"backbeat" poems - Hello Poetry

The slaves of their passion built this pyramid But now there’s no sign of civilization But ancient artifact have been found The great migration to the underground I look at the hieroglyphics on the wall It’s an epic story oh I’ve seen it all This place was taken by industry Powered by fame and the illusion of money They perverted the artist’s proud, heartfelt ways Forced the true artists out for the ones who stayed They create things that sound the same to us Dropped their talent sold their souls to business Lost their land to a cult of executives So now they put out songs without messages There puppets without any ideals But it’s amazing for album sales They were tempted by the glorious pop charts Every follower goes by the formula Produce garbage without connection With no real emotion or expression Their distorted auto tuned emptiness All to be on TV and in magazines Want exposure to be recognized Their careers won’t fade they were never alive This place ***** robbed lied to n even forgotten The ones who stayed chained to the corporation Not for the sake of art but for the money Lack of feeling and effort plain to see The slaves of their passion built this pyramid But now there’s no sign of civilization But ancient artifact have been found The great migration to the underground Can’t understand what their saying Fan base is alienated Rather be an icon than a star The space between performer and audience grows more and more So the true artists have left n disappeared They’ve been out of sight for many many years There somewhere where you don’t need to be in style Might not find them at the left of the dial No they don’t care about TV or radio They just want to make something with all their soul They are all now opposed to the fame Crossing their fingers it won’t be the next craze But today we still have the artifacts Amazing and impressive sounds of the past Better than the sell outs we all know Talent, determination, originality flow The slaves of their passion built this pyramid But now there’s no sign of civilization But ancient artifact have been found The great migration to the underground Someone poisoned the main stream So now it’s the same to me Did I read the hieroglyphics wrong I don’t know? But it was the rise, fall and return of rock n roll

0

Dec 5, 2013

Dec 5, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC

tommy-johnson

Cool and Slow With a Backbeat

The slaves of their passion built this pyramid But now there’s no sign of civilization But ancient artifact have been found The great migration to the underground I look at the hieroglyphics on the wall It’s an epic story oh I’ve seen it all This place was taken by industry Powered by fame and the illusion of money They perverted the artist’s proud, heartfelt ways Forced the true artists out for the ones who stayed They create things that sound the same to us Dropped their talent sold their souls to business Lost their land to a cult of executives So now they put out songs without messages There puppets without any ideals But it’s amazing for album sales They were tempted by the glorious pop charts Every follower goes by the formula Produce garbage without connection With no real emotion or expression Their distorted auto tuned emptiness All to be on TV and in magazines Want exposure to be recognized Their careers won’t fade they were never alive This place ***** robbed lied to n even forgotten The ones who stayed chained to the corporation Not for the sake of art but for the money Lack of feeling and effort plain to see The slaves of their passion built this pyramid But now there’s no sign of civilization But ancient artifact have been found The great migration to the underground Can’t understand what their saying Fan base is alienated Rather be an icon than a star The space between performer and audience grows more and more So the true artists have left n disappeared They’ve been out of sight for many many years There somewhere where you don’t need to be in style Might not find them at the left of the dial No they don’t care about TV or radio They just want to make something with all their soul They are all now opposed to the fame Crossing their fingers it won’t be the next craze But today we still have the artifacts Amazing and impressive sounds of the past Better than the sell outs we all know Talent, determination, originality flow The slaves of their passion built this pyramid But now there’s no sign of civilization But ancient artifact have been found The great migration to the underground Someone poisoned the main stream So now it’s the same to me Did I read the hieroglyphics wrong I don’t know? But it was the rise, fall and return of rock n roll

56

After cocktails at Luigi's Bar, and then The Golden Bowl, I proposed we play a gig of jazz-inspired rock and roll. We all thought we'd make the fans cry out for encores every night. But our schemes were dreams that faded in the morning's ruthless light. My blue guitar should captivate the people every night. But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled. My dream faded out of sight. Playing keyboards was Patricia. (Never 'Trisha', never 'Pat'.) She'd a taste for gracious living in her small art deco flat. She would practice chord progressions, sipping lapsang souchong tea. Then she played away at weekends with her special friend, Marie. She trained her dainty fingers to explore new grooves each night. But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled. Her dream faded out of sight. We had Ritchie on electric bass, with tap-and-pull technique. Such a clever devil — Ritchie almost taught the bass to speak. Ralph the drummer's backbeat cymbal crashes measured out the bars. We agreed the speed — then found we could not play like superstars. Would the crowd be wowed by passion from my lovely blue guitar? No, the dream crumbled, as the band stumbled. Our dream faded overnight. The Blue Guitar Quartet was as close as we could get to our vision for the music of today. But we bumbled and we fumbled, our aspirations humbled. So we slowly put our instruments away. "The Blue Guitar Quartet is down, but not out yet. With practice you will crack it," said Marie. "Let Patricia be your singer; she's a musical humdinger, and as soulful as a solo girl can be". "She can improvise a blues based on any riff you choose. Let's have handshakes and embraces — this quartet is going places! Here's to jazz-rock, and The Blue Guitar Quartet!"

0

Dec 9, 2013

Dec 9, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC

john-r

The Blue Guitar Quartet (song lyrics)

After cocktails at Luigi's Bar, and then The Golden Bowl, I proposed we play a gig of jazz-inspired rock and roll. We all thought we'd make the fans cry out for encores every night. But our schemes were dreams that faded in the morning's ruthless light. My blue guitar should captivate the people every night. But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled. My dream faded out of sight. Playing keyboards was Patricia. (Never 'Trisha', never 'Pat'.) She'd a taste for gracious living in her small art deco flat. She would practice chord progressions, sipping lapsang souchong tea. Then she played away at weekends with her special friend, Marie. She trained her dainty fingers to explore new grooves each night. But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled. Her dream faded out of sight. We had Ritchie on electric bass, with tap-and-pull technique. Such a clever devil — Ritchie almost taught the bass to speak. Ralph the drummer's backbeat cymbal crashes measured out the bars. We agreed the speed — then found we could not play like superstars. Would the crowd be wowed by passion from my lovely blue guitar? No, the dream crumbled, as the band stumbled. Our dream faded overnight. The Blue Guitar Quartet was as close as we could get to our vision for the music of today. But we bumbled and we fumbled, our aspirations humbled. So we slowly put our instruments away. "The Blue Guitar Quartet is down, but not out yet. With practice you will crack it," said Marie. "Let Patricia be your singer; she's a musical humdinger, and as soulful as a solo girl can be". "She can improvise a blues based on any riff you choose. Let's have handshakes and embraces — this quartet is going places! Here's to jazz-rock, and The Blue Guitar Quartet!"

38

Low lights, harsh light... air thick with smoke, alcohol, perfume sweat and the scent of *** Some guy on a saxophone wails the blues, baring his soul. A snare drum, a piano a bass keeping time. Written at midnight with breath and a backbeat... what it means to be alive... Do you need more? Smokey Jazz.

0

Oct 20, 2013

Oct 20, 2013 at 10:03 AM UTC

stratton-wayne-stclair

Smokey Jazz

Low lights, harsh light... air thick with smoke, alcohol, perfume sweat and the scent of *** Some guy on a saxophone wails the blues, baring his soul. A snare drum, a piano a bass keeping time. Written at midnight with breath and a backbeat... what it means to be alive... Do you need more? Smokey Jazz.

13

the remnants of a broken down villain he's waited here in thick silence with his elaborate plans drawn on the wall complete with corrections stick figures in the halflight crude illustrations of the vocally frustrated small errors in life represented by five burnished monkeys cast in bronze lined up in order of smiles on his mirror wall the surface of his words are reflections of the rain which never comes but stays in the golden gilded cages of his mind shes so sweet rides up on her mystery wheel and starts to strip off the layers but stops when she reaches her freshly washed skin and she dose a little dance just for him shes been trying to get him off this diesel gas fumes kick he's been on since vietnam and the burnished brass monkeys break into song something slow with a nice backbeat something about the middle east and the wires that join us all in prosperity she sells *** in plain brown paper bags on the street to support the tragic train they say shes weak but we all know its just makeup she wears and shes the strongest man alive she isn't drawing grand designs to conquer the world but its something shes well on her way to doing anyway with her backup band five burnished brass monkeys each one with a hand on a bible swearing allegiance to the madness found in stick figures carved with loving care into the walls of a madman's eight inch mind

0

Dec 5, 2013

Dec 5, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC

mark-john-junor-1

burnished monkeys

the remnants of a broken down villain he's waited here in thick silence with his elaborate plans drawn on the wall complete with corrections stick figures in the halflight crude illustrations of the vocally frustrated small errors in life represented by five burnished monkeys cast in bronze lined up in order of smiles on his mirror wall the surface of his words are reflections of the rain which never comes but stays in the golden gilded cages of his mind shes so sweet rides up on her mystery wheel and starts to strip off the layers but stops when she reaches her freshly washed skin and she dose a little dance just for him shes been trying to get him off this diesel gas fumes kick he's been on since vietnam and the burnished brass monkeys break into song something slow with a nice backbeat something about the middle east and the wires that join us all in prosperity she sells *** in plain brown paper bags on the street to support the tragic train they say shes weak but we all know its just makeup she wears and shes the strongest man alive she isn't drawing grand designs to conquer the world but its something shes well on her way to doing anyway with her backup band five burnished brass monkeys each one with a hand on a bible swearing allegiance to the madness found in stick figures carved with loving care into the walls of a madman's eight inch mind

35

People always want to know what it feels like, so I’ll tell you: there’s a sting when you first slice, and then your heart speeds up when you see the blood, because you know you’ve done something you shouldn’t have, and yet you’ve gotten away with it. Then you sort of go into a trance, because it’s truly dazzling—that bright red line, like a highway route on a map that you want to follow to see where it leads. And—God—the sweet release, that’s the best way I can describe it, kind of like a balloon that’s tied to a little kid’s hand, which somehow breaks free and floats into the sky. You just know that balloon is thinking, Ha, I don’t belong to you after all; and at the same time, Do they have any idea how beautiful the view is from up here? And then the balloon remembers, after the fact, that it has a wicked fear of heights. When reality kicks in, you grab some toilet paper or a paper towel (better than a washcloth, because the stains don’t ever come out 100 percent) and you press hard against the cut. You can feel your embarrassment; it’s a backbeat underneath your pulse. Whatever relief there was a minute ago congeals, like cold gravy, into a fist in the pit of your stomach. You literally make yourself sick, because you promised yourself last time would be the last time, and once again, you’ve let yourself down. So you hide the evidence of your weakness under layers of clothes long enough to cover the cuts, even if it’s summertime and no one is wearing jeans or long sleeves. You throw the ****** tissues into the toilet and watch the water go pink before you flush them into oblivion, and you wish it were really that easy.

0

Dec 1, 2013

Dec 1, 2013 at 3:44 AM UTC

complicatedcharmer

'Twas hard .

People always want to know what it feels like, so I’ll tell you: there’s a sting when you first slice, and then your heart speeds up when you see the blood, because you know you’ve done something you shouldn’t have, and yet you’ve gotten away with it. Then you sort of go into a trance, because it’s truly dazzling—that bright red line, like a highway route on a map that you want to follow to see where it leads. And—God—the sweet release, that’s the best way I can describe it, kind of like a balloon that’s tied to a little kid’s hand, which somehow breaks free and floats into the sky. You just know that balloon is thinking, Ha, I don’t belong to you after all; and at the same time, Do they have any idea how beautiful the view is from up here? And then the balloon remembers, after the fact, that it has a wicked fear of heights. When reality kicks in, you grab some toilet paper or a paper towel (better than a washcloth, because the stains don’t ever come out 100 percent) and you press hard against the cut. You can feel your embarrassment; it’s a backbeat underneath your pulse. Whatever relief there was a minute ago congeals, like cold gravy, into a fist in the pit of your stomach. You literally make yourself sick, because you promised yourself last time would be the last time, and once again, you’ve let yourself down. So you hide the evidence of your weakness under layers of clothes long enough to cover the cuts, even if it’s summertime and no one is wearing jeans or long sleeves. You throw the ****** tissues into the toilet and watch the water go pink before you flush them into oblivion, and you wish it were really that easy.

2

Thumbing the pulse of the overkill The backbeat to our times Stunning the false with freewill On the backseat of a lie Standing alone with patience Trying not to die Modelled by the gracious Overwhelmed and shy Leased out to the highest bidder for stories based on truth, told by the newest stranger from the loneliest book, eased myself close to get a better view inside a room with no door or no windows too.

0

Aug 25, 2013

Aug 25, 2013 at 8:49 AM UTC

BernardoSoares

Overkill

Thumbing the pulse of the overkill The backbeat to our times Stunning the false with freewill On the backseat of a lie Standing alone with patience Trying not to die Modelled by the gracious Overwhelmed and shy Leased out to the highest bidder for stories based on truth, told by the newest stranger from the loneliest book, eased myself close to get a better view inside a room with no door or no windows too.

9

Rules are only boundaries Set in place to break People only want to see The side of you that's fake. I walk on the wrong side of the street I live my life toe-tapping to the backbeat. I can't dance or even clap Rocking in my own little world They don't hear the backbeat And so call me absurd. Thunk-tap, thunk-tap ***** that bounce, jump ropes turn All you hear is thunk, the tap A language you can't learn. Try to cover me, the shushing falls in sheets But try as you might, you can't drown out the backbeat. Think of life with no backbeat Thunk thunk it's simple song A perfect and boring example Of where we all went wrong. Thunk-TAP, thunk-TAP The backbeat comes back in, beginning now to swell Thunk-TAP, thunk-TAP, thunk-TAP, thunk-TAP Faster, louder, a rhythm you can't quell. This is who I am, I'm turning up the heat Rendering you uncomfortable in the echo of my backbeat.

0

Jul 2, 2016

Jul 2, 2016 at 2:57 PM UTC

be-mccomb

Backbeat

Rules are only boundaries Set in place to break People only want to see The side of you that's fake. I walk on the wrong side of the street I live my life toe-tapping to the backbeat. I can't dance or even clap Rocking in my own little world They don't hear the backbeat And so call me absurd. Thunk-tap, thunk-tap ***** that bounce, jump ropes turn All you hear is thunk, the tap A language you can't learn. Try to cover me, the shushing falls in sheets But try as you might, you can't drown out the backbeat. Think of life with no backbeat Thunk thunk it's simple song A perfect and boring example Of where we all went wrong. Thunk-TAP, thunk-TAP The backbeat comes back in, beginning now to swell Thunk-TAP, thunk-TAP, thunk-TAP, thunk-TAP Faster, louder, a rhythm you can't quell. This is who I am, I'm turning up the heat Rendering you uncomfortable in the echo of my backbeat.

26

what if what if i was always wrong if life has always been a half sang song a crescendo with a gentle backbeat the sound of a heartbeat a gentle end that slips softly into silence' leaving only the remembrance of the last three notes as they breathed their last easily forgotten in the next ten seconds passed going back to sleep on the paper forever a whisper in the mind of a music reader a conductor moving to the rise and fall of my breath what if what if i was always right? ... i was always right. at the last moment as i perform a masterpiece i look past the crowd and there stands the conductor clapping and i am gently napping

0

Mar 9, 2012

Mar 9, 2012 at 3:33 PM UTC

LuminUmbra

What if?

what if what if i was always wrong if life has always been a half sang song a crescendo with a gentle backbeat the sound of a heartbeat a gentle end that slips softly into silence' leaving only the remembrance of the last three notes as they breathed their last easily forgotten in the next ten seconds passed going back to sleep on the paper forever a whisper in the mind of a music reader a conductor moving to the rise and fall of my breath what if what if i was always right? ... i was always right. at the last moment as i perform a masterpiece i look past the crowd and there stands the conductor clapping and i am gently napping

26

I know you have loved to where it hurt like the guitar strings pulled twisted plucked cried out to an audience at the Fillmore or had that backbeat inside the bass the drums saying **** me cried out like the lead singer have you ever loved more inside your heart torn outside becoming in as the melody sang about some love in two tones you took it to heart deep understood again how magically the words were somehow written just for you

0

Jun 7, 2017

Jun 7, 2017 at 6:08 AM UTC

wordvango

just for you

I know you have loved to where it hurt like the guitar strings pulled twisted plucked cried out to an audience at the Fillmore or had that backbeat inside the bass the drums saying **** me cried out like the lead singer have you ever loved more inside your heart torn outside becoming in as the melody sang about some love in two tones you took it to heart deep understood again how magically the words were somehow written just for you

16

Remembering October I stood in my suit and borrowed tie And the butterflies Flourished in the evening chill For they were eating me from the inside out The building's broken backbeat Was nothing compared To that of my heart I turned around and it turned backflips For there you were And I was afraid I didn't want to blink Because I thought I would wake up But when I pinched myself I knew And I was that much more awake

0

Jan 8, 2011

Jan 8, 2011 at 12:31 PM UTC

cain-arkay

Venture to Blink

Remembering October I stood in my suit and borrowed tie And the butterflies Flourished in the evening chill For they were eating me from the inside out The building's broken backbeat Was nothing compared To that of my heart I turned around and it turned backflips For there you were And I was afraid I didn't want to blink Because I thought I would wake up But when I pinched myself I knew And I was that much more awake

17

to be in a hurry, won't do, deadlines, are always there? Time, is reflective, always was will be scarce, why rush it? Slow those hands, push them down to half past when, halfway to then. Seconds, take reflecting meditating, remembering, hear concentrate on the sounds of birds, walk outside now, this very instant, briefly feel awareness- actually hear- those birds chirp, a background chorus to a most important symphony. Let the time tick-tock as the rhythm is the backbeat, feel that last brief wisp that color that smile that feeling, let it sink in mean something more than what needs done. Don't hurry it. It comes.

0

May 24, 2015

May 24, 2015 at 8:52 PM UTC

wordvango

hurry

to be in a hurry, won't do, deadlines, are always there? Time, is reflective, always was will be scarce, why rush it? Slow those hands, push them down to half past when, halfway to then. Seconds, take reflecting meditating, remembering, hear concentrate on the sounds of birds, walk outside now, this very instant, briefly feel awareness- actually hear- those birds chirp, a background chorus to a most important symphony. Let the time tick-tock as the rhythm is the backbeat, feel that last brief wisp that color that smile that feeling, let it sink in mean something more than what needs done. Don't hurry it. It comes.

23

YO! THE FOOD OF LOVE BRO! I, sample her smile just the basic riff of it scatter the first few notes of her laughter across a backbeat & transpose it to a string thing then, the synths come in &... the drums kick in &. . . I re-mix her & re-mix her. Ok yo...memory my main man play her back for me! Just one more thousandth time! And Memory gives her back to me like a hologram on the Star Trek deck. I have her & ...I have her: not. Yo bro...mo more 'tis not as sweet now as it was before!" "...for the rain it raineth every day."

0

Jun 17, 2015

Jun 17, 2015 at 6:59 PM UTC

donall-dempsey

YO! THE FOOD OF LOVE BRO!

YO! THE FOOD OF LOVE BRO! I, sample her smile just the basic riff of it scatter the first few notes of her laughter across a backbeat & transpose it to a string thing then, the synths come in &... the drums kick in &. . . I re-mix her & re-mix her. Ok yo...memory my main man play her back for me! Just one more thousandth time! And Memory gives her back to me like a hologram on the Star Trek deck. I have her & ...I have her: not. Yo bro...mo more 'tis not as sweet now as it was before!" "...for the rain it raineth every day."

30