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Poetry First Sep 2017
submerge their trembles
     the intoxicated stars of the night
 into the arresting allure
 of moonlit seas

    under the shimmering cloak
           primal flames of passion lovers invoke
     revel stars in moonbeams wet
   yielding liquid baroque

        crash silver waves
        on compliant sands of submission easy
        gather bliss-tinted surfs
        in starry ecstasy

         flow tranquil waters
        in the envelope of dawn's golden fill
           glow in embrace of gratitude
         souls two in fulfill
Lysander Gray Oct 2012
Her mouth glittered agape
With sacred promise,
Like a box of unused
Engagement invites
Christening invites
Birthday invites
Still in the wrapper
For sale at a

When you’d rather live
In a car
Than the zombie stance
Of a modern house,
Clean and soulless
With a hermetically sealed lawn,
Winter pageantry draws to a close
With bogan’s shooting-
Pearly eyed paupers
With constellations in their gaze.
With eyes full of hope and stars
That burnt bright and fade for
Flickering lens light.

Their voices murmur soft
Through catacomb
And underbrush
As only the ephemeral things are whispered of –
The addicts of ideals
The junkies of hope
The drinkers of despair
Have tiger soft tongues.

They lap and feast gladly,
From broken vessels
Chipped with hazardous teeth
That seek to fill their
Ermine mouths with the ******
Of truth.
Stumbling through wine-hour
They swarm, with tongues ******
And all constellations burnt out.

The hyacinth rides wild
Upon her shoulder,
Writhes in the silver brunt
Of moonlight,
Writhes in the stillness of dead perfume.

Marching to the beat
Of my enemies drum,
My hands inside my pockets.

Little bluebirds spun from dream
Sit on the holy perch,
A branch in all innocent minds.

The redeemed and patient
Make a subtle art from
Long distance perversions.

Similarly as we chase ghosts over Daffodils.

Fields of winter
under lunar glow
sway without us.

Long distance love
lingers with loose lust
along Regret street.

I hung it next to the memory
Of childhood cooking and Indian summers
Without further thought.

It slipped into the novel that took the form
Of an old coat, slipping into the lined pocket
It sank with a sigh.
Satisfied with itself.

Bombarded by the pounding
Dead eyed stare of ***** goddesses,
Broken by the undisputed angelic
And unglued ones,
All moon faced
All hopelessly optimistic
All lawfully rebellious
With green serenity
We pasted our dreams
On a wall so real it shone gossamer.
He counted the imperfections in the glass
With mind hesitation
As the whole world went black,
In a sea of much deserved discontent,
Wishing for the soft.

A moment of pure luck?
Jesus was an astronaut
Smoking Zen by the fire.

Suicidal angst
never had you in sonnets?
What a ******' shame.

Our life is but a song
We never hear.

I chipped away at the excesses
of my baroque person,
each strike took a
from the battlements.
All left now, a hill.

I paid for my banquet
with a sip of loneliness
and left behind the question
that asked all quiet poets
the meaning of love,
that asked all quiet poets
to answer with a villanelle
shouted from every
distant peak.

They sent the troopers
to greet me instead,
and my library was put in shackles,
and I kissed their ***** feet.

I answered that I carved this mountain
from the baroque bedrock
upon which they laid their city.
They smiled and asked about the aqueducts.
I wept and spoke of kitchenettes.

A meal provided
on a lead cast plate
my jailor asked about freedom
I answered with defeat.

There were two atoms
One questioned the meaning of existence
The other the existence of meaning.
             -Regardless they looked the same.

An apple on a branch,I took
The same way history takes a footnote.

The same way cashiers are all doctorates.
The same way trains find the station.
The same way you sing like a bird (and I like a cow).
The same way we never really wish to be writers.
The same way our final friend is made of pine.
The same way all streets lead to nowhere.
The same way all jobs **** society.
The same way we always lie to our children.
The same way a man loves a woman.
The opposite way we ****.
The opposite way we make love.
The way that I know a man who’s totem animal is a worker ant and he is unemployed by choice.
The same way we take old memories and turn them into fashion.
The very same way all sacred things become profane and all profanity becomes sacred in the eyes of many.

Dying relic of the Optimistic Seventies,
A new coat of paint for the old irony
     -slap dashed with obscurity.
Although I wear the costume of my enemy,
I will write the exaltation in blue smoke
As **** by an unsuspecting victim
Occurs in the dark.

The face of another love stares down at me.
I smile.
Yet I know it is not her.
I weep.
A sudden method sparks revival.

Jackie Pleasure wore a gray smile,
The anthem of a lost generation:
‘Happiness is lost in smiling.’

You are dead to me,
the boatman calls
I will not taste of your amber lips
I will not taste.

The welfare of all never hinged on darkness as we fear the fall,
A multitude of angels sang their songs
And never learnt to say goodbye
Or cast a long distance eye
Over half spent desire.

Drawn out caricatures,
Paraded intoxication
Flirt with our mistress death
And have her pick up the tab.
She pays with silent music.

The ***, we learn, is a bridge
Between all words and waltz’s,
Our Light Brigade to conquer art.

In the twilight of this, our mansioned night
Let us ring out true with indulgence,
Excess, abandon and the call of ‘yes’
Kali rang on the wire of a golden telephone.
Her name
“Kali, Kali…”
Like a quarrelsome minotaur
Flew through the waves of silk ideal
And strangled the babe
With cool breath.

There was ice (oh yes!) and fire and song.
With our candles burnt down to the ash of all streets
We walk then. We walk.
All life is but a song.

The ghosts of all forgotten stamps
Now echo on the wind of speech.
On High! Oh speak!
Of songs sung but never danced
With our broken dream.
When starlight meets the dust, and
Shadow eats the snow,
All our stories are satin sheer
And all our wants are gone.
We watch the memories march, until
They find a sliver of chrome that showed that place
Where all piano’s live and breathe.
My father in the wishing well,
My mother played trapeze.
My sister never saw the light,
My brother never born.
That was that,
Where stars meet dust
And floorboards sing off key.
Over the course of several months, I carried a small notebook in which I kept random musings and poetic snippets that came to me. This is the compilation of that.
Ross J Porter Nov 2012
He forgot his soap
What a dope
No one here can cope
He's worse than campfire smoke

He could of brought it on a rope
So he wouldn't have to *****
Instead he'll mope
For friends he's got no hope

They run when they scope
The boy without his soap
Rolling down the *****
Singing baroque
Like the pope

He tried a bath in coke
Oh what a joke
Because the sugars provoke
Mosquitoes to bite and poke.

Still he stinks like BO and oak
Smells like a singer of folk
Whose hair is matted into rope
Cause he won't use soap
What a dope!
We, whose lungs fill with the sweetness of day.
Who in May admire trees flowering
Are better than those who perished.

We, who taste of exotic dishes,
And enjoy fully the delights of love,
Are better than those who were buried.

We, from the fiery furnaces, from behind barbed wires
On which the winds of endless autumns howled,
We, who remember battles where the wounded air roared in
paroxysms of pain.
We, saved by our own cunning and knowledge.

By sending others to the more exposed positions
Urging them loudly to fight on
Ourselves withdrawing in certainty of the cause lost.

Having the choice of our own death and that of a friend
We chose his, coldly thinking: Let it be done quickly.

We sealed gas chamber doors, stole bread
Knowing the next day would be harder to bear than the day before.

As befits human beings, we explored good and evil.
Our malignant wisdom has no like on this planet.

Accept it as proven that we are better than they,
The gullible, hot-blooded weaklings, careless with their lives.

Treasure your legacy of skills, child of Europe.
Inheritor of Gothic cathedrals, of baroque churches.
Of synagogues filled with the wailing of a wronged people.
Successor of Descartes, Spinoza, inheritor of the word 'honor',
Posthumous child of Leonidas
Treasure the skills acquired in the hour of terror.

You have a clever mind which sees instantly
The good and bad of any situation.
You have an elegant, skeptical mind which enjoys pleasures
Quite unknown to primitive races.

Guided by this mind you cannot fail to see
The soundness of the advice we give you:
Let the sweetness of day fill your lungs
For this we have strict but wise rules.

There can be no question of force triumphant
We live in the age of victorious justice.

Do not mention force, or you will be accused
Of upholding fallen doctrines in secret.

He who has power, has it by historical logic.
Respectfully bow to that logic.

Let your lips, proposing a hypothesis
Not know about the hand faking the experiment.

Let your hand, faking the experiment
No know about the lips proposing a hypothesis.

Learn to predict a fire with unerring precision
Then burn the house down to fulfill the prediction.

Grow your tree of falsehood from a single grain of truth.
Do not follow those who lie in contempt of reality.

Let your lie be even more logical than the truth itself
So the weary travelers may find repose in the lie.

After the Day of the Lie gather in select circles
Shaking with laughter when our real deeds are mentioned.

Dispensing flattery called: perspicacious thinking.
Dispensing flattery called: a great talent.

We, the last who can still draw joy from cynicism.
We, whose cunning is not unlike despair.

A new, humorless generation is now arising
It takes in deadly earnest all we received with laughter.

Let your words speak not through their meanings
But through them against whom they are used.

Fashion your weapon from ambiguous words.
Consign clear words to lexical limbo.

Judge no words before the clerks have checked
In their card index by whom they were spoken.

The voice of passion is better than the voice of reason.
The passionless cannot change history.

Love no country: countries soon disappear
Love no city: cities are soon rubble.

Throw away keepsakes, or from your desk
A choking, poisonous fume will exude.

Do not love people: people soon perish.
Or they are wronged and call for your help.

Do not gaze into the pools of the past.
Their corroded surface will mirror
A face different from the one you expected.

He who invokes history is always secure.
The dead will not rise to witness against him.

You can accuse them of any deeds you like.
Their reply will always be silence.

Their empty faces swim out of the deep dark.
You can fill them with any feature desired.

Proud of dominion over people long vanished,
Change the past into your own, better likeness.

The laughter born of the love of truth
Is now the laughter of the enemies of the people.

Gone is the age of satire. We no longer need mock.
The sensible monarch with false courtly phrases.

Stern as befits the servants of a cause,
We will permit ourselves sycophantic humor.

Tight-lipped, guided by reasons only
Cautiously let us step into the era of the unchained fire.
You know they had to do it
I mean, you could see it from the start
You could see it wouldn't last long
They set the apple 'fore the cart

He was redneck country
Driving trucks and wearing jeans
She was old school classical
Jane Eyre type, a girl of means

Her family were descendants
His was only kin
He liked country fiddle
While she liked violin

She liked Bach and Handel
Vivaldi and Corelli
He liked Jones and Jennings
and thought Corelli was spaghetti

She spokes in terms of red and white
Meaning wine...and which to choose
To him one word was missing
And that word was the blues

Polar opposites at best
There was no other way to say
We couldn't see them ever lasting
One hour...'nor a day

She would listen to her Mozart Ronnie Dunn
They couldn't see it till it ended
We saw it from day one

Two divergent kinds of style
It was wrong right from the start
And in the end, when it was over
She had a truly, Baroque - n heart
Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd -
The little dogs under their feet.

Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.

They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor's sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.

They would no guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly they

Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the grass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-littered ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,

Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:

Time has transfigures them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.
Third Eye Candy Jun 2018
The mug stains leapfrog a linoleum asphalt countertop, sunbathing in the breakfast nook.
A magazine proofreads a hole in a bagel. Scanning for clues to the whereabouts
Of a Jewish heart. Beads of Oolong tea archipelago from a resting kettle
All the way to the 'good ' China. A cup on a pearl, laying flat… ear to the ground.
Listening to the stories only Formica can tell. Deciphering the steam
Rising from a steep. Curling whiskers into omens, embroidered upon a shaft of light
Heaven sent. Postage dew. Gilding quaint luxuries, tucked in a cozy roost
Smelling of oak musk and slow roasted dreams, evaporating before memory may lay claim
To the riddles of Morpheus. There’s an aire of Return.  
It molts in the bacon fats hovering in the strata unique to kitchen islands lousy with active volcanoes that shuffle in stocking feet and terry cloth bathrobes. Restless and foggy minded.
Looking for the keys. And...
Chewing a thumbnail. Staring out the window. Where there used to be a car in the driveway. But the officer flagged a taxi. Explains the migraine, like a Vulcan; stoically flipping switches in a fuse box wired to a vague recollection of a soiree.
All the while holding a pitchfork and today's horoscope.
For irony and street cred.

{ But out of cream cheese. }

Concurrently... This part of the house still has the rustic naivete of a celibate beatnik picking teeth with a signature pen presenting an Hawaiian girl with a vanishing skirt; blinking in and out of Vaud-villainy, like Erwin Schrödinger’s Cat. A kind of hole in a barge with an ornate cubby; loitering with sugar cubes and a bendy plastic fern.
Like the foyer to a room, still under construction.
      A busy little metaphor, lounging around the east wing of a humble abode… like news clippings in a mason jar… it’s superfluous handle threading a ceramic eye.
Like a stainless steel joke under a refrigerator magnet, pinned to a plate in your forehead. As any lamp-shade with ambition.  
      Playing to a rough Cloud, hung over an ashtray; that has seen Better Days - envy the baroque occlusion of monotony and routine, merging a hangover - into morning traffic. Replete with modest gains.
And Horizons that stab bleary eyes that would know a gypsy
By the weight of her purse…
     When the day begins, it gains a foothold by the spine of an overdue book, reclining adjacent runcible spoons and antique kitche. As a bathroom light squeaks between a door and a frame.
As ancillary and precise as a beacon for a blindfold.

Like turpentine palming a brick. And Wagner.
an ****** calligraphy
of hallucinated images
gesture to the posturings
of omitted consciousness
the preoccupations
that puncture the ‘rational’ thought
of a false corporeality
and rely on an artificiality
to produce a reality
writes of the pagan haunts
of silver ****** ghosts
of fantastic rumors
of acquired futuristic loathing
where cognitive disturbances are
the reconnaissance of a fragmented mind
seeking an evacuation to the past
screams at the monuments of
immediate dismissal of everything
not of their transmission
The Good Pussy Mar 2015

                                a     ar     a
                             r       oq        r
                           o         u            o
                          q         e  B          q
                          u        a     r         u
                           B       o     q         B
                            r       u    e          r
                             o       B   a        o
                               k     r  o       k
                                  e     q     e
Dan Filcek Apr 2015
My sister was born here
yet I know she does not recall the:
streets and sidewalks.
vagrants and beggars
full of history
full of bohemian young people
looking  for stylish bars.
Plenty of music
  and art galleries.
African music and South American shops.
expensive boutiques with impossible prices
Alternatively, you can take the pink,
Tropical garden with a pond full of small turtles
A memorial to the victims  
The roads within are difficult to navigate
junctions underground provide relief from the sun on hot days.
night owls cover the city
a green libre sign in the windshield
far too many cars and not enough space
narrow streets in the old town,
  is the heart of the city
The clock tower marks the Twelve Grapes  
a bear climbing a tree,
ornate iron posts.
the vacant Palace
lavishly decorated
Baroque-style gardens surround a large monument
Dozens of statues
a sculpture of Don Quixote
A massive roundabout
a chariot pulled by two lions.
A tall obelisk sits in the center
a pedestrian walkway full of fountains and trees
The vertical garden can be seen from the street outside,
features fine furniture and porcelain
impressive art collections with paintings, sculptures, and prints.
young hippies play bongos and dance.  
And I have never been there
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. - source
Eleanor Sinclair Jun 2015
When the timing's right
As the violins ring
We will all delight
As the angels sing
And the end draws near
With a timeless Ode to Joy,
But there's nothing to fear
O' when the beautiful
End is here
Baroque state of mind
AAron Roz May 2018
Music is loud or quiet.
Music is soft or heavy.
Music can have meaning or not.
Music can be nothing or everything.
Music is:
◾Art Punk
◾Alternative Rock
◾College Rock
◾Crossover Thrash (thx Kevin G)
◾Crust Punk (thx Haug)
◾Experimental Rock
◾Folk Punk
◾Goth / Gothic Rock
◾******* Punk
◾Hard Rock
◾Indie Rock
◾Lo-fi (hat tip to Ben Vee Bedlamite)
◾New Wave
◾Progressive Rock
◾Shoegaze (with thx to Jackie Herrera)
◾Steampunk (with thx to Christopher Schaeffer)

•Blues ◾Acoustic Blues
◾Chicago Blues
◾Classic Blues
◾Contemporary Blues
◾Country Blues
◾Delta Blues
◾Electric Blues
◾Ragtime Blues (cheers GFS)

•Children’s Music ◾Lullabies

•Classical ◾Avant-Garde
◾Chamber Music
◾Classical Crossover
◾Contemporary Classical (thx Julien Palliere)
◾Early Music
◾Expressionist (thx Mr. Palliere)
◾High Classical
◾Modern Composition
◾Romantic (early period)
◾Romantic (later period)
◾Wedding Music

•Comedy ◾Novelty
◾Standup Comedy
◾Vaudeville (cheers Ben Vee Bedlamite)

•Commercial (thank you Sheldon Reynolds) ◾Jingles
◾TV Themes

•Country ◾Alternative Country
◾Contemporary Bluegrass
◾Contemporary Country
◾Country Gospel
◾Country Pop (thanks Sarah Johnson)
◾***** Tonk
◾Outlaw Country
◾Traditional Bluegrass
◾Traditional Country
◾Urban Cowboy

•Dance (EDM – Electronic Dance Music – see Electronic below – with thx to Eric Shaffer-Whiting & Drew :-)) ◾Club / Club Dance (thx Luke Allfree)
◾Breakbeat / Breakstep
◾Brostep (cheers Tom Berckley)
◾Chillstep (thx Matt)
◾Deep House (cheers Venus Pang)
◾Electro House (thx Luke Allfree)
◾Future Garage (thx Ran’dom Haug)
◾Glitch Hop (cheers Tom Berckley)
◾Glitch Pop (thx Ran’dom Haug)
◾Grime (thx Ran’dom Haug / Matthew H)
◾Hard Dance
◾Hi-NRG / Eurodance
◾Horrorcore (thx Matt)
◾Jackin House (with thx to Jermaine Benjamin Dale Bruce)
◾Jungle / Drum’n’bass
◾Liquid Dub(thx Ran’dom Haug)
◾Regstep (thanks to ‘Melia G)
◾Speedcore (cheers Matt)
◾Trap (thx Luke Allfree)

•Easy Listening ◾Bop

•Electronic ◾2-Step (thx Ran’dom Haug)
◾8bit – aka 8-bit, Bitpop and Chiptune – (thx Marcel Borchert)
◾Bassline (thx Leon Oliver)
◾Chillwave(thx Ran’dom Haug)
◾Chiptune (kudos to Dominik Landahl)
◾Crunk (with thx to Jillian Edwards)
◾Drum & Bass (thx Luke Allfree)
◾Electro-swing (thank you Daniel Forthofer)
◾Electronic Rock
◾Hardstyle (kudos to Dominik Landahl)
◾Trip Hop (thank you Michael Tait Tafoya)

•French Pop
•German Folk
•German Pop
•Fitness & Workout
•Hip-Hop/Rap ◾Alternative Rap
◾***** South
◾East Coast Rap
◾Gangsta Rap
◾******* Rap
◾Latin Rap
◾Old School Rap
◾Turntablism (thank you Luke Allfree)
◾Underground Rap
◾West Coast Rap

•Holiday ◾Chanukah
◾Christmas: Children’s
◾Christmas: Classic
◾Christmas: Classical
◾Christmas: Comedy
◾Christmas: Jazz
◾Christmas: Modern
◾Christmas: Pop
◾Christmas: R&B
◾Christmas: Religious
◾Christmas: Rock
◾Holiday: Other

•Indie Pop
•Inspirational – Christian & Gospel ◾CCM
◾Christian Metal
◾Christian Pop
◾Christian Rap
◾Christian Rock
◾Classic Christian
◾Contemporary Gospel
◾Christian & Gospel
◾Praise & Worship
◾Qawwali (with thx to Jillian Edwards)
◾Southern Gospel
◾Traditional Gospel

•Instrumental ◾March (Marching Band)

•J-Pop ◾J-Rock

•Jazz ◾Acid Jazz (with thx to Hunter Nelson)
◾Avant-Garde Jazz
◾Bebop (thx Mwinogo1)
◾Big Band
◾Blue Note (with thx to Jillian Edwards)
◾Contemporary Jazz
◾Crossover Jazz
◾Ethio-jazz (with thx to Jillian Edwards)
◾Gypsy Jazz (kudos to Mike Tait Tafoya)
◾Hard Bop
◾Latin Jazz
◾Mainstream Jazz
◾Smooth Jazz
◾Trad Jazz

•Latin ◾Alternativo & Rock Latino
◾Argentine tango (gracias P. Moth & Sandra Sanders)
◾Baladas y Boleros
◾Bossa Nova (with thx to Marcos José Sant’Anna Magalhães & Alex Ede for the reclassification)
◾Contemporary Latin
◾Cumbia (gracias Richard Kemp)
◾Flamenco / Spanish Flamenco (thank you Michael Tait Tafoya & Sandra Sanders)
◾Latin Jazz
◾Nuevo Flamenco (and again Michael Tafoya)
◾Pop Latino
◾Portuguese fado (and again Sandra Sanders)
◾Reggaeton y Hip-Hop
◾Regional Mexicano
◾Salsa y Tropical

•New Age ◾Environmental

•Pop ◾Adult Contemporary
◾Bubblegum Pop (thx Haug & John Maher)
◾Chamber Pop (thx Haug)
◾Dance Pop
◾Dream Pop (thx Haug)
◾Electro Pop (thx Haug)
◾Orchestral Pop (thx Haug)
◾Pop Punk (thx Makenzie)
◾Power Pop (thx Haug)
◾Soft Rock
◾Synthpop (thx Haug)
◾Teen Pop

•R&B/Soul ◾Contemporary R&B
◾Disco (not a top level genre Sheldon Reynolds!)
◾Doo ***
◾Modern Soul (Cheers Nik)
◾Northern Soul (Cheers Nik & John Maher)
◾Psychedelic Soul (thank you John Maher)
◾Quiet Storm
◾Soul Blues (Cheers Nik)
◾Southern Soul (Cheers Nik)

•Reggae ◾2-Tone (thx GFS)
◾Roots Reggae

•Rock ◾Acid Rock (with thanks to Alex Antonio)
◾Adult-Oriented Rock (thanks to John Maher)
◾Afro Punk
◾Adult Alternative
◾Alternative Rock (thx Caleb Browning)
◾American Trad Rock
◾Anatolian Rock
◾Arena Rock
◾Art Rock
◾British Invasion
◾**** Rock
◾Death Metal / Black Metal
◾Doom Metal (thx Kevin G)
◾Glam Rock
◾Gothic Metal (fits here Sam DeRenzis – thx)
◾Grind Core
◾Hair Metal
◾Hard Rock
◾Math Metal (cheers Kevin)
◾Math Rock (thx Ran’dom Haug)
◾Metal Core (thx Ran’dom Haug)
◾Noise Rock (genre – Japanoise – thx Dominik Landahl)
◾Jam Bands
◾Post Punk (thx Ben Vee Bedlamite)
◾Prog-Rock/Art Rock
◾Progressive Metal (thx Ran’dom Haug)
◾Rock & Roll
◾Rockabilly (it’s here Mark Murdock!)
◾Roots Rock
◾Southern Rock
◾Spazzcore (thx Haug)
◾Stoner Metal (duuuude)
◾Technical Death Metal (cheers Pierre)
◾Time Lord Rock (Trock) ~ (thanks to ‘Melia G)
◾Trash Metal (thanks to Pierre A)

•Singer/Songwriter ◾Alternative Folk
◾Contemporary Folk
◾Contemporary Singer/Songwriter
◾Indie Folk (with thanks to Andrew Barrett)
◾Love Song (Chanson – merci Marcel Borchert)
◾New Acoustic
◾Traditional Folk

•Soundtrack ◾Foreign Cinema
◾Movie Soundtrack (thanks Julien)
◾Original Score
◾TV Soundtrack

•Spoken Word
•Tex-Mex / Tejano (with thx to Israel Lopez) ◾Chicano
◾Conjunto Progressive
◾New Mex

•Vocal ◾A cappella (with kudos to Sheldon Reynolds)
◾Barbershop (with thx to Kelly Chism)
◾Doo-*** (with thx to Bradley Thompson)
◾Gregorian Chant (hat tip to Deborah Knight-Nikifortchuk)
◾Traditional Pop
◾Vocal Jazz
◾Vocal Pop

•World ◾Africa
◾Calypso (thx Gerald John)
◾Carnatic (Karnataka Sanghetha – thx Abhijith)
◾Celtic Folk
◾Contemporary Celtic
◾Coupé-décalé (thx Samy) – Congo
◾Dangdut (thank you Achmad Ivanny)
◾Drinking Songs
◾Drone (with thx to Robert Conrod)
◾Hindustani (thank you Abhijith)
◾Indian Ghazal (thank you Gitika Thakur)
◾Indian Pop
◾Japanese Pop
◾Mbalax (thank you Samy) – Senegal
◾Middle East
◾North America
◾Ode (thank you Sheldon Reynolds)
◾Piphat (cheers Samy B) – Thailand
◾Soca (thx Gerald John)
◾South Africa
◾South America
◾Traditional Celtic
evelyn augusto Dec 2017
In this summer light, your face startles
Much like the sudden unveiling
Of Baroque Oil On Canvas

Your face becomes illuminated
Like an entire Universe
And I will study the threshold

Of your mouth, admiring its clear brightness
(Chiaro)...before moving up
To consider the invitation

Of your eyes, reclining into
Their obscure mellow darkness
(Oscuro)...and soon I will  recall

The arrangement of light and shade.
That is you. Forever reliving
What you have revealed to me:

Your hunger is my pleasure, your words
My truth, your song, my delight, and you,

By:  Evelyn Augusto
“One of the effects of living with electronic information is that we live habitually in a state of information overload.”                                                      
                                                                                      Marshall McLuhan
So, let’s review:
Man is a thinking animal.
Stanley Kubrick took us to space to get us to think.
Marshall McLuhan:  “There are no passengers on spaceship earth. We are all crew.”
Hemetucky: what was I thinking?
The Rapture for the 1%:   The Language of the World and The Language of Enthusiasm explains why Sir Richard  Branson’s ****** Galactic will only be taking the richest among us to space.
Ian (Limey Futurologist) Pearson:  “Binary is already the dominant language on Planet Earth with today’s machines having more conversations in 24 hours than the whole of humankind since the birth of Eve.”
Larry Flynt:  “**** is the answer to everything.”
Goofy:  “Yeah, I ****** Minnie. I shagged her rotten, baby!”  
Winston Smith:  “Do it to Julia!”
McNugget Buddies:   “Parts is parts.”                                          
Stunod: “Donuts-a -spella backwards issa stunod.” Think about it.
Tony Soprano.  “You ****** stunod, it's a joke.” (Stunod:  in southern dialect Italian means stupid, or a stupid person) http://( define.php?term = stunod  / buy stunod mugs & shirts
Marshall McLuhan:    “Jokes are grievances.”
Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino:  “Antonio Gramsci thought that Stalin and Bolshevism could save him and Italy from Fascism:  stunod.”
The Cloud:  My acceptance of the Cloud into my life and my changeling cyborg self is by no means a capitulation to the surfing life.
Paulo Coehlo:  “The God you seek; that someone who awaits you is you.”
Howard Beale:  “That’s the God *******.”
God:   “Because you’re on television, stunod!”
The Elders of Zion:  Nu?
Meir Kahane:  “Let us not suffer from a national amnesia that causes us to forget who and what we are. No trait is more justified than revenge in the right time and place. I know that American and Israeli elections must be limited only to those who understand that the Arabs are the deadly enemy of the Jewish state, who would bring on us a slow Auschwitz - not with gas, but with knives and hatchets. Vote for Newt!”

**** Jagger:    “Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out” (40th Anniversary Edition, Rolling Stones)
Keith Richards +Fijian palm tree = Stunod.  
Marshall McLuhan:   “The more the data banks record about each of us, the less we exist.”    
Howard Beale: “If there's anybody out there that can look around this demented slaughterhouse of a world we live in and tell me that man is a noble creature, believe me: That man is not only full of *******, that man is  stunod.”
The Nam, Part I:   a demented slaughterhouse within a microcosm and grains of beach sand inside micro-Cosmo Kramer’s shorts. When I was in the Kingdom of The Nam I was always under the influence of some drug, mostly my own pure adrenaline when scared shitless--a frequent condition for me—not only my own piquant adrenal juice but other stuff like ****, hash, Thai stick, *****, amphetamines, H-Horse ******, quaaludes, horse tranquilizers and Russian *****. The drugs were always a welcome and needed friend, a respite from the horrors of war in Southeast Asia. To meditate & levitate, to transmigrate & navigate, to negotiate & regurgitate myself, I needed a head start if I was going to SLIDE through what would be called a wormhole today, making a three-dimensional movement between different parallel universes, a conquest of time and space. Cue our favorite narrator:
Rod Serling:  “You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension--a dimension of sound, a dimension of sight, a dimension of mind. You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You've just crossed over into the Twilight Zone.”
WWII, Part I:  A slider now, I SLIDE to my father’s war—the War in Europe in the years before V.E. Day, May 8, 1945. Suddenly I’m flipped right out of the jungle to Germania, to Deutschland in the winter of 1945. I am a P.O.W. of the Germans, sent out into the economy as slave labor. It’s February in Dresden, Germany, the Baroque capital of the German state of Saxony, the city called lovingly by her (****!) many lovers: “The Florence of the Elbe.” It was a long time ago, during the war and I Survived to Tell the Tale. I am a wet floppy Kilgore Trout; I’ve flopped right out of the Twilight Zone into what appears to be an underground meat locker in Dresden. There are animal carcasses hanging from the ceiling and the building is known as Slaughterhouse Number 5. I am a lucky ******* because even though I don’t know it yet, I’m in the safest place in the entire city. Cue the Bombing of Dresden, a strategic military bombing by the British Royal Air Force (RAF) and the United States Army Air Force (USAAF).  In four raids, 1,300 heavy bombers dropped more than 3,900 tons of high-explosive bombs and incendiary devices on Dresden. The resulting firestorm destroyed 15 square miles (39 square kilometers) of the city centre and killed many thousands, according to **** figures-- largely discredited by the victors who not only get the spoils but get to spin the history any which way but loose. Casualty figures were 200,000 and death toll estimates went as high as 500,000. Or maybe just 25,000 total, if you believe the ******* Anglo-American valkyries who unleashed the wrath of Khan’s Smoking Joe’s Barbecue Ribs and Hotlinks. Win a war, get a medal and a seat in Congress, maybe the White House; lose a war, get indicted. You’re going to Nuremberg, pilgrim, or the ******* Hague.
Kurt Vonnegut: “World War II was over and I was standing in the middle of Times Square with a Purple Heart on and a purple hard-on.”
Colonel Kurtz:  “We fight for the land that's under our feet, the gold that's in our hands, women that worship the power in our *****.  I summon fire from the sky. Do you know what it is to be a white man who can summon fire from the sky? ...What it means? You can live and die for these things, not silly ideals that are always betrayed  . . . I swallowed a bug. Who are you, captain?”
Willard:   “Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste. I've been around for a long long year, stolen many man's soul and faith. Stuck around St. Petersburg when I saw it was a time for a change. Killed the Tsar and his ministers, Anastasia screamed in vain. I rode a tank, held a gen'rals rank when the blitzkrieg raged and the bodies stank. Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name.”  
WWII, Part II:  The bombing of Dresden had to have been some kind of a violation of some International Code or Geneva Convention. But, of course, the bombers, the Victors, ran the Nuremberg show trials. The bombees didn’t get a chance to say much, didn’t want to make a fuss, seeing how generous the Army of Occupation was with their coal, gasoline, clothing and food handouts. But I was there when it was safe to climb out of the meat locker, and immediately got put to work on the après les bombes clean-up. I was there doing the ***** work, a corpse miner, tasked with collecting the fried grasshopper remains of so many unlucky Krauts who were simply burned alive, like heretics at the Inquisition. So it goes.
William Tecumseh Sherman: “War is Hell, Babaloo!”
Colonel Kilgore: “You can either surf, or you can fight!”
Sam Bottoms: “I dropped a tab of acid at the Do-Long Bridge, so I think I’ll surf for awhile: ‘I see a world in a grain of sand, and a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour.’ Reading Blake: for years it was the only way I could block out the war, that and losing myself in a bunch of undercover assignments. Yeah, it was William Blake, I-Spy and lots more acid; that how I dealt with PTSD.”
The Nam, Part II, LT DAN:  “Good job, trooper; those ******* drugs got you coming and going, sliding so fast you’ve missed latrine duty 3 times this month. Now go get 5 gallons of diesel fuel and gasoline, mix it together and torch that ******* feces, soldier.”
** Chi Minh:  “This ain't no party, this ain't no disco, this ain't no fooling around.”
***** Friedman:   “The Democrats and Republicans are the same guy admiring himself in the mirror.”

Muhammad Hosni El Sayed Mubarak:   “Vote for Pedro.”
Drew Gilpin Faust, Harvard:    “Fight Fiercely!”
Marshall McLuhan:    “I wouldn’t have seen it if I hadn’t believed it.”
The Author:   I am a disaffected angry old man, formerly a disaffected angry young man; a Hopi-Italian Jew with Chinese offspring, namely my left-brained son, a mathematical genius but having a tough time dealing with idiots, the many truly stunod people in the world.  Then there’s my Rose, my sweet King Lear-jet daughter, like her half-brother, not yet finished paying for my sins. My offspring are haunted, visited upon daily by their father’s  ghosts, ghosts created, ghosts hovering over me, from wars hot and cold and peace lukewarm and cloudy, like the uranium ground contamination on the mesa, visited upon mothers and infants  and children who seek only a glass of cool water from the spring not to be glow worms in the dark, leukocytes made insane by something in the water. My sins, a father’s sins; things I did to curry favor, to ingratiate and advance myself with the 1%, things I did to get ahead in life, to get what I thought my father and others in the ancestral slipstream had failed to get, twice to the Rabbi for a get (Hebrew: גט‎, plural gittin גיטין), to get the edge my kids need now, the edge I never had, and life reduced to an exercise in ultimate combat, little more than a cage fight, man against man and God against all. The things I did for money and position shame me now. And shame is a large  source of my anger.  I will remain angry. I will hang on to my anger at God and myself and all who have been disappointed in me, by me, especially the cavalcade of short-term caretakers, women used, abused, left behind and forgotten. Why am I me? Sometimes I think that’s the way I’m programmed. But it’s okay, like Gaga: “I'm beautiful in my way 'Cause God makes no mistakes I'm on the right track, baby I was born this way' Cause God makes no mistakes, I'm on the right track, baby, I was born this way and will I continue to surf the Cloud: even though God is dead and I don’t believe you, or me, or them.
Basic: remember Basic?

30   GOTO 10
30  GOTO 10
30  GOTO 10 Ad infinitum
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
.oh yeah... chris isaak's: wiucked game - plenty of "facts" went into taping as many covers as the song spontaneously made replica... so many objective "facts"... too many to count... when will certain subjective taboos be recognized and other, objective "truths" be denied?! how long must humanity be obliged to secure the argument by "confusion" be deemed liberation as necessarily-arguing the case of confiscatory material? what?! my grammar is bad? if my grammar is so ******* bad... ask someone from Rotherham!

.i tend to forget that people have this, collective amnesia regarding subjectivity, somehow they only associate it with news spew... they vaguely recognize an old widow walking from a surgery to a bust stop, stopping my a lavender bush, to pick a few flowers off of it... like some quasi Notre Dame hunchback... joyous that she bypassed all the ghost souls on the "waiting list" of an English doctor, joyous... clearly innocent... there can never be a place in this world for objective truths... objectivity is limited in the realm of aesthetics... whereby objectivity is a truth: whereby two uncorrelated people say the same thing... but  when it comes to a taste in music? what is objectivity that focuses on the differentiated between the sound of Wagner with / without an orchestra... and a traffic jam? objectively? both are sounds... extreme comparisons... but you can't call one black and the other #A, can you? subjectivity is not a 1-dimensional propaganda machine, it is also a truth... and when it comes to aesthetics... within the confines of personal taste(s)... i can say Wagner works better without an orchestra than with one... but... you can't tell the two apart... subjectivity is not a bias... it is a profound truth... in comparison objectivity's claim for truth is a tirade, compensated by the mere excavation deposit of journalism, which is becoming ever more fractured in compensation; it was always the case that life, expired prior to the, death... but now? it appears? death expires prior to a, life. Wagner isn't anemic without the orchestra... Wagner merely hijacks an orchestra to overdo the purpose of the piano... to enrapture a concert hall; nothing more, and i wouldn't expect nothing less.

i'm drunk...

  you're sober...

good luck
reconciling either,

even if either:



   who gave the reigns
to the internet,
under a sober guise?

****! quick!
catch me a moth in a lampshade
and send me off to
a CIA acid camp!

and congregate
like a ******* beehive!

or a termite mount...
i'm drunk... you're sober...
unless you have some
fetish for Swedish pop music
akin to Roxette...
  we, have, seriously,
nothing, to, talk, about...

  savvy? is that privy enough
for you?

tell me the difference between:
i have no rank, no lābrador
to mind suite for an orchestra
worth a Wagner...

**** it... i just watched
Apocalypse Now...
   3 and a half hours of what i could
make of the heart of darkness...
prior to the ride of the valkyries...

but to be honest...
i'm with david...
             take of pure piano...
of Wagner's
     the entry of the gods into Valhalla...
sole, piano... it's not anemic...
it's justified interpretation,
it''s... the justified counter
to Chopin...
  a refined honesty...
                 i never liked
   unlike most Polacks...
i never like Jean-Paul II either...
like most Polacks...

i'd envision a Jean-Paul II emeritus...
like all old Polacks lay claim:
it you have been nice to see
an otherwise different,
process of dethroning...

no... the orchestra undermines
Wagner... the piano will do,
for now, for as long as it takes...
the piece doesn't require orchestration...
if the mere piano makes the pieces
then the orchestra makes is
people shouldn't expect their children
to be intelligent by merely
listening to classical music...
what they should expect...
is listening to classical music...
elaborating into jazz...
and then coming back into classical music...

why do i hear such horrors...
that the only classical music made pop...
is classical music underscoring
moving image...
why is the only classical music
"worth" listening to...
the music composed for movies,
or at least, incorporated
into them?

            no... Wagner is not anemic
on the sole basis of piano...
     das rheingold: is not anemic...
Chopin might be...
with his intricacies...
a bountiful butterfly in the age
of Bonaparte...
               but? listening to the piano?
of Wagner's exclusion of

   Handel is the new Bach...
and Wagner is the new Chopin...

you don't make toddlers listen to classical music
because they might be better
at arithmetic like some prized
monkey who later struggles
with economic biases -
or tax returns...

                     you need a classical
music appreciation,
to hit against jazz...
and if it doesn't return to classical
then the original investment was
worth... zilch!

       orchestra ruins what perfects,
or rather allows Wagner
to stand-out from a Baroque tradition
of Germanic exfoliation...
   and hurts, hurts...
hurts the gentile spirit of a Schubert
or a Schumann...
the just Libra interlude hanging
within a composition,
the dangling in the air...
or a dire, interlude, a dire... note...

                   Wagner minus
                      what a fine affair to...

                                              ­    en oeuvre.
David Ehrgott Dec 2014
Upon the blaze that lights desire,
for lovers here, a worthwhile fire.
Alex P Gara Apr 2012
Werewolf stood in front of a puddle.
Four inches deep. Maybe.
Werewolf looked away.
Stickers. Graffiti.
Flem’s Revenge Live Tonight!
The Nifty Nymphos April 24th.
Ballz Deep featuring **** Matikz and Tremaine The Truest.
I’m a long way from Cologne, he thought.
Werewolf knelt towards the puddle.
The wet filth smelled of hot blood.
Exceptionally hot blood, rather.
He spat in the puddle and turned.
One thousand drunk humans.
Ten thousand more, asleep, above.
Not misunderstood.
It’s a very different sadness.
Alexander’s Feast ended.
Rounding out his latest playlist -
Bashfully Baroque.
Werewolf checked the time.
Less than an hour.
He buzzed a buzzer.
I’m here for the Devil’s Cherries.
The What?
The, ahem, Devil’s Cherries.
He’s cool. Let him in.
And just like that, he was let out.
A line was forming for Flem’s Revenge.
While a bright moon reflected in Werewolf’s puddle.
Werewolf shouldered through.
Clutching his score.
She wears t-shirts of the Beatles

And she loves the Rolling Stones

She wakes up to David Bowie

And she dreams of the Ramones

She goes out to dance clubs nightly

Till her ear drums both get blown

But, she has a deep dark secret

That her friends will never know

At night when she is by herself

When the room is nice and dark

She slips beneath the covers

With Johann Sebastian Bach

She's a closet classic ******

And her name is Amber Clark

She just loves orchestral music

The rock and roll is just a lark

Her friends think something classical

Is something for your folks

They cannot play an instrument

They cannot read the notes

They think that  chamber music is

What people play on boats

But she has a deep dark secret

She loves the stuff that Chopin wrote

At night when she is by herself

And her friends have gotten ******

She slips beneath the covers

And she listens to some Liszt

She listens to it many times

In case there's things she's missed

She's a closet classic ******

She has "Baroque" upon her wrist

She listens to the music

That her friends like to be cool

If she told them what she listens to

They'd laugh her out of school

So, when they go out  clubbing

She will join them as a rule

But...ah that deep dark secret

This girl is no ones fool

She listens to Beethoven

And she knows each piece by heart

She knows where one bar ends

And another one will start

She can play most every instrument

And she knows most every part

She's a classic closet ******

But she still knows Boyce and Hart

She has cds in her library

And most sit there untouched

When her friends are gone they don't get played

She doesn't like them much

She would rather hear a symphony

By a composter who was Dutch

But there's that deep dark secret

And she won't use it a crutch

At night when she is warm in bed

She listens to Mozart

She needs a little Nacht Musique

To open up her heart

It's a piece that sets her mind a blaze

It hits her like a dart

She's a closet classic ******

And she keeps her worlds apart

By day she sings Bruce Springsteen

At night she listens to

Composers that her friends don't know

They're so old they're new

So she keeps her world a secret

For she knows what they would do

If they found she didn't know

Where were you in sixty two

But at night she is a ******

And she listens to Mozart

She needs that piece of music

To shoot an arrow through her heart

Eine Kleine Nachmusic

She conducts every part

She's our Closet Classic ******

shhh.....the song's about to start...
Like the alarming abandon
          & disarray of Jackson Pollack,
    equally beguiling disciplined
       skills in the classical baroque
         airs of Antonio Vivaldi,
   midst the wonderment and
          wanderlust of a child,
      I'm awe inspired, unfurled betwixt
          your captivating demeanor
You know who you are...
Aaron Kerman Jan 2010
We met in the Red Square at Midnight. Sitting on the austere steps of the Kremlin We drank Stolichnaya in silence; listened to St. Basil’s Bells stoic ringing until Our sun rose pale over Moscow  

Beauty is created when I press your mulatto skin to mine.
We shift. You move, and as you’re moved you move me.
Our motion akin to your mother’s in a gentle breeze or a dancer;
Some Elise pirouetting et fouetter and falling over graceful infinities.    

I am deliberate during this ballet. Subdominant.
Una corda e sostenuto, and as you request so do you respond; relaxed,
Sustaining single notes; soft into that ethereal Moonlight…
Blurred and blunted, your perfect meter dampened by my learned cadence.
As you sound off forte I rock slightly forward, coming into you harder.
We breathe sharp together; my fingertips caressing you legato;
My Ana Magdalena. Andantino; rolling into flurries of crescendos
presto allegro climaxing; Capitulating again before we rest…
Before lento diminuendo.                                                      ­                

We courted at the Konig Von Ungarn in Vienna. It was classical and   romantic. Baroque. We fell in love. At Figaro’s wedding we tasted sangria as the stars Set, pastel, over Seville. Our first kiss was the Holy Roman Empire fading; A footnote under bass cleft.

We were married in the Rhineland, a single Canon announcing our nuptial.
You a Riesling and I your lattice. I stood firm, resolute, as you grew in, around, and from me. But the lords, they taint you, they **** me of your fruits; oblivious, they invoke their subtle prima nocta.                            

From the rooftops and the gutters they hear you. A virtue is lost between us. We shift. They are unwelcome eavesdroppers’ playing ******.  
They come and gather round us and I grow nervous, stiff; sweat falling from my brow to your ebony and ivory.
They move provocative, but they do not care; they do not notice us.                            

I stop as they begin. They’re discourteous during this Can-can. Their  praise and kind words may arouse the pimps and ****** wandering Montmartre into Paris’s red-light,  “Hear,” they fall on deaf ears.
This is no Moulin Rouge. We are not meant to be exhibitionists and yet
we yield to their flat appeals.                                                         ­                           

I put my clothes back on, Rags is all they are, and you, you’ve become stark.
I project my discontent through your string and hammer heart;
I slap your toothy face and stomp your sterling feet without relent.
I-De-tach-My-self-From-You. Staccato. They call me Inventive and as they sip their whiskey, their bourbons and their Texas Tea they tell us that
we have Entertained.        

We build our home from the precious stones of foreign countries.
We traverse ages to reach the mines and the rock fields, finding rough Diamonds and sapphires. Naked, we wash them in ether; they luster.
The noblemen come. They smile and applaud as they peep through the Windows and knock at the doors, but We shall not  be moved.
Tommy Johnson Apr 2014
Hey man
You looking for a boost?
Some bud? Molly? *****?
I gotch you
Let's be out

Let's look forward, shifting eyes
Thick blunts, welcome to The Court of Miracles
Where no ones ever dry and everyone's good

The whole place was flooded with music
Pounding, pulsing, entrancing
thump thump thump thump
Laser lights flashing neon colors
Multicolored creatures of night dancing to the whimsical noise

The DJ was young
Attentive to his machine that dispensed exuberant sensate explosions
Rocking back and forth, flipping switches, turning knobs
We are, we can, we will live forever
Then it all went silent and the whole place shot out with a feeling of anticipation
The bass caused everyone of us to vibrate and pick up the vibrations of one another

Hey bro
Take this
Nerves become fervent

Now meet my other friend
Mind is widened
Now you're candy flipping
Hippy tripping

We met a girl
Her dad was a record producer
She was way out there
She was out of her head

We met an artist
He used different types of wood
And carved shapes and patterns in to them
Then painted it with acrylics
Then smashed it with a sledge hammer

People bought it
He was brilliant
He was ******
I was dazzled

She tasted like *****
He tastes like cigarettes
***** devils
Looking for a time

I saw veterans from Iraq letting loose
Thank you
A sea of sweaty smiles going for miles
Under a baroque moon

Sleeveless shirts
Minuscule skirts
Beads, glow sticks

Under one universe
Dedicated to this single moment
And what it means to us
One mind
For equal freedom
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
and all i ever wanted, was to work in a music shop, to compensate my fancy moving away from Stendhal's scarlet & noir, and into the domain of Nick Hornby's high fidelity... well... that died a very Belgian death, very much akin to euthanasia.

at least i don't
bleach people to mere
pronoun usage.

and yes,
i treat the tetragrammaton
as a superlative,
esp. given
i am akin of Atilla -
and the Visigoths...
such that i am:
of the invading "horde",
because of he
the so-called culture
i see no civilisation on the horizon...
i see no Baroque...
            i hear no Bach,
and will never hear a stance
such that the music be composed...

because what is happening
in no circus of nouns...
people are being bleached,
they are being leash bound
to walk into a pet barbers to get their
hair "done"....
         i am not the one
regarding them as sole
pronoun exhibitors...
   there they are: merely pronoun bound...
and should i call them black,
or care to call them copper skinned
akin to the Indus peninsula...
                       i have forgotten
the agitating "they"...
i don't have a cartesian dualism
to mind...
i simply have my own dichotomy
to attend to...
   as Voltaire said: each to his own
garden; and a pair of shoes.
once again...
  geometry will never scope beyond the orb...
there is no geometric study to
suggest a shape for the universe...
now we know: there's no thinking
outside the box,
  even if that might ease your "claustrophobia".

  and i rather call a person by their
self-identifying characterisation
that reduce myself to a liberal
censor clot of only managing other people
in the pronoun category, auto-suggestive
of a *we
vs. them...

       i don't see how that makes us
liberal, that having forsaken descriptive
approaches, we incorporated
the additive approach carte blanche
as a guide to treating everyone akin
to being dubbed albino.

   i like talking about ******* a brown-skinned
    i like talking about ******* a Thai girl...
i like putting cardamom in my curry,
or my cinnamon...
  or my everclear - heartspark dollarsign -
and thus about the time i
gave to flying the kite of full, manly,
****-refraining autonomy...
to the wind itself.

  just when we were about congested,
and lated constipated...
        i wrote this, like a clerk
might, in the bureucracy of the failing
Roman Empire, akin
to the reminiscent W. H. Auden...
      on pink'oh paper that turned boredom
into the origami of paper-aeroplanes...
  neat, folded, against the envelope
requirements... thrown right into
the lap of don quixote,
       recycled, shredded by a windmill...

as if about just apparent...
        at least this dream, this utopia
didn't originate with me...
    oh sure, i believed it...
that we could house the entire ethnically-diverse
populace under one roof...
   i believed it, the world told me to believe it...
i'd love to believe it thrice over...
   i mean, i'd love to have
    duo-ethnic children,
        who spoke four languages...
in the least three...
    but **** how that gets swept under
the rug and forgotten along
with Aladdin...
   it just gets boring, all that masochism
of being an anti-racist social warrior
but at the same time calling oneself
a white-trash stereotype transcendent.

that's me about to puke,
and write my name in diarrhea ink,
followed up by doing the same in
gonorrhea ink.

what happened at the end of the 20th century
was a very well believed
in dream, even though it was a butterfly...
and lasted no more than a few years...
it was worth it... it's when i had my childhood...
and i could have even been a roofer until now
should there be someone who said
they were overworked in a supermarket...

it was very nice for a bit,
great to believe in... how suddenly 2000 years
of history could be forgotten and
let us live in a togetherness...
    but like today, Syria and a civil war...
civil wars are unique...
  a Syrian barber tells a Syrian butcher
to *******...
     and would it be necessary for
     an English politician to get involved?

unless they're selling both
  Israeli uzis (the country where the ***
originated, yep, Israel)...
          i'm not a Syrian civilian...
so what the **** are all these tourists
talking about?! i don't care if they come
from Westminster, what are these tourists
talking about?!
                  i'd like to be a Syrian civilian
first, before i give my opinion...
        i'm not giving a single opinion
as a tourist that was ever in Syria,
or a one: waiting to visit it in the "near" future.
******* tourists...
     you have to use a blunt knife carving
this piece of history...
not point using a well sharpened knife
cutting with eloquence and absolutely
no profanity... given the excesses of ****...
   i say: oaths! oaths!
B Young Feb 2015
The artist evokes his tormented psyche

Through gestural abstraction
a systematic colorfield emerges
The blurring of dreamworld and reality

All pretensions dissolve
Critics still criticize
Snobs still scoff
   the creative will still drink and drug themselves the death.

whichever way the wind blows
that’s where my dreams escape me

They transform to Queens of Hearts and Princesses of utter



Be Gone
my heart must resist

I will not be controlled by the guild
Caravaggio kept painting until he got killed
Went insane like most artists
Couldn’t stop before he got his fill
Caravaggio poem poetry
words old
Steele Mar 2015
The Boxer stands alone tonight.
There are no crowds to cheer him on.
There are no opportunities to pass him by.

The Boxer stands alone tonight.
His head is bowed, no longer strong.
His heart no longer knows what's right.

The Boxer stands alone tonight.
He can't remember for how long.
He can't remember what it felt like

to live
       carry on
                  to be strong
                                    to fight.

The Boxer stands alone tonight.
There is no one here to hear him cry,
alone in the ring, as baroque music flies
through the air; through his soul,
and at last lets him sleep.

There is not a soul left there that cares to cheer him on;
When he passes, there is no one left that deigns to weep.
When life gets tough, sometimes the tough get going only to subsequently break down like the flawed human beings they are.
Sia Jane Apr 2014
War of the worlds,
                                men bartering money
Dollar bills left abandoned,
                                               blown to smithereens
Battling dusts of torment,
                                            acceptance of surrender
Waging a money war,
                                       business men flee
In the shadows rises,
                                   a fallen angel
Akin to a phoenix,
                                from the ashes
She symbolizes a renewal,
                                             dying in fires
Sparks burning a nest,
                                       immortality supplying coffins
Diabolical legacies of past,
                                             bow & arrow
Punctured wounding broken heart,
                                                          ­   wings disallow flight
Stumbling a splintered hip,
                                               reborn a chance
Of independent determined autonomy,
                                                       ­             la Cuesta Encantada
Fallen at the gates,
                                an enchanted hill
San Simeon seeking redemption,
                                                     ­   death awaits her
Carrying body & soul,
                                       Santa María Maggiore
Of Roman baroque temples,
                                                 small cascading pools
Death releases her body,
                                         the Neptune pool
She floats without dissension,
                                                   sinking in grace
In all her glory,
                           Hearst Castle will
Entomb body & soul,
                                      memories of her

release release release


© Sia Jane
Inspired by Lady Gaga and her G.U.Y an ARTPOP film video.
Dorothy A Oct 2011
Objective and Subjective decided to hang out together at the park one day, to get to know each other and to try to become friends. Soaking up the views, and watching the people go by, they just sat and relaxed on a park bench.

Subjective broke the ice, first, and said to Objective:

It is getting a bit nippy outside isn't it? I forgot to bring my sweater with me.

Objective replied:

The daytime high will reach 67 degrees with a NW winds of 12 mph. Humidity is 68%. The weather is forcasted today for a 20% chance of rain, but it is not due until evening.

Subjective replied:

Yes, that is good to know...I guess. Now I know why I am cold. Hey, look over there on the right! Check out those roses! Boy oh boy! Did they ever come up colorful this year! I am getting a good whiff of them right now. Don't they smell like heaven?

Objective replied:  

I have never been to heaven, so I can not give you an accurate report. Roses, though, come from a thorn bearing shrub that typically produce fragrant flowers of various colors. Roses are native to north temperate regions. They are widely cultivated for unpractical reasons such as objects of adornment.

Subjective gave Objective a good sidelong glance like, Are you for real? There was a long period of silence as both appeared awkward in each other's company.

Subjective finally broke the silence and said:

The birds are really chirping up a storm today! Oh, I don't mind at all! They sure tweet nice and sweet! But these pigeons I can do without! I don't want them around me! You know what they say, don't you? Pigeons are just rats with wings!

Objective replied:

Actually, rainstorms are not caused by chirping of birds. Rain is produced when water is condensed into clouds from the water evaporation of oceans, lakes and rivers when the heat of the sun activates the process.  Furthermore, there is no such thing as a flying rodent. Even flying squirrels don't actually fly. Birds and rodents are two separate species that cannot produce offspring. Therefore, a rat with wings would be impossible.

Subjective was now beginning to get red in the face. Maybe this was a bad idea hanging out with Objective, after all. Could he really learn to understand him by getting to know him?

Both Objective and Subjective's attention was soon diverted by a tall, slender woman with blonde hair walking by. She now became the center of their focus. Wearing a form fitting blue dress, that came well above the knees, her shapely. long legs were quite appearant as she walked along in 5 inch, spiked heels.
Eagerly, Subjective whistled and said:

Wow! Would you get a look at her? What a knockout! Hey, Objective, I think you just saw heaven, after all!

Objective shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly and replied:

Beauty is said to be in the eye of the beholder. Back in history, it was the full figured woman who was upheld as a virtue of beauty. Her size represented a desired lifestyle of affluence. For example, in the Classical period of art, as well as the Rennaissance and Baroque periods, it was the more voluptuous female that was often the subject of an artist's rendering.

Now Subjective was really ready to blow smoke through his ears, like his blood pressure was going to go through the roof.  No way could he take this for much longer!

He replied:  

That's it! I tried! I did! I really did! But you know what? You are the most annoying being on the planet!

Objective looked stunned at Subjective's outburst of anger. So Subjective continued on in his verbal lashing.

He yelled out:

Yeah, you, Objective! You just don't get it, do you? You really get on my nerves! I can't stand being around you! It is so infuriating!

Objective was at a loss for word. He attempted to utter a reply but could not.    

Subjective added:

I got to get out of here before you drive me crazy! What are you anyway? A walking encyclopedia? A walking dictionary? For the love of Pete, talk like you're normal!!!

As Subjective was ready to storm off Objective meekly replied:

Inanimate objects, such as encyclopedias and dictionaries, cannot realistically have body limbs, nor can they function as living organisms....unless, of course, they are presentated in imaginery situations, such as cartoon figures in cinema, television, comic strips, or storybooks. Also,  I must tell you that I personally don't know anyone named Pete.......

Furious, Subjective got up and stomped off, muttering complaints to himself all the way down the street, leaving Objective sitting on the park bench, by himself. There Objective remained, wondering what he did that was so wrong.

THE MORAL of my LAME story is..........................

Astral Mar 2017
Nights where no sleep occurs, oscillating nightmare drips across my eyes

A dinner consisted of two Jumbo Push Pops and lukewarm orange soda

As these walls begin to make more sense, I grow more terrified

The lamps knitting scarves and gloves for me, to survive these harsh cold slumbers

Growing out of my fingernails bark, each day I measure the progress

Soon the sheets will swallow me, and trim will skin be close to salvation in wolfs pelt
Thank you for taking the time to look at my work, it means a great deal to me.
So, long ago
we had the Renaissance Period,
and then there was
the Baroque Period,
and then there was
the Classical Period,
and then there was
the Romantic Period,
and then we got to
the Twentieth Century,
and we called it modern
and we called it contemporary
but we can't use
those words anymore,
so I say
we call it
the Weird-*** Period,
where every artist,
musician, playwright,
composer, poet,
and so on,
were doing weird-****.
I love this period.
So, in the sixties or so
we had the killing
of music
by John Cage
in his silent piece,
and the death
of painting
in the blank canvas,
and there must have been
a blank piece of paper
that was a poem,
and then
we had the rebirth
of art
in the work
of the minimalists,
and of course,
don't forget
the conceptual artist
who had himself shot,
so now,
we are well into
the Twenty-First Century,
so it must be
the Post Weird-*** Period,
but maybe
we should call it
the Bizarro Period,
or something like that.
Jessica Golich Nov 2014
Maelstrom of emotion emboldening an eye opening betokening of an attitude full of alluring arousal
Walking thesaurus as fluid as a notable chorus playing in accordance with an authentic Baroque performance; silver-tongued eloquent deliveries enthusing an amusing musing
Roaring reassurance of being on the prospect of procuring central evidence - the preciousness within choosing a gained conscientiousness approach promotes an unadulterated antidote
Introspection of one’s predilections stirred the modern, robust direction toward the recollection of a pristine, internal haven nurturing relaxation and crystallization.
Caro Feb 2019
Sleepless in Seattle on my mind and in my feelings,
Making me feel moody and 90's,
Chunky belts and colorful, dark sweater,
Old airports in family comedies,
Big clunky landline phones,
When Harry Met Sally and I watched it on a plane for the first time last summer.
Baroque in my headphones and 1950's swing playing from the ceiling

Girls talking loud, so important,
Deciding options for their next photo shoot,
sweet and divine making their plans.

And me
Silently observing, enjoying

If I were an overweight man
I would be creepy

But I am a nice package

They're in L.A. for the weekend.
Oh, they've been to London and "her boyfriend is an *******"
She wore the baby blue, "it was my mother's", and it brings out her eyes
Why is he friend's with Madeline?
She's a *****
But we like her. She's very bold.

Plans laid and heading out. Good for them.

And I'm still here.
Ache in my neck,
Baroque in my ears (because I heard it improves learning and slows heart rate),
This anti-poem coming from my fingertips

Alone in this cafe and now the mood has shifted.
Ashish Gupta Jan 2013
Standing resplendent in a baroque topiary,
Under a florid arbour as an arched canopy,
Her pulchritude in moonlight, is the plenary
Picture of, the muse, the Goddess Calliope.

My heart’s reminiscence of our first encounter,
Like a fragrance in my mind wafts around,
Whose Pareidolia in every-thing sketches her
Face, to which it is entirely spellbound.

Were the Fates to keep us apart,
As the sculptor Pygmalion I would be.
But Aphrodite won’t breathe life into my art,
For not my Galatea, I love my Calliope.
Copyright (c) 2013 Ashish Gupta
CC BY-NC-ND 3.0,
Pareidolia :
Galatea :
sort-of falls in line with
a certain sense of humour;
a certain need for extravagantly epic Music;

Truest of Metal
is an extension, an expression,
of the disciplines of:
Practice, Patience, and Study
in the realm of Music
as well as whatever Instrument;
some of it is, indeed, simply noise
but, then again,
Music is but ordered noise,
is it not?

I see little separation
from Classical and Metal;
though Classical came first
Metal learned what works and why
from what came before;
a sort-of Musical evolution
a sort-of Cognitive evolution
a sort-of inspiration;

Metal music has great potential,
Metal is akin to Blues and Jazz
Metal is akin to Spanish Classical Guitar
Metal is akin to Baroque styles
Metal is akin to Gregorian chants
as well as rhythmic elements
derived from the Music
of various Cultures and Tribes

is a moderately tongue in cheek
melting ***
for lots of styles,
and, honestly,
lots of Drugs,
such as :alcohol and nicotine
and high-energy Music;

Truest of Metal
is an Art and a Science,
and, to some,
even a Religion.
Writ while listening to the following with my roomates:

Death, Live in Eindhoven:

Extracurricular: <-- Hot for Teacher - Van Halen <-- Painkiller - Judas Priest <-- We're Not Gonna Take it - Twisted Sister <-- Jambi - Tool <-- The *** - Tool
Little nightingale,
wings of white and gold.
Little nightingale,
singing gay and bold.
Fly away, far from your iron cage.
Fly away, up in the North sky.
One day you will come back,
singing your last requiem to me,
For I shall be there to hear no more.
   You are very brave,
   and you are very free,
So do not fall into sorrow,
do not fall into eternal repose.
But until then...
  - Sing, oh sing,
My sweetest nightingale
high above my broken baroque grave

— The End —