#riffs
Poems don’t have to rhyme, free verse it isn’t a crime
I can write what I please—don’t call the police.
Must I play the game, both rhyme and spill intimate things?
Can I develop leitmotifs without rhyming riffs?
I could claim I’m writing prose - yeah, be one of those.
No one can rhyme all the time.
I can refuse—I’m no Dr F-ing Seuss,
**** it! ← See? THAT didn’t rhyme.
(sirens in the distance)
.
.
Fun songs for this:
Ain't It Fun by Paramore
It's All Your Fault (with Katie Shore) by Asleep At The Wheel
Jan 12, 2025
Jan 12, 2025 at 12:22 PM UTC
_He is a child who covers his eyes with peep-hole hands and thinks himself unseen; he talks softly when the multitude shouts out loud, and hums sweet tunes to
block the trembling arpeggios and clashing riffs of humanity in discord.
He is overwhelmed by the silence of life's unspoken words.
He is a listener who also has something to say.
He sees into the hearts of men.
Will you let him
speak?
Speak
if you will, Shy,
of what lies within the hearts
of men - unspoken thoughts and peep-hole
tremblings - the whole of life’s silent and unseen somethings.
Softly now; block out the discordant shouts of the clashing multitude.
Close your sweet eyes and listen to those tuneful arpeggios and undercover
riffs. Talk to me. Can you hear the sweet sound of humanity humming out loud?_
Oct 20, 2019
Oct 20, 2019 at 9:41 PM UTC
As cold as another age, wracked with solitude,
A slow start to another beginning,
Unreliable cloud coats the sky
And the sea repetitiously roars in,
Cuffing cliffs,
Pounding rocks
With calamitous roars
Playing endless riffs across the sand.
We walked together down the beach
Troubled by the surf
Chewing on cigarette stubs, sullied by the wind
New ghosts in the half-light
Bearing years like backpacks.
Grown old in the gathering twilight
We chattered together, our footsteps picking
Wounds. Barbed words
Like greetings, cheerfulness like an accusation.
*********** a shared and interesting memory,
We cuddled together in the scouring wind
Enjoying each other’s casual warmth.
It was a time for reflection,
When love is a scab on evolving friendship,
Heartlessness the price of redemption.
The contrived book of your beauty,
The gilded ceramic of expertly rendered features
The undulating film of your gestures, coded and decoded
Through time.
Beauty is finite, crumbling to fleshless reminiscence
Fixed to canvas and celluloid
With tireless labour. In the end, signifying another thing-
Of little interest.
An artist’s casual thought, a director’s cut.
They barely remember your name,
Your laughter and wildness gone, missed by the
Senile artist’s transitory brush,
Clotted with hundred-year-old varnish.
A small house by the sea
Surrounded by flowerbeds sparkling with summer colour
Self-absorbed children, with whom we exchanged affection
And parted from, holidaying in Bangkok
With lovers of all sorts.
As the sea rolled towards us
And evening gave way to night.
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 7:17 PM UTC
Andre Andre Andale Ariba!
So do my fingers slide up,
And they slide down my guitar neck,
Getting hurt is imminent.
These guitar licks will hurt sweetly.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 3:51 AM UTC