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b e mccomb Jul 2016
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.
Copyright 12/8/13 by B. E. McComb
Tommy Johnson Dec 2013
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
His suit is taggered. Bullet holes and tears but finely pressed and clean. Still recognizable as a cop's beat uniform. He unsnaps his gun holster clip. No one uses the old guns anymore. Electronic laser weapons are the fad in the end times. I got a Desert Eagle .45 that has something these fancy tech-lovers don't. Two point three seconds...

You see, it takes a Lectro two point three seconds to charge-up and that happens to be more time than it takes a 'cowboy-movie-loving' quick draw to end you...

"Hi boys! You've got a Buzz here I see? Well...time to move along and let me buy the next round 'eh?" -I say

"Look, there's a drink shack right about a block up from here. Let me get you." -said with a wink

The three look rough as they all do out here in the runs. That's the wasteland roadways in the inner cities. Least that's what they are known as these days. If you're guessing the futures part of that wasteland you got it right. The last war was the Great War. The one that ended all government. Now we have two realities; the corporations large enough to maintain some order and the publicly disordered nightmare.

You'd a thought systemic breakdown would have released the minds of the many from their company masters but it was quite the opposite. Those left and afraid flocked to join the barons making them even more powerful. I work for one of these new titans; Altria Group.

The three look at each other with queer smirks and grins as if their figurin' on what move to make or perhaps figured it already? The middle one draws his Lectro-gun...bad idea.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Three down. I walk over them to make sure,

BOOM!

...one last slug in the ringleader's face clears this route. These ******* have been hitting our trucks for weeks from this alleyway. My shots draw out more vermin...Chicago is a mecha for filth. Our heavy operators in the dozer-rigs clear the blockages but it's up to me to stop the vagabonds and hijackers. Only losers don't have a job.

"Well boys you had the chance to take this one to the bar and drink it off...instead you got a buzz still ringing in your ears!" -I tell their dead bodies while reloading my clips

That 'buzz' would be me, Buzziah. I'm The last cop in Chicago. Maybe the last one in America, who knows?

BOOM!
BOOM!

Down go two more ****...I hate sneakies. I lean down to make sure my body cam gets a shot of their faces. I get paid by the ****. My bosses at the cigarette company still want to see their faces for some reason. I never ask, I don't care, I'm just a camel cop...

"Sounds like a ***** joke..." -I say out loud

I know it's confusing. Reynold's used to make camel cigarettes. I'll light one up while my brain explains it for you. When it appeared that the U.S. government had lost control...the major multinational players took action on their own. Some of them, like my employer, they literally killed their competition. Thirteen years later they're the only game in town for smokes, jobs, housing, protection and food...and I am the only cop left. I stop a ****** running by,

"Hey you stop!" -I tell him

He freezes and stares at me shaking. I'm a bit of a celebrity in downtown.

"Do you like the uniform or what?" -I ask him

"Uh-uh-uh man, man just let me go I ain't after your loads?"

I chuckle deeply inside. It is a ***** joke after all.

BOOM!

I turn on my Beats-Sat uplink...

"All clear on routes a-go, all routes a-go..."

Switch the channel to the network Apple link...******* rap. I love it. I catch a tune on the heavy guitar riff and backbeat intro...

<Double forty-fives, double forty-fives>

<YO> -chorus

<Jumped out the War like G I JOE!>

<Landed gig/wid Nort Gruman.>

<Patrollin' my beat as-a-GUN MAN>

<Double forty-fives, double forty-fives>

<BLOW> -gunshot sounds

This feels so right. I hop on my motorcycle and tear-off.

Time for my buzz...

I am the Lord's Strength.

Buzziah Willis...remember it.

I run the streets of downtown Chicago.

I am the law here.

"Wanna smoke?"  He says to the air.
The Last Cop short story intro. Buzziah Willis.
John R Dec 2013
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!"
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.
natalie Nov 2013
Each flick of your strong forefinger
unleashes another surge—
BANGBANGBANGBANG!—
and the explosive percussion is mirrored
by the rapid battering of your heart,
the backbeat of a silent jihad.
The air is thick with the echoing
screams of the shoppers as they
scatter between tall, unsteady racks
of clothing, hair dye and toothpaste,
hiding beneath circular tables in cafés,
sliding flat on their traitorous stomachs
to cower under dusty old cars.
The fear in this place is tangible—
You can smell it, taste it, see it all about you—
it causes your blood to sing.

You enter a market with your comrades,
and as you have done in every other store,
you fire your weapon into the air—
BANGBANGBANGBANG!—
sure to clip the quickly dispersing mass of
people shrinking behind a dusty
cigarette display, and you are pleased
by the sight of two men hitting
the ground with a dull thud. Their
blood pools as a warning, a tribute.
Then you announce loudly, confidently
that you are only here for the non-Muslims—
the Americans and the Kenyans—
that everybody else need only be a hostage,
not a martyr for a cause that does not
concern them; children will be spared.
You disband to interrogate the fearful
and to root out the traitors,
to determine who will live and
and who is doomed to perish—
you have become a ruler of this shopping
mall, reduced to its shivering bones.
You can see the cowed lies etched into
the lines of their faithless faces,
and with another flick of your finger,
you send them to face Allah without
even the slightest hint of hesitation.

In a far corner of the market sits a
meat counter, where locals buy their
****** flesh, both clean and unclean,
You sneak behind and discover
a woman dressed in black,
her milky face a thin veil of calm,
hands clasping those of her two young
children, a small boy and a willowy girl.
The boy’s green shirt professes
his love for New York City.
All three stare at you in petrified silence,
and for a few moments, you just gaze
straight into the woman’s wide eyes.
“You said children would not be
harmed?” the mother asks softly,
each word flowing sharply through her
accent which cannot be American,
and she stands suddenly. This action
is quite startling, you remember later—
you are already on edge, your
finger still on the trigger, and
somehow a bullet lands in her thigh.
The mother is screaming, pulling her
daughter close as the blood pours forth,
an accidental fountain, but her fingers
cannot reach the boy, who is standing,
walking over to you, so close you could
tear him to shreds, his body would
be Swiss cheese—unidentifiable.
“You are a bad man,” the boy says,
narrowing his tiny green eyes into
excruciating slivers and pointing at you,
“let us go.”

Her screams ring in your ears,
a cacophony of terror,
and your heartbeat slows to a clop
as the boy’s finger remains pointed at
your heaving chest, an honest accusation.
“Come!” you screech, waving
your rifle in the air like a toy.
At the front of the market, the mother
can barely walk, so she loads her children
into a cold, shining metal trolley.
You see an array of candies, and grab
two chocolate bars, handing one to each.
“Please forgive me,” you hear yourself
saying, “we are not monsters.”
The girl is crying, clutching her candy,
but the boy just stares through you.
“You must convert to Islam,”
you tell the desperate mother, who is
loading an injured boy into the cart.
“We are not monsters. We are not monsters.”
She does not speak, she only pushes the
trolley, limping slowly.
“You must convert to Islam. You must convert.”
You help the woman maneuver the
cart through the bodies strewn across
the pale tiles of the shopping mall,
and with every repetition of gunfire—
BANGBANGBANGBANG!—
you reassure yourself, and the woman,
“We are not monsters. Please forgive me.”
She stops again to pick up a different child,
though this one is screaming in French
for her mother and must be forced.
“You must convert to Islam.
Please forgive me.”
As you reach tall, glass double doors,
you pause, knowing you must stay behind.
The brilliance of the sun blots their
figures out of your vision, so you simply yell,
“Please forgive me!”
mark john junor Dec 2013
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
Bernardo Soares Aug 2013
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.
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.
©Complicated charmer 2013
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
wordvango Jun 2017
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
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
Kay P Nov 2017
1.  “Redbone” by Childish Gambino
       *From the album “Awaken My Love!” circa 2016

There is something here of the generations
My mother used to hold me to her chest
And play songs that sounded a lot like this one
A string of notes and a backbeat that could lead a war
That old time sound of a desperately truthful falsetto
Of loves and lusts lost and almost lost

        2. “Ribcage” by Mary Lambert ft Angel Haze
        From the album “Heart on my Sleeve” circa 2014
I’ve always had a penchant for clever lyrics and simile
Self titled Queen of Metaphor circa 2008
This one is a heartbeat, trapped in a cage of craving bone
With vulnerable voices raised in honest harmony
Then comes the rap Angel, spitting psalms of poetic pleas
Desperate to be understood when words work no longer

3. “HOLD ME TIGHT OR DON’T” by Fall Out Boy
From the album “Mania” circa 2017
A love song about holding memories like mists in tight fists
A distance insurmountable between two linked chains
It’s the point where numbness reaches its peak,
But you remember the all consuming wave of emotion
The way a child who has lived their whole life in the desert
Remembers being born at sea

4. “The Good Part” by AJR
From the album “The Click” circa 2017
This is where you are when you’ve reach three fourths completion,
A 2pm existential crisis, an out of body stress headache
A melancholy look back at all you’ve achieved,
A Pride in the journey, when you’ve still got miles before the finish line
Weeks of hard work, all in an unending line,
A tired request to flip to the Happily Ever After

5. “Maybe IDK” by Jon Bellion
From The Album “The Human Condition” circa 2016
This is the finale of an existential nightmare,
The part of dissociation where the world comes back into focus,
When you talk your brain into circles to get back to sense,
This is the sigh of relief when your questions stop spiraling
Like living through a hurricane, hands clasped, eyes closed
Coming outside, and seeing the sun

6. “Once in a Lifetime” by Talking Heads
From the Album “Remain in Light” circa 2005
Finally, the return of your mind, the tingling of overthinking
Come to rest. This is the feeling of everything being “alright”
When you haven’t been alright since two years old. This is
The temporary “back to normal”, the frequently pressed reset,
Button that makes you function again, when you know
Deep down, you’re an iphone four years out of date
For Zach,
When the panic gets too much, and the future seems insurmountable,
Give this a listen. Maybe it will help.
If it doesn’t, at least you have some new songs to listen to. :)
Kay

November 29th, 2017
wordvango May 2015
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.
Connor Murphy Apr 2011
Your beauty is on the backbeat.
It is not excited,
it does not drive
the melody of my longing for you.
It sits back
and happens effortlessly
So laid back
like a lazy left hand.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2015
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."
Time of utter desolation! Last three essays and my dissertation to put in and I break up with my dearly beloved. Now...it all means...nothing at all. These were the days of my Brixton living and as i attempted an attempt at paying attention to my rather shakey Shakespeare a car stranded at a traffic lights subwoofered Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five's THE MESSAGE through and through me almost unlocking the plates of my skull!

"Don't- push- me- cause- I'm...close -to- the- edge:
I'm- trying- not- to- lose- my- head!

Say wha?!

It's like a jungle sometimes
It makes me wonder how I keep from goin' under
It's like a jungle sometimes
It makes me wonder how I keep from goin' under!"

The Furious Fives glossing de Shakes for me man as this poem snuk into my head on tippytoes!
Pinkerton Sep 2019
The headboard bangs
against the wall in a rhythm syncopated
to floorboards creaking, a backbeat
driving her passionate screams
of jubilee
of raw ecstasy
of primal pleasures.
She’s a one woman gospel choir
praising god more than I've ever heard in church.
Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus!
She is filled, but not with Holy Spirit.
Foundations are being tested as knick-knacks
fall off the dresser, a crucifix
crashes to the floor
like it’s the second coming-
at this rate it might even be the third-
and now she speaks in tongues.

And I’m breaking a sweat, mouth parched

but I don’t dare go get a glass of water.
No, I just lay here, listening fervently
as the couple in the apartment next door
**** away into the apocalypse,
too ashamed of my loneliness
to even *******
Antony Glaser Aug 2021
Nobody cares but me
Soaring on the air
were trees higher than the breeze
Did it spiral away?
Could you hear it?
Somewhere on the line
I lost all track of time!

You're all alone
childlike tendencies
You're at the bottom of the barrow
you need to help yourself
but if you can't take the gamble

Backbeat the weather is hot
Sometimes I feel like the desert
it's enough to drive you to the sand
Donall Dempsey Jun 2020
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."
***

Time of utter desolation! Last three essays and my dissertation to put in and I break up with my dearly beloved. Now...it all means...nothing at all. These were the days of my Brixton living and as i attempted an attempt at paying attention to my rather shakey Shakespeare a car stranded at a traffic lights subwoofered Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five's THE MESSAGE through and through me almost unlocking the plates of my skull!
"
Don't- push- me- cause- I'm...close -to- the- edge:
I'm- trying- not- to- lose- my- head
Say what!

It's like a jungle sometimes
It makes me wonder how I keep from goin' under
It's like a jungle sometimes
It makes me wonder how I keep from goin' under

***

When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, **, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.

— The End —