we give.
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43
the bed is nestled in disarray puffed and creased and folded all off kilter mattresses scratched up air pad nightstand bruised by rings of white where water collected laptop pushing yellow light weakly through the red currant smoke its warm and inviting your face is tingling and a soft smile lurks. the trip and walking in the storm           in the rain neither wet nor dry                               skin neither hot nor cold but feeling                     something smooth and searing pushing on the brain                fierce winds and acute awareness           a new phase an evolution a transformation           it flings you up but pulls you down to that sleepy groove in the shade. dead leaves on the windowsill and the silhouette of leaves cast on the fading white wood and the wind ***** the torn up mesh a broken insect screen slashed up stuck with my head in the blur and the sizzling haze there's still sound in the skies.
0
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 12:01 AM UTC
fritz
d r e a m i n' (III)
the bed is nestled in disarray puffed and creased and folded all off kilter mattresses scratched up air pad nightstand bruised by rings of white where water collected laptop pushing yellow light weakly through the red currant smoke its warm and inviting your face is tingling and a soft smile lurks. the trip and walking in the storm           in the rain neither wet nor dry                               skin neither hot nor cold but feeling                     something smooth and searing pushing on the brain                fierce winds and acute awareness           a new phase an evolution a transformation           it flings you up but pulls you down to that sleepy groove in the shade. dead leaves on the windowsill and the silhouette of leaves cast on the fading white wood and the wind ***** the torn up mesh a broken insect screen slashed up stuck with my head in the blur and the sizzling haze there's still sound in the skies.
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18