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Nigel Morgan Nov 2012
There’s a film by John Schlesinger called the Go-Between in which the main character, a boy on the cusp of adolescence staying with a school friend on his family’s Norfolk estate, discovers how passion and *** become intertwined with love and desire. As an elderly man he revisits the location of this discovery and the woman, who we learn changed his emotional world forever. At the start of the film we see him on a day of grey cloud and wild wind walking towards the estate cottage where this woman now lives. He glimpses her face at a window – and the film flashes back fifty years to a summer before the First War.
 
It’s a little like that for me. Only, I’m sitting at a desk early on a spring morning about to step back nearly forty years.*
 
It was a two-hour trip from Boston to Booth Bay. We’d flown from New York on the shuttle and met Larry’s dad at St Vincent’s. We waited in his office as he put away the week with his secretary. He’d been in theatre all afternoon. He kept up a two-sided conversation.
 
‘You boys have a good week? Did you get to hear Barenboim at the Tully? I heard him as 14-year old play in Paris. He played the Tempest -  Mary, let’s fit Mrs K in for Tuesday at 5.0 - I was learning that very Beethoven sonata right then. I couldn’t believe it - that one so young could sound –there’s that myocardial infarction to review early Wednesday. I want Jim and Susan there please -  and look so  . . . old, not just mature, but old. And now – Gloria and I went to his last Carnegie – he just looks so **** young.’
 
Down in the basement garage Larry took his dad’s keys and we roared out on to Storow drive heading for the Massachusetts Turnpike. I slept. Too many early mornings copying my teacher’s latest – a concerto for two pianos – all those notes to be placed under the fingers. There was even a third piano in the orchestra. Larry and his Dad talked incessantly. I woke as Dr Benson said ‘The sea at last’. And there we were, the sea a glazed blue shimmering in the July distance. It might be lobster on the beach tonight, Gloria’s clam chowder, the coldest apple juice I’d ever tasted (never tasted apple juice until I came to Maine), settling down to a pile of art books in my bedroom, listening to the bell buoy rocking too and fro in the bay, the beach just below the house, a house over 150 years old, very old they said, in the family all that time.
 
It was a house full that weekend,  4th of July weekend and there would be fireworks over Booth Bay and lots of what Gloria called necessary visiting. I was in love with Gloria from the moment she shook my hand after that first concert when my little cummings setting got a mention in the NYT. It was called forever is now and God knows where it is – scored for tenor and small ensemble (there was certainly a vibraphone and a double bass – I was in love from afar with a bassist at J.). Oh, this being in love at seventeen. It was so difficult not to be. No English reserve here. People talked to you, were interested in you and what you thought, had heard, had read. You only had to say you’d been looking at a book of Andrew Wyeth’s paintings and you’d be whisked off to some uptown gallery to see his early watercolours. And on the way you’d hear a life story or some intimate details of friend’s affair, or a great slice of family history. Lots of eye contact. Just keep the talk going. But Gloria, well, we would meet in the hallway and she’d grasp my hand and say – ‘You know, Larry says that you work too hard. I want you to do nothing this weekend except get some sun and swim. We can go to Johnson’s for tennis you know. I haven’t forgotten you beat me last time we played!’ I suppose she was mid-thirties, a shirt, shorts and sandals woman, not Larry’s mother but Dr Benson’s third. This was all very new to me.
 
Tim was Larry’s elder brother, an intern at Felix-Med in NYC. He had a new girl with him that weekend. Anne-Marie was tall, bespectacled, and supposed to be ferociously clever. Gloria said ‘She models herself on Susan Sontag’. I remember asking who Sontag was and was told she was a feminist writer into politics. I wondered if Anne-Marie was a feminist into politics. She certainly did not dress like anyone else I’d seen as part of the Benson circle. It was July yet she wore a long-sleeved shift buttoned up to the collar and a long linen skirt down to her ankles. She was pretty but shapeless, a long straight person with long straight hair, a clip on one side she fiddled with endlessly, purposefully sometimes. She ignored me but for an introductory ‘Good evening’, when everyone else said ‘Hi’.
 
The next day it was hot. I was about the house very early. The apple juice in the refrigerator came into its own at 6.0 am. The bay was in mist. It was so still the bell buoy stirred only occasionally. I sat on the step with this icy glass of fragrant apple watching the pearls of condensation form and dissolve. I walked the shore, discovering years later that Rachel Carson had walked these paths, combed these beaches. I remember being shocked then at the concern about the environment surfacing in the late sixties. This was a huge country: so much space. The Maine woods – when I first drove up to Quebec – seemed to go on forever.
 
It was later in the day, after tennis, after trying to lie on the beach, I sought my room and took out my latest score, or what little of it there currently was. It was a piano piece, a still piece, the kind of piece I haven’t written in years, but possibly should. Now it’s all movement and complication. Then, I used to write exactly what I heard, and I’d heard Feldman’s ‘still pieces’ in his Greenwich loft with the white Rauschenbergs on the wall. I had admired his writing desk and thought one day I’ll have a desk like that in an apartment like this with very large empty paintings on the wall. But, I went elsewhere . . .
 
I lay on the bed and listened to the buoy out in the bay. I thought of a book of my childhood, We Didn’t Mean to Go to Sea by Arthur Ransome. There’s a drawing of a Beach End Buoy in that book, and as the buoy I was listening to was too far out to see (sea?) I imagined it as the one Ransome drew from Lowestoft harbour. I dozed I suppose, to be woken suddenly by voices in the room next door. It was Tim and Anne-Marie. I had thought the house empty but for me. They were in Tim’s room next door. There was movement, whispering, almost speech, more movement.
 
I was curious suddenly. Anne-Marie was an enigma. Tim was a nice guy. Quiet, dedicated (Larry had said), worked hard, read a lot, came to Larry’s concerts, played the cello when he could, Bach was always on his record player. He and Anne-Marie seemed so close, just a wooden wall away. I stood by this wall to listen.
 
‘Why are we whispering’, said Anne-Marie firmly, ‘For goodness sake no one’s here. Look, you’re a doctor, you know what to do surely.’
 
‘Not yet.’
 
‘But people call you Doctor, I’ve heard them.’
 
‘Oh sure. But I’m not, I’m just a lousy intern.’
 
‘A lousy intern who doesn’t want to make love to me.’
 
Then, there was rustling, some heavy movement and Tim saying ‘Oh Anne, you mustn’t. You don’t need to do this.’
 
‘Yes I do. You’re hard and I’m wet between my legs. I want you all over me and inside me.  I wanted you last night so badly I lay on my bed quite naked and masturbated hoping you come to me. But you didn’t. I looked in on you and you were just fast asleep.’
 
‘You forget I did a 22-hour call on Thursday’.
 
“And the rest. Don’t you want me? Maybe your brother or that nice English boy next door?’
 
‘Is he next door? ‘
 
‘If he is, I don’t care. He looks at me you know. He can’t work me out. I’ve been ignoring him. But maybe I shouldn’t. He’s got beautiful eyes and lovely hands’.
 
There was almost silence for what seemed a long time. I could hear my own breathing and became very aware of my own body. I was shaking and suddenly cold. I could hear more breathing next door. There was a shaft of intense white sunlight burning across my bed. I imagined Anne-Marie sitting cross-legged on the floor next door, her hand cupping her right breast fingers touching the ******, waiting. There was a rustle of movement. And the door next door slammed.
 
Thirty seconds later Tim was striding across the garden and on to the beach and into the sea . . .
 
There was probably a naked young woman sitting on the floor next door I thought. Reading perhaps. I stayed quite still imagining she would get up, open her door and peek into my room. So I moved away from the wall and sat on the bed trying hard to look like a composer working on a score. And she did . . . but she had clothes on, though not her glasses or her hair clip, and she wore a bright smile – lovely teeth I recall.
 
‘Good afternoon’, she said. ‘You heard all that I suppose.’
 
I smiled my nicest English smile and said nothing.
 
‘Tell me about your girlfriend in England.’
 
She sat on the bed, cross-legged. I was suddenly overcome by her scent, something complex and earthy.
 
‘My girlfriend in England is called Anne’.
 
‘Really! Is she pretty? ‘
 
I didn’t answer, but looked at my hands, and her feet, her uncovered calves and knees. I could see the shape of her slight ******* beneath her shirt, now partly unbuttoned. I felt very uncomfortable.
 
‘Tell me. Have you been with this Anne in England?’
 
‘No.’ I said, ‘I ‘d like to, but she’s very shy.’
 
‘OK. I’m an Anne who’s not shy.’
 
‘I’ve yet to meet a shy American.’
 
‘They exist. I could find you a nice shy girl you could get to know.’
 
‘I’d quite like to know you, but you’re a good bit older than me.’
 
‘Oh that doesn’t matter. You’re quite a mature guy I think. I’d go out with you.’
 
‘Oh I doubt that.’
 
‘Would you go out with me?’
 
‘You’re interesting.  Gloria says you’re a bit like Susan Sontag. Yes, I would.’
 
‘Wow! did she really? Ok then, that’s a deal. You better read some Simone de Beauvoir pretty quick,’  and she bounced off the bed.
 
After supper  - lobster on the beach - Gloria cornered me and said. ‘I gather you heard all this afternoon.’
 
I remembered mumbling a ‘yes’.
 
‘It’s OK,’ she said, ‘Anne-Marie told me all. Girls do this you know – talk about what goes on in other people’s bedrooms. What could you do? I would have done the same. Tim’s not ready for an Anne-Marie just yet, and I’m not sure you are either. Not my business of course, but gentle advice from one who’s been there. ‘
 
‘Been where?’
 
‘Been with someone older and supposedly wiser. And remembering that wondering-what-to-do-about-those-feelings-around-*** and all that. There’s a right time and you’ll know it when it comes. ‘
 
She kissed me very lightly on my right ear, then got up and walked across the beach back to the house.
AapkiHamesha Jan 2013
I meekly rummage through my purse
Looking for my tangled earpHones
The sweet sounds of guitar and synth fill my ear
As we pass Eglinton West
I wait for the last minute of the song
Where I maximize the volume
Just to hear the faint bass in the ocean of noise
Like my pastel jelly fish amongst navy blue
Stinging my tearducts with poison
Is your bass
That romantic tune forever ringing in my ears
Like your breathe down my back
Like your eyelash on my cheek
Like your fingers in my hair
The same that pluck that bass
Cascading ******* sound waves through my tired mind, romantic heart
I put your bass away, back in my purse
And walk the streets of my city
Where I see you everywhere
You can't be put away neatly in my subconscious
You're their bassist,
But most of all,
You're my front man.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.i'm not here for the people, i'm here for the language, having observed it degenerate into modern hieroglyphics of emoji, and the acronym standard of american English... i'm here... for the language... the people? well... they're the people, and will always remain, what they always were... collateral... i can't speak for the organic product of what i am an inorganic byproduct of... why would there ever be a Hegelian dialectic to begin with? rather than a dichotomy? wasn't Kant the one to come up with a priori (thesis) and the a posteriori (antithesis) dynamism? no? then i guess i'm illiterate! must be! otherwise, how so?  i can't exactly command my a priori, given, with some "wonderful" a posteriori substitute of the global individualist! this urban Frankenstein! maybe the English speaker can... but i can't... given they allowed themselves the travesty of grammatical profanity... it's almost a shame, that the asylums closed down... when is cushioned room when you need one? oh... right... denial for the cases equivalent to jimmy salive... you attack grammar?! you attack us all... there's not qualification standards required... not all of us are required to have status as English language teachers... some of us? are just generically frustrated!

would i extinguish
cigarettes into my knuckles?

well... i was trying to
spot bone,..

but the real reason?
ha ha!

i was attempting to
count the number of eyes
on a tarantula.

not a funny joke?
i get it...
   i wasn't aiming for funny...

ever watch the grooving
bopping along,
seduced by the rhythm
bass player in a band?

you'd thin it was the drummer...
turns out?!
the intermediating
   focus....
   bass is all rhythm...
there's no such thing
as a rhythm guitar section,...

hardly any drums in
a classical music composition...
bass...
the subversive underlying
principality
of the fiasco...
the...
                          Pandemonium!

set your eyes on the bassist's groove...
pursed lips...
mm hmm ya ha...
           the *******
blood suckling artery
with not need for metaphor
presence of a band...

bass... bass... bass...;
hence the missing E i guess;
was, and always will be:
the base and bait
for listening to 20th century music...

whiskey lime & pepsi?
***** lemon & pepsi?
can't tell the difference,
both sound equally promising...

it pains me, to agitate a drummer's heart,
imitating a beat
without any drumming equipment...
bopping along, sly, shy,
and sometimes awry, fired up...
        
there were a few things i'd love
to have become,
a prof. cyclist doing the tour de france....
a vet practitioner...
    among others...
   what did i become?
a mediocre poet...
       a spewer of words
rather than their instigator...

had i ever the ability to write
pop **** jargon of
lost and wishing for awaiting loves...
i'd **** one of those
housewife harlequin novels!

alas... not to be, not to be...
     guess i tapped into Russian funk...
that Russian ex-girlfriend?
apparently she likes my writing,
she said: you should get published...
i did... little as **** did that do to
me in securing a stature of possible
fatherhood and a Tolstoy town-house
in the middle of St. Petersburg...

    i wasn't a priori to fiddle that
******* out into a castrated bull
******* an ****** with no *****
but pure muscle tension
of the phallus...

   wait... you never ****** off
as a man, prior to producing *****?
feel sorry for you...
guess the whole abortion debate
is killing you...
          you know...
  that's almost equivalent to theft...
what happens on the throne of thrones
and is dumped into a tissue?
ditto, i.e. remains there...

       thieving *****...
                  huh?!
                    **** it... do the Islamic take
on thieves...
ensure all the western men have
their ******* arms cut off...
to stop the thieving with
western culture jurisprudence
in-acting transgression
of transcending the allowance of
abortion, and...
enforcing...
                whatever the ****
fatherhood means...
when?
     a women proposes to you...
and then decides to throw away her
engagement ring, she, herself, chose...

as if... she never had the notion
of being young and being poor...
**** me! she forgot the beautiful part
of the equation!
  i liked her doughnut over-sized nose...
i loved to teasingly bite it
during *******!

      **** me... that contorted
face, Francis Bacon-esque
in the mirror doing *******?

      mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...

look here: FULL MOON ALL OVER
MY FACE...

         there's no revenge ****
in this scenario...
                
  hey! resurrect the Bastille!
and i'll be the second Marquis de Sade
screaming the revolutionaries!
YOU FORGOT THE JUICE!
the juice?!
YEAH! THE MOLOTOV COCKTAILS!

                anarchy...

       what order is there to speak of?
when grammar is secondarily dictated,
outside of the teaching profession?
     these people are teaching me language,
or secondarily indoctrinating
me into the abuse of language -
with political bull's diarrhea?

   can't have one and the other...
   you attack grammar?
        everyone restricted to a grammatical
conventionality, will...
spank you with a naked russian saber...
   i'm not here for playing
unorthodox language games
outside of crossword puzzles
i don't entertain having the capacity
to solve...

               you play your game...
i'll play mine...
i have the integrity of the English
language at stake...
   not this post-colonialist quasi-English
*******!
Elliott G May 2021
What does it matter,
When I sit stiff in the dark
Music pricking through my eardrums;
Every single little strum
of guitar string
or a piano note;
Swimming along through the bass clef lines
The bassist, often undiscovered
No person hearing his low, warm notes.
His name is not on any
Cover
Not even in the 'artists' thoughts.
But his every strum gets through
Accompanied by a yelp
from my throat
The swirling snail in my ear
Curls up tighter as the waves near,
Fear. Paralyzed.
in fear.
The surge. Surge of thought
No time to breathe No time to stop
No time to think No time to drop
No single remaining train of thought
To listen to the bassists' notes.
Instead, it's the dreaded screech;
Singers voice racing through
my head is too loud
But my vocal cords never loud
enough to make a pleasing sound
A belching hound.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
thankfully my nostalgia concerning the late
20the century, coincides with my youth,
i mean youth, and that i also mean
****** idealism, when women were phantoms
and could never be girlfriends or
widows, or tears shed at the grave,
or nothing needy, nothing clinging,
nothing resembling mussels...
         i have to admit, i got ***** the moment
i detached myself from thinking about god...
the third partisan of the a priori
implant dictated by time & space...
            i didn't only shove my genitals into
her genitals, i shoved my ego into her
concept of god... and i subsequently became
a dimmed version of st. augustine...
              because that part of me didn't exactly
make confetti from her reasoning....
shoom!
          scalped me and dragged about 1000
tumbleweeds in its travels...
             the grand point? i didn't see
   a hairdresser, for the next never ever...
unless they do trim ***** to coincide with
      funny tattoos...
                     i don't know... maybe i was really
ultra-idealistic about women before i lost
my virginity, that after i lost it, after i lost
the foremost grace, i didn't learn the gorilla
impetus to keep one... let alone a harem...
   women really were fun and beautiful and
mysterious when i had them in my head...
      after the fact that i learned too late that they
also took a ****, i couldn't believe it!
        me, adapting to this? this fog-smeared
creature? yes, i can see my nihilism,
                    i''ve been burning that amber light
of a litre of whiskey per night for quiet some time,
drop by Collier Row's Tesco and look at the c.c.t.v.,
but then i put on some creedance clearwater revival
(not cool, aha, used the whole name, right?
cooler me saying c.c.r.? bukowski, lebowski...
same ****, different cover) -
   but i really did experience love... i know... huh ha...
did i recover from it? i'd probably have
recovered from 20 ****** over-doses...
        she got married, obviously...
  because women, don't idealise men...
  unless they meet the criteria of what men are supposed
to own... man idealising woman is a woman per se...
woman idealising man is a man contra per se...
                     after all, a man idealises
thinking about a temp. storage space for his
*******...
              which later turns into offspring...
   any woman could agree to being part of that phlegm
and being content at housing those "lucky" offshoots
in her kangaroo rucksack...
           it's as ugly as European thinking is going
to get, it can't get more scientific than this...
   i really do need a square on a rectangular canvas
to prompt a generous conversation about redifing
the point: we're not going back to the Milan school of
oil on canvas... or Rembrandt...
      it's not happening.
so creedance clearwater revival and graveyard train...
how we have bass guitar, and it's nibbling,
just nibbling... just grooving...
                  more like stalking but keep in mind
nibbling... and the there's no rhythm guitar,
because the guitar is just making accents,
the guitar is just twitching... i can't believe how
un-jazz comprehensive modern music is...
                   rhythm doesn't belong to the guitar,
there shouldn't be a rhythm guitar...
rhythm is all bass and drums...
          and i say that: because i hate metallica and how
i can never hear the bass guitar when i listen to them...
no wonder the original bassist got scribbled off...
   i love bass, don't you love bass?
something has to overpower the strength of drums
in modern music, something has to restrain
drums... needs to set the soothing rhythm,
rhythm guitar can't do that, you need the bass
guitar... bass guitar is, quiet frankly,
the most underrated instrument in modern composition...
techno techno! bongo bongo parties of
               berlusconi... bongo bongo... hatchet plus!
yes... silvio... we have the guillotine around here
too... choppy waters... plenty of sharks...
   enough to take a bite, though.
   and i thought naked lunch was bad...
well, i didn't, i didn't even want to plagiarise the Tristian
Tzara bound to it, reminiscent of cabaret voltaire.
huh?   ah yes... creedence clearwater revival,
and the bass on graveyard train, like water coming
down from a leaking tap...
  tum dum doom ta dollop... and it sounds nothing
like that... but something to allow the guitar what
it does best, sure, it joins in the rhythm section at
the beginning of the track... but then the guitar
sets up a momentum of creating accents,
  no rhythm = no solo... accents...
   little licks of being there... very ******* jazzy...
my my, so jazzy... and that's the safe ground to have
in music, retaining the jazz...
             otherwise you get into territory akin to
classical music's anithesis... the opposite of classical
music is... earthquakes... techno techno... drum drum...
drum drum... drum, drum... drum drum drum...
classical music was all about breathing...
  césar franck's les éolides (the breezes) -
and the antithesis? techno techno... muffed up techno:
ambient music... refrigerator sounds...
muffer up drums...
               don't get me wrong, i do listen to
e.g. man with no name...
         but it's rare to hear the jazzy side of things...
  it's just such a waste to see the bass guitar
not used as it should be, i.e. being over-powered
by drums... and using so much rhythm with
a guitar... having the rhythm and the solo...
  like squeezing a pair of testicles of a celibate monk...
god, that hush hush: tone down, tone, tone down,
tone, down... down... down...
             pst... kaput....
                                      i really did start talking
about something else, didn't i?
                this is new... digression as a column of
rhetorical perfection... fair enough having the rhetorical
skills, talking persuasively (well, just lying)
    about the same topic... but find me the rhetorician
than utilises digression, and forgets his talking
because he's changing subjects without really
    categorising them as being different....
    it's a trance state akin to eastern meditative practices...
digression as the most pleasing form of rhetoric,
teachers' oratory technique... not politicians' oratory...
   i never understood why digression was
not the foremost element of rhetoric...
                    political rhetoric is always about
ensuring people remember something,
they never do...
                        politicians drill in the points...
   and for some reason, they never talk to rhetorical
perfection, i.e. being able to digress...
                the most persuasive rhetoric is the rhetoric
with digression at its core...
                       or at least that's how i learned
english from a scotsman...
                                just blah blah blah blah
and at some point, there always will come an aha!
which is the next best thing to an eureka.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
i actually like the way slavoj žižek understands fascism, given the fourth movement of Beethoven's ninth symphony... as it stands: i really had to take pleasure in my suffering... i once called it: an exquisite pain... it's not that acknowledging pain is difficult, what's difficult is taking pleasure in it... on a whim... nothing as flamboyant as baron sacher-masoch's take on it, transcending toward the ****** thesis... i am the grey matter, the everyday comparison to a factotum sort of analogue of what pain constitutes... and i'm actually free from depressive apathy... i am sometimes prone to laugh like i might be experiencing what the Fore women experienced... the kuru "disease", otherwise known as the creutzfeldt-jakob "disease"... yes... mm... uncontrollable laugher... akin to St. Vitus' dance... sydenham's chorea.. it's hard to see why there should be any cure to the experience... given that the experience is so liberating and has no materialistic mono-mania of a well tended to economy... cannibalism really has a great array of noun-arsenal... a bit like the poetry of Christianity it's akin to... to really believe this *******: you have to take it to the extremes and make every word: utterly isolated, and in a sentence utterly meaningless... it's like a swarm of wasps honing in on a body of a bear that mistook its ash-phlegm nest for a beehive feast... sometimes it happens... but sure as all else concerning: why not take pleasure in an anti-cross crucifixion, i.e. a sick-bed? sure, it's less theatre and many less marble statues worthy of a church... but, if according to žižek / rzirzek / really? ź ż vs. ž... a fascists takes pleasure from suffering... i must be in this club, since i do, the pain in my brain with its sizzling quiz of blood emeshed in synapses has moved to my *******... ******* ahoy! i sit in a chair, and when drink (esp. when drinking): they are goosebump prone, titilating me... amusing me... all the pain concerning my brain has moved into a pleasure reaction bound to the testicles... i couldn't have foreseen this waterfall if i didn't explore the word fascist beyond the communal horror of spotting an orthodox practitioner in either street or cyber-space...

e.g. the fore of papua new guinea
(ghee-knee... later the debated about
quinoa... apparently it's not qui-
       or french agree, we-noah...
  but something else... oh, it's related to a quiz
asking me whether i could possibly be a 5% liberal
elitist... well, if you were reading
the sunday times magazine: it would ask you
that... i did cut it apart as qui- -noa...
  but apparently it's pronounced:
kin-wah...                 once again my point:
you don't use highly concentrated phonetic
units, i.e. diacritical marks...
you're bound to leisure in this linguistic hell
of constantly "correcting" people....
just saying... what's the matter, toad stole
your burp?)

   and i really wanted to write a neat poem...
poems like this emerge,
you go to a shop, by the cheapest whiskey
two cans of beer and a bottle of cola...
it's early February... the cars parked
have the eerie circumstance of jack o'fogfrost
breathing onto the windows...
    your fingers itch from the cold...
you start to really see a skeleton walking
rather than something resembling protein
fat and carbohydrate...
    thankful for winter: to naturally imagine
a skeleton walk in the cold
   smoking a cigarette and drinking the beer
while the whiskey cools in your rucksack...
all you end up needing is
   a square mile, and outer English suburbia...
and a look into that forest you once frequented
walking as if with gauged eyes into
the custard darkness...
   then sitting on a stump, taking all the clothing
items from your torso and listening in
as something neared, cracked a branch
and you uttered into the forest:
  no animal would dare come so near...
      
... (man has to drink, take a break...
         sneaky ******* get to see
a work in progress... lucky them...
           too much of a sober me)...
hey! i'm warming the stove, it's not going to
shoot out firecrackers made from words
into a
     hoghmony celebration.... oh look...
another googlewhack!
      http://tinyurl.com/z8xeqpsn
(billionth of another! this is how i play the "lottery")
ah freckle feckle ****... scoot for new years...
hogmaney...  hogmoney...
  hagmanny...
                 ­  ****! Hogmanay!
    what was i "saying"?
                            
ah wait... i know... i know...
i was watching this film goat (2016)....
with james francko doing cameo but mainly producing...
if anything could put you off going to
university, well, notably an american university
it's this film... now i drink, i really do, heavily...
but what went on in that film was nothing short
of happens when people lack any respect for liquor...
i could watch the roman empire in a zoo...
what i witnessed in this film was:
well... can't see a point of caging a lion,
but i can see all the reason for caging man...
but the problem arises with:
you can take children to a zoo...
          you couldn't even want a child
to experience this sort of Iraqi **** made in
America...
                       i drink, i really do...
i slurped on a prostitutes ****** when drunk...
hell... i even wrote this...
          and i am really starting to believe
that going to university was the worst mistake of my life...
i left it, educated as a chemist,
without a clear move toward a career as a chemist...
    would i care to learn the use of language
to university level? i.e. get an english degree?
      not if i were a middle-class woman
   who's daddy was a doctor or a dentist...
                            people from my background,
double that up with a father who works in construction
and me being of immigrant stock (when will i get
to say expat?) -
  it was the biggest mistake of my life...
you see... other immigrants start to get jealous...
     they say you have to die: for raising for head
above the water...
         a bit like they kicked the hell out of
Jamie Redknapp's career in football...
now he's a pundit... but not a football player...
they smacked him about...
good thing my grandfather was a Silesian miner
for some time... i decided to dig trenches...
yes, metaphor: write poems...
   because i still can't see what nature ordained me
to possess... and why these little hitlers decided wasn't
fair for their "sense of worth"... oh i can name them...
one of them, a childhood sweatheart of a friend,
egyptian / persian, used to call me during
weekdays and sing to me over the phone...
   apparently he could ******* 20 times a day...
i tried 4 times in one day... nothing came out...
      the other was an add on to being in school from
the age of 16 to 18... a paddy-sikh...
   loved barrington levy and driving a car while
******... loved the whole gansta gimmick...
a complete *******...
                           and to think i was fooled into their
little of jealousy... this will make absolutely no sense
to you... given we (a) never spoke outside the realm
of my tornado... and (b) had a coffee?
               well... let's just say: one stupid move on
my behalf while intoxicated on marijuana
aged 21 taught me all i needed to know...
  from the age of 21 through to the age i am now:
some could consider me a monk...
                 or that infamous word: cenobite -
oh i'm just obsessing about how i want to
put my top 3 picks into classic.fm's hall of fame,
and write 3. christopher young's something to think about,
2. christopher young's something to think about...
1. christopher young's something to think about...
as i realised the past two days...
  collecting a personal library of classical music
makes no sense... unless it's Händel... (æ, i.e. :)...
and classical music only makes sense
with a d.j., and yes: a radio...
            there's no point being poncy about classical
music when you collect it...
        unless it might be something by Hans Zimmer
or any other movie soundtrack...
      and you can just sit back, listen to the radio,
and the classics just come and come...
i spent today lying in bed, because classic.fm
was playing from about 6am to about 1pm...
  and then i extended it to 3pm because
of aled jones and the voice so necessary as
that of alexander armstrong... in between?
                     bill turnbull... a news anchor
if i'm not mistaken... couldn't handle it...
  no, not the voice: the choice of music...
but even such people are absolutely necessary...
and would anyone care to remember
the ****** megastore on oxford street?
  the classical music department?
does anyone remember is being sealed off by
   glass like an aquarium from all the other music
genre departments in the store?
   a bit like walking into a lunatic asylum:
everything had to be cork-lined waiting for a Proustian
novel... first you had to appreciate
and build up a palette for silence... before
some concerto could be "ate" like refined sushi...
    radio and classical music does work,
i might have made a mistake collective obscure tastes,
i.e. proto-folk examples in Polish and compositions
of German industrial music...
   i might have done that... yeah, so true with the jazz...
but you have to have a Houdini weak-spot...
so in bed... rummaging through the radio and
television listings and reviews...
   after doing a bit of a crossword (which i can't
for the love of god) and a 6 x 6 su doku...
        now that's definitely sunday activity...
looking through the radio and tv listings...
   esp. noting the day's programme of bbc radio 4...
well, it's not that i'm a convert, with a house
in south-west london...
                i just heard that england is famous
for its eccentrics... i wanted to experience
    the most eccentric practice on these isles...
      tending to a garden would have made sense...
if it wasn't February...
   so reading the listings and reviews was the next
best thing...
    what with confusing Aled Jones with Alex Jones...
that famous britpop bassist turned cheese-maker.

then how do you begin taking fatal
mortal steps, simply motivated by biological
dynamics? i could have ended that
servitude to the waterfall, or should
i correct myself: required it to continue...
      but then interludes in the case of opera
leave me peasant-like, most ignoble...
      there's the 15 minutes were no fame is mentioned,
and no one forces art to become advert...
   since we're talking of the thin-red-line,
i can't but help myself reading more book reviews
in English, than actual books in Polish...
because i care for the cognitive labourers,
i really do... i think they are needed
to bypass actual books, meaning they do all
the work... or should i say arbeiten?
well.. enough critics about, you get to
dissociate yourself from the actual origin...
     a bit like waving your hand at god
and embracing the "awe" inspiring profusion
of the human tongue becoming over-bearing...
not even bearing grudges...
  but no gratitudes either...
                it just is what you care to make of
germans the sole originators of
   the proto "bayeux" tapestry given a.i. -
but then you treat the germans as they
are currently given the sway,
and you awake a humanity in them:
a humanity only germans know how
to acknowledge: a collectivisation -
germans know no concept of individualism
akin to the late-removed isle Saxons...
i.e. the English... the English are always
blitzkrieg specific about the individual,
the fact that so many individuals get a chance to vote
leasves me with blisters of what i can best
estimate as noted to being conscience...
          the germans are best appropriate to
express the volk... the english are like stuffed
animals worshiping the name Byron... Milton...
Blake... Newton...
         and let's leave them there, because if they
finally manage a homogeny of an ethnic
accord to give a momentum unto it via their lack
cohesion... i am assured a passage to
the houses of parliament to laugh,
as a test of my carve to veto, rather than vote.
mainland europe calls them: the islanders!
you can't help but see a care to blow up
the tunnel la mange... the channel tunnel...
because if a 2nd ****** arose...
the tanks would flod that serene countryside...
     i come across foxes all the time...
once i picked a dead fox near the bus station
in romford using two bin bags from the nearby skip...
and walked with it home, weighed it,
just under 10 kilograms... i weighted myself first,
then with the dead fox enclosed in the bin bags...
then i walked with the fox and threw it into
a meadow... i was thinking along the lines:
at least the sanitation officer will have a day off..
  obviously i was tattooed with the idea that
i was some sort of shaman, given two people witnessed
me picking up the corpse...

900 gull herrings eating their own...
      chimanzees also take to a nibble...
        banana slug females are fond of eating
"******", when the mating gets heavy...
not ever, as ever, but with Darwinism had i ever
managed to see a woman like a mantis...
  sorry... looking at the ***-hole of nature like that
will eventually leave you paralysed and
not even awe-struck but fear-woken...
             because it really can't be so much a desire
to look at it as if it was necessarily needing
incorporation, but was necessarily incorporated
nonetheless...
         the ogasawara incident... 1945...
       yoshio had a fine fine palette...
                          cannibalism was never suggested
as equivalent of a war crime...
  and one said: human thighs tasted like chicken,
another said: a bit like raw tuna...
          judeo-christian food prohibitions...
    well... once the prohibitions come along with
the poetry... left can mean right...
and right will evidently mean left...
                 during the yuan dynasty...
         pedohpiles were more or less reductive in
their transgressions... they ate more: than they ******.
two freedoms then, china prone to omnivore status
and hindustan prone to vegetarianism...
               both examples lead to a success rate of
a billion examples...
                       it's only these pest-like infections of
mono-this omni-that are keen to always give their
i love yous as politico dictates...
  maxims even... so very fond they are: of their maxims...
they even infected their youth in the 21st century
stating that: no one is akin to us,
if not in his youth, having been ***** by abou10
10 favourite maxims... most kept, hardly any employed...
1261 edict: when children were asked to stop
plucking out their eyeballs...
   horror films are therefore, equivalent to soft-core
******... history is thrice over the real horror movie...
    but given our faculty of memory is so
(putting it mildly) "biased"... i think we're over-sensitive
in giving imagination the scenes from both
horror and Disney... we've already gave the former
and the latter we have just sold...
           but hey! a placentta fry-up like a setting sun,
illuminates with more choice of hue than
noon and the "dehydrated" shadow (yes,
i know, a better word would be suited, but i have
no time to ascribe it to a tailor-fitting, a neat and tidy
resonance... treat dehydrated as a dwarf shadow,
mingle that with photon and phonetic -
that light illuminates, and traps things into bites,
like H or He denote hydrogen and helium
respectively... and qui- and -noa denote
necessary argument of what sound goes where,
rightly)...

evidently i did take the quiestionnaire about
whether i am a liberal elite...
it had to be done... why would i otherwise read a sunday
newspaper?
            end result? 0-50 (norm), 51-100 (aspiring),
    101-150 (not quiet there), >150 (elitist snob)...
(ref. the 5%, charles murray, coming apart,
   the bell curve... superzips)
q1: what is the top prize in the thunderball and when
is it drawn?
   a1: i play the googlewhack lottery.
      alt. a1: 0 (alright), 5 (days rights), 10 (what is thunderball?)
             talk of chav tax...
q2: how many people in your vicinity voted for
    Brexit?
    a2: i just had an opinion... voting is cheap
when you can't express a ballot veto.
   alt. a2: 0 (all of them), 5 (one or two)... 10 (aghast at the question)
              a bit ******* obvious, no point explaining....
q3: what is your favourite dish on th
Samber Nov 2014
I remember exactly where I was the first time I heard you play.
I was sitting in the Violins section and humming along to my favorite part of one of my favorite songs.
And then he asked you to play a part of that song and I prepared myself for little entertainment.
You picked up that heavy bow and settled that bass into your shoulder and you played measures I had never heard before.
You played with such ease and finesse I was almost sure it wasn't real.
You stunned the room and stole my heart and all you did was play.
That was the first time I heard you play.

We were sitting in a small group of selected musicians to play for a musical and you were there too.
I had not fallen in love with you yet but I knew I would soon.
You picked up your bass and played away and everyone was amazed at how you carried a tune.
My ex was there with his trumpet in hand and no words could be said, you knocked me dead.
That was the first time he heard you play.

You picked up your electric bass and calmly moved your fingers to a groove.
You were brand new and had no idea how to make people move.
Your hands played jazz like a well oiled machine and it was then we all knew we had seen all to see.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
by now i'm adamant at not finding a
publisher...
    what i call step higher
than writing and putting
it into my drawer...
by the way, who wants to
live a publishing furore that
only prescribes autobiographies
of footballers?!
   who?! the masses? the masses
will always do!
                 i'm drunk
and have a glum expression on my
(oink) face...
    piglets coming...
      i will own a michel de montaigne
and never read all of it...
       i guess darwinism is an answer...
literary selection comes with
the package...
             as does that question:
what's normal?
                    it's hard to base a heart
on it, more like facing up to a head
and still not knowing...
if we go through all the rubric of
existence we only arrive at:
the english were right... everyone else
was wrong... and to be frank?
i'd love to senda hundred zeppelins
in the direction where the saxons
succumbed to celt blood...
              what pretty songs...
a bit like unlearning that time when
ulysses asked wax to drip into his ears
while his men took to rigour and oar....
    hard to be the *****-man...
celt girls are pretty, don't get me wrong,
but i prefer to locate my own drinking spree;
celt men love their fantasy of a russian
oligarch princess... i had one for 5 months;
didn't bother settling down with her for life,
hence my ars poesis.
all the regrets you could figure out and master...
i have my drinking habits ready,
i didn't mind to write a moby ****
   or reymont's trilogy of the peasants
either... the glass if full: the gob is empty...
           the bed feels unslept in at 3 o'clock in
the afternoon, the cats are busy sharpening autism
in the garden...
         imitation:
feed it enough words so it becomes
fat?
    perfect excuse for a waterfall...
waking up i thought about the irony of
metallica losing its bassist in a car accident...
doesn't the rhythm section explain it?
isn't metallica the band that hates
bass?
                 it does have bass as intro...
devil's dance is probably the best insurance
leveraged song to example,
a few others fall into place,
but the rhythm guitar overtake the need for
bass, therefore the hush...
   yet there's this overpowering of drum,
i'm ego tripping with this music,
i want to hear bass prescribe the rhythm
and isn't it the case that those watchful of
ensuring rhythm make up too many rhymes?
rhyme | rhythm...
                  i need music to replicate
4 dwarfs *******...
bass, solo guitar and vocal, rhythm guitar
and drums...
alternatively bass, vocals, rhythm & solo guitar,
drums...
      4 oompa loompas prancing on the stage
and the maggot-pit of being part of the audience...
and that divergence spectrum akin to
a micro- / tele-        scope.
             you feeling the itch? my scalp is itchy,
i'm getting these thoughts and can't resort to
a pgf. file encoding... and i can't talk about it in
jpeg. like some god-horrid pic of your
former boyfriend's psychopathy of sending a ****-pick...
how about i take you to the zoo
and we watch penguins bathing?
     kowalski?!                                   hoy!
nugget fidgety crackers of concern,
    scheming critters that need you to invent toothpicks
that people, can suddenly become...
        you want a viking wielding an axe
on the opposite side to face that resonates as crux
comb-over... you don't want the pettiest of
the pettiest pickpocketers that steal from the dead...
you never take that to the plateau of nationhood,
that **** is inherent in singled-out individuals...
i am drunk, and i think i'm being lazy
with spelling... god help me...
      i'd freak out if i had a bukowski tactic
to back me up... dyslexics are apparently very good
with numbers... but they rarely tell you that they are,
good with numbers...
metallica is not too keen on bass: ba ba ***...
based on the concept of a hearing-aid;
you sometimes sop over the idea that it is there
at the beginning of a song... and then it: disappears!
magic... like the story of the original bassist for the band,
who died...
             maybe that's the reason that bass
is missing in all their works after his death, like some
sort of reperation currancy that extends into "the next life".
i want bass man... i really want bass to give it
proper polyphony, to give it layers...
but then again you can train an orangutan
to prance about on stage, crouching tiger farting monkey
look on his face;
  and all in all, the drunken humour i'll
never get to say at a party, if ever a party to attend, or if ever
needing to be funny.
i am starting to see the joke:
start slim,
  end:
                                                                                                   fat.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
oh god, what a deer of a girl, i walked into the antechamber of a supermarket, soaking wet from the rain, and she walks from the opposite direction, looking lost. i enter the supermarket proper, buy my **** (*** & ms. pepsi), and as i leave, she's stranded in the antechamber, secluded, standing in the corner, just by the doors... she came to a supermarket, but wasn't intending to buy something, anything... i don't know whether i'm over-stating a case of paranoia, or just plain suspicion, with regards to the event taking place... but **** me... better suspect some ulterior motive with regards to what just happened, than try to extend a terrorist attack narrative.

and the holy trinity of bass players in my generation's
            repertoire?
             **** going back to *john paul james
,
        or paul mccartney, or roger waters...
           metallica gave us these three idol-worthy
bassists, after that accident that killed off their original
bassist, and they hushed the bass guitar,
           to the point that there were only two layers
of rhythm in, pretty much all of metallica's songs:
rhythm guitar & drums...
           i've lost respect for bands than don't allow
the subtle sound of bass guitar to be heard...
     it's a bit like abandoning the evolution from jazz...
in jazz... each instrument was allowed a solo,
to set apart the rhythm, and move toward each
of the instruments present a solo...
                 it's not exactly a philosophy of chaos...
    but at least jazz was fair...
                                            you could get to nibble
on each instrument in the band;
   and thank **** it wasn't supposed to be organised,
but could break away and compose it's own
"15 minutes" of fame;
   and i always respected bassists more than i'd ever
care to worship jimi hendrix or jimmy page...
  only three names stand out...
   michael peter balzary (red hot chili peppers),
                                         justin chancellor (tool),
and last, but not least
tim commerford (rage against the machine / audioslave);
can be ****** admiring those ***-licking
     solo-guitarists sometimes, esp. with these three guys;
i lost my respect for metallica...
           i can't hear the mediating layer of rhythm
   of a bass guitar, that could reconcile rhythm guitar
and drums... i have no respect for bands that do not
respect bass guitar; sure, it was a tragedy that the original
bassist died in sweden, but come on!
                   in the album st. anger... you disrespected
bass, that you made the drums... too crass!
if there's a psychology with regard to music?
   the bass guitar is the subconscious...
         the drums are consciousness,
    vita cor meum deus rhythmus - rhythm is the life
                               of my god's heart...
and rhythm / solo guitars? that's the unconscious...
      i know, "paradoxical" placing the drums
as the conscious element in musicology.
Dave Williams Dec 2015
here's the way i see it.

i'm an artist, a writer, a gambler, a fighter, a scientist, a scholar, a critic, a failure, a dramatist, a dreamer, a peddler, a nuisance, a bassist, a wanderer, a magician, a follower, a therapist, a liar, a professional, a healer, a pacifist, a chisel, a storyteller, a mathemetician, a physicist, a cook, a puzzler, a loser, a programmer, a lawnmower, a supporter, a musician, a tape-deck, a mirror, a survivor, and a dude.

i'm not very good at any of it.
Infamous one Apr 2013
Writing is my passion it helps me communicate
It makes things alright and great
I've been able to create
Writing lyrics my life's a rock song ready to happen
Moments of my life put Into mini series
Characters and phases that come with age
Music is in my heart my grandpa was a bassist in a popular local band
I like to tell amusing stories life's more unique than boring
Free spirit lit with fire and free like a wild tiger
Grew up around ppl who stayed down
Escape this cage break all the norms achieve success with no bs
John Bartholomew Jan 2018
As I sit here just chewing the cud
Nights lost and debauched with my friend Richard
Picking up that guitar as a kid from Cash Converters
He left me for the sun down under with the students and the surfers

E Minor through to a chord named A Sharp
Strangling that neck with fingers that don’t know where to start
I should have listened to Mr Hogarth for this career in its finest form
Rocking out on stage wow that would have been a storm

But it’s never too late to try and give it another go
Read music they say but I wouldn’t know my **** from my elbow
No, no, no, that’s not the attitude
I’ll plug this thing and never give up as someday I’ll fill those smoky rooms

I joined a band with 2 brothers and bassist of whom I did not know
Mill Hill practice every Sunday just thought I’d give it a go
But only one song and a commitment I could not keep it was always bound to fail
I’ll carry on solo still looking on but really just chasing my own tail

Work carried on as a plumber of which I never did really enjoy
But it paid the bills
A mortgage
A van
And a wedding on the horizon
All in sight except for that unseen tree which nearly stopped me from ever rising

Paraplegic is a word I had rarely ever used
you’re a *******, a ****, I had said once myself how dare I have used that abuse
To be told you will never walk again is a shot that broke my heart
Don’t let it get you down be strong and try for a brand new start
The days go by at the start of this new journey
The loss of once friends and to gain some new is now what must ground me
A different perspective and a sharper humour has now unveiled
Hello new world you won’t get me down just watch this beast unravel

Taking the good with the bad and filtering through the ugly
A different ship to now set sail, get ready for this could get choppy
But as I say and always repeat, life goes on its just how you take it
This second chance given to me a bit lower down, but still determined to make it,
Hey Mr Wheelchair.

JJB
“I had learned quickly that life doesn't always go the way I want it to, and that's okay. I still plod on.”
― Sarah Todd Hammer, Determination

“Know me for my abilities, not my disability.” Robert M. Hensel

“My disability has opened my eyes to see my true abilities.” Robert M. Hensel
Alex McQuate Jun 2017
The anthem ripped out from the Frontman, the Drummer, and the Bassist,
Making a sound larger than should be possible,
Their anthem ripped out through the old amps,
The music revitalizing the old speakers.

The Drummer hammered out powerfully yet precise.
His feet rattling off like machine gun fire,
His bandana tied around his brow.

The Bassist laying down a metronome-like effect to it all,
Notes swaying and dipping to the tune,
Flaring out occasionally to add more gravitas,
Showing he was still his own musician.

The Frontman declaring to the crowd of transgressions committed,
Of battles won and lost,
But also the views from the other side,
That the enemy may be man still.
A story of agony and anger,
Sorrow and Savagery,
With jubilance for the act of violence.
The Frontman's solo soaring high before axe kicking down upon the audience's heads.

The Agent was stunned,
His dropped drink forgotten,
As he reached for the payphone on the wall
The experience in front of him spurring him faster.

The Band continued,
Their sound crescendoing,
Coming to an almighty peak,
Only to begin it's decent to the earth,
Crashing down magnificently,
Down upon a dive bar in the run down part of town.
Act II- Discovery
Scene 4- A dive bar in the run down part of town
Demonized Angels Dec 2014
I'm Austin
I play guitar
I sing too
Music and melodies
Make the world spin
I **** at poetry......
Cactus



Hey I'm Austin! Bassist for a band called Demonized Angels. Two of our members have personal accounts you may know them as <Andy> and <Jinxx>  They're cool dudes go check them out. xD I'm a loser peace out
Hey I'm Austin! Bassist for a band called Demonized Angels. Two of our members have personal accounts you may know them as  and  They're cool dudes go check them out. xD I'm a loser peace out
Sam Moore Jul 2013
a jazz club in new orleans,
late evening.
the girl who grinned at me from
behind the bassist has
oysters on her breath and
hints of my lipstick still smeared
around her neck,
but i won’t tell her.
i’ll let her forget me like
she forgets the rest of them,
then notice the shy little
smudges from the other side
of her vanity and wish that
her familiar bourbon street boys
knew how to let their fingertips
slide down her spine the way
mine did.
the timing’s got nothing to
do with it. my ghost is lingering
on the skin of anyone who has
ever tested (swam in, drowned
in) these waters.
they’re playing “bye bye blackbird"
and she’s forgetting already.
i’m letting her. the remembering
comes once i’m lost at
sea.
John F McCullagh Jan 2012
The sunlight, like a mother’s touch,
lies gentle on the water’s face.
The last warm breath of summer past
Not ready yet to yield its place


And you and I walk, hand in hand,
Around the long and winding path
Past where fledging Mallards stand
And weeping willows sweep the earth.


From beyond the rushes comes
the soulful melody of a horn..
All else is still, no sound intrudes
upon the bassist and his song..


Above us Ninja squirrels fly
And bomb the path with acorn shells
If they should hit me do not laugh
Odds are that they’ll get you as well.

I’m glad we came to Oakland Lake,
To watch the waterfowl at play,
And have a quiet conversation
about a nearly perfect day.
David Beltran Feb 2012
For an hour on my drive to school at night,
When the music and headlights come on,
For that hour I'm a rock star.
If you stop and stare even better,
and I'd congratulate you because you are my audience.
I'm the drummer, singer, bassist, piano player and guitarist,
Hell I'm even the guy playing with lights back stage.

But as soon as I park and get out of my car,
I'm not a singer, I'm not a musician and
I'm certainly tone deaf.
Yeah I'm a resenting has been and ex-husband,
I don't eat, sleep or **** but writing is what keeps me sober these days.
Singing is what keeps my mind off the time,
and music what keeps me off the lines.

I used to give out ratings.
Now I keep the words to myself
and if my opinion is asked of me,
I just give them the simple half.
Let them figure out what's missing,
the way I found out what I was needing.

I may not make a mill next year,
or be able to pay the bills this month.
But I will be recognized for the things that are
put on billboards and on your bedroom walls.
I will be known for the message you wear everyday,
and for giving a face to the girl that sings in the dark on stage
and plays in your car all day.

But for just this hour I'm just a simple rock star.
Would like to receive feedback and critique, thank you.
Issa Jul 2014
Crowd begins to rustle    
Lights begin to dim
Performers begin to sweat

The curtain fades
The noise of the audience fade    
The first act music-student's courage fades

He focuses on the notation sheet  
Stage lights focus on him    
Spectators focus on the teenager  

                 He plays the first downbow note                  
                 The crowd listens to him                    
        Lights shine, never faltering            

-

Multitude begins to grow impatient
Lasers begin to blink on
Pop stars begin to nod at each other


The darkness on the stage fades
Distraction fades from the crowd
Sweat on the band's hands fade


She focuses on the expanse of people
Yellow lights focus on all of them
The sea of people focus on the song


Bassist plays the intro
Die-hard fans listen to the heartthrob
Strobe lights shine, excitement escalates      

                                      -                                                                                                                            ­           

Big finale performed by the orchestra      
                   People shiver in their seats                        
                 Wood stage vibrates                      

         The curtains are drawn        
Listeners sated, their scores are a draw
      Philharmonic members draw smiles      

    Assembly gives a standing ovation        
Each student gives a triumphant bow    
Curtains give way          
                                                   ­                     
             Backstage, the people laugh                      
Stage director laughs from relief  
Congregation laughs from witty student's last remark

-

Last verse of fulfilling song performed by band
Top section shivers from air conditioner
Big speakers vibrate on last note


Projector screens are drawn
Crowds draw their phones for selfies
Drummer draws his experience on notebook

Spectators give shouts of, "Encore!"
Band members give their farewell
Coliseum gives back lights

Pianist laughs recalling his slip
Volunteers laugh from crowd's reaction  
Fans laugh at guitarist signing for them
our ends are all beginnings
Holly O'Brien Sep 2014
19 years,
4 boys,
2 girls,
Heartache after heartache,
The process doesn’t change,
It doesn’t become less demanding with age,
If anything, it becomes only more methodical,

In the way that a surgeon analyzes and studies his procedure before operating within a breathing, organic creature,
Or how a jazz bassist finger plucks melancholic yet beautiful riffs made of memorized scales,
With practice, I have learned something of a system to heart break, and interestingly enough it always starts with me, it never starts with you,

5pm. You don’t break up with me, I always break up with you. I lay in bed for hours, struggling to match up the phrases “meant to be” and “not this time” in ways that are gracious and kind.

7pm. I communicate my best self to you, I tell you I love you and oh, the potential I saw. I say everything I need to say, it's a courtesy to you and a necessity to me. You’re cold to me, I’m still hot for you; it burns me up inside until I choke on my “maybe some days” and “what ifs”. You’ll find someone new.

8pm. I can’t move my legs and my stomach is weak, my heart fails within me and my eyes are so meek. I search for solitude, this is the moment when the only thing I know how to do is follow my feet.
I retreat to the streets.

9pm. This is the second hardest part. Let the pain spread and seep into every vein. In the words of John Greene, it demands to be felt. I debate myself that no one should feel such pleasure from love without knowing the searing anguish of loss.

10pm. I cry out to God and weep into my friend’s teeshirt as thunder crackles around us. If you don’t let it out, you won’t let it go. My ribs snap open from explosions of emotions.

12am. Feverishly angry, unhinged with pride; I will foolishly convince myself that you meant nothing to me, though in this moment i am anything but dispassionate. Accusations, assumptions, confrontations. Gain perspective, but only the kind that convinces me of myself. Compartmentalize it.

2am. I’ll distract myself with something, anything to pass the time. I’ll go out at night, a little excitement, a little bit of drugs, a lot of adrenaline, might just set my brain chemistry balanced and my crooked jaw straight.

5am. I’ll come home, satisfied with myself. Crawl back into my bed where I began the night and think, oh if only you could see me now, i have definitely won.

6am. This is the hardest part. The sun rises along with my guilt and inhibitions. I could NEVER say those things to you during the day that I spewed out like kerosene during the night.
I want to call you baby, tell you I’m sorry, but I’ve lost that right.
So I will combust from my own words and actions, set fire to my excuses and torch down my pride.

I want to whisper good morning to you, because I’ve learned the mornings are made to fix things, to start fresh, and become new.
My father had an anthem for me that rung “Holly, you’re not a bad person, you just make bad decisions. You can always try again in the morning.”
Well, it is the morning and I want so bad to try again.

In how many different languages can i try to explain that I don’t know how to give it up,
Or how to let someone go that was never mine to begin with?
I’ll just replay you walking through the invisible door in my mind until I take the hint.

Then I’ll sleep the day away so I can wake up, sobered up, numbed up, a few hours later.
Remind myself that my mother taught me to allow only one night for despair and tantrums.
She says life goes on and so should I, she couldn’t bear to see me defeated or crushed.

So I’ll force myself out of bed, shower, shake it off, lock it up.
I’ll move on because love is not without pain, life is not without burden, courage is not without fear,
And people are always worth taking chances on, even though the last chance I took never healed.

I know that there will be other nights when I think about 4 boys and 2 girls,
But those times, I’ll drift to sleep without saying goodnight, and have forgotten about it before the break of morning light.
Aniseed Jun 2015
Hazy summer dreams of Independence Day,
Sitting in a field and an alcove of trees
Watching fireflies and fireworks
With nothing but a peace pipe and the pleasure
Of each other's company.

Four in the morning blues
Writing music inspired by
The light reflecting off her box wine,
Bird feathers and new frontiers.
Four in the morning band practice
Where the kitchen was filled with
Jaw harps and nose flutes and ukuleles.
She hated the fact that the string bassist
Parked right in front of the fridge.

Sun-drenched days of exploring
And picking mulberries from the
Fallen tree at the creek.
They tried to make pen ink from it,
Once.

Dreams of open mic nights with
Milkshake stouts and summer sweat
But never once complaining
Because the air felt so electric
And full with the sound of kindred souls.
Place closed down since then,
But she won't forget the time she was
Asked to stay on stage when her set was done.

Maybe they're all romanticized, but
These memories stick like push pins
In her mind, in her heart.
There was something more authentic
About it all -
All those days of watching
Fireworks and fireflies.
Something real, and true.
Something changed, shifted in the universe.

Maybe it was her.
Guess I'm stumbling down memory lane, tonight.
Jimmy King Nov 2013
I wanna keep dancing on your stage
Please don't turn off the lights
Please don't go home quite yet
Because I've missed these notes you play
And I've missed
Each one of you
The drummer, the singer, the bassist...

Sometimes I'm just sitting in school
Thinking of those somehow long-
Passed summer nights
Where we'd pick up the tempo
Or maybe just slow down
Trying to lose track of time
In the back of your car and
Where'd the amp go?
Where did you go?
Infamous one Jan 2014
My family has music in our blood
My grandpa lead singer and bassist in his band
An uncle who plays keyboard
A cousin who djs another cousin who plays drums
Ive tried starting bands working on solo projects
Lyrics and sounds I cant replicate from my mind to others ears
I know the counts got the tempos I just want everything to mesh together
I realize ill never move up at work they cut managers and leads
So I really need to do something with my writing
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
great bands
are the ones with
the rhythm section having
a lot of fun... esp. the bass player
(tool / red hot chilli peppers -
because i could never catch the bass line
in metallica after the original bassist died,
except in two songs: my friend of misery
and devil's dance),
makes it a befitting continuity of jazz,
not just the boorish: let the solo guitarist
invoke the soprano and have all the fun...
******* that one too?
no wonder air guitar came about.
i mean... i wrote an essay
in music class once about the caribbean
and wrote nothing about bob marley, i know;
it was so good i got the prize
of having vouchers for the bookstore w.h. smith
and got myself a book.
otherwise? learning music in a catholic school?
well just a bunch of keyboards on the desks,
you’d think kraftwerk was at work
styling a revival of the bouncy wet biscuit dance
allowing these epileptics into the club
without a warning sign: strobe lights!
Lexander J Dec 2015
Guided by beer light down moonlit streets
pockets stuffed with stale tobacco and receipts,
pariahs of the night, queens of the teen-age
attacking their youth in a drug fuelled rage

shaking their bodies 'neath schizophrenic lights
a typical night filled with hatred and fights,
the bloodlust was fun, a midnight boogie,
danger both caustic and infectiously groovy

girls all wearing dresses too small for their *****
disk jockeys playing electro-pop to please the masses -

#WAM!#

#BAM!#

#OH YEA, OH MAN!!!#

like raving corsairs they arrived; guitars lean, leather jackets sublime

o'behold the rip-roarin' Raven's Clandestine

["People ARE YOU READY?!"]

they played rock that growled in your ears
snazzy lyrics metaphorical tears,
indulging in passion, ***, alcohol and heavy drugs
dismissing dire warnings with cockily executed shrugs

swaggering to blistering tunes in front of the crowds
singing songs '******-*****' and 'Rebel-Tastic' obnoxiously proud,
falling in love on the stage, falling in love in their beds,
adorning their wild hair with tassels and threads

blissfully ignorant they simply didn't care
wanted to do what they want, alas life ain't that fair -

the bassist met a rogue *****, contracted ***

the guitarist lost his sight, carried on playing though he couldn't see,

the drummer lost his cool and battered a fan
found high on *******, for 10 years locked away more than

and the lead singer, with his hip swagger 'n jive,
suffered a massive stroke, upon the stage in a screeching solo he died

[he hides his sinister within songs
died gazing at *******-clad chicks in fluorescent thongs]


promising to be legends they rocked the 1970's ambiguous nation

alas their substance abuse and ****** desires had already cursed them to damnation.
Anthony B Clark May 2014
And now,
The end.
The time has come.
Some will walk, & Some will run.
Sour rice and waterbugs.
We just ain't finished til we're done.
Walk along the golden? Sure!
Shop to shop,
           &
Store to store.
Searching for some cheap manure
We found some, but we kneed some more.
People walk, &
People talk
Too. One another, one's a lover,
But the other ******* isn't just my only brother, but my bassist, and my drummer.
Ha
Ha
Ha
**.
Nathan Klein Sep 2011
Half&Hal;;

Simply, half and half
makes a universe in a cup,
filled with cream and milk.
Know not what it is
but know what it is
not, and where it is,
(and if you dare)
know why it is.

Really, the bassist plays,
His universe is in a cup
filled with groove and rhythm,
he knows what that is.
He knows what it is not,
where it is found,
and why it is.
(and he does dare)

Simply, to know the contents
of your cup of half and half,
to spill it out and fill it up
again, ponder its past,
present,
and future.

Really, to know the music
that flies from your arms,
to hold them out and raise them up
again, ponder the chords,
  rhythm,
and progression.

Simply, you miss out.

Really,

You miss out.
Inspired by a metaphor told to me by a friend told to her by a genius.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
the last few days have been strangely warm for december,
there’s a bit of fog, the foxes do their usual weekly scouting
while people take out the trash and the foxes nibble into black bin bags,
it’s been warm, and foggy, and the perfume in the air
is like inside a barn where smoked salmon come from:
pungent sweet & smoky; almost like that tokaji flavoured whiskey,
where a pole sniffed a glass, and a russian looked real deep into
the glass to philosophise what wisdom came from that forgotten
shamanism.*

as i was expecting, thus it came into my *****:
the full roundabout u-turn,
the contestants sang their hearts out, i listened,
the overbearing presence to keep rhythm in
modern music with crescendo after drum & bass
to slower rhythm of dub step like that maverick
anonymity that’s distance, vex’d and burial...
it had to come, no longer content with ensuring the
drums keep the rhythm, the missing bass in metallica
after the original bassist’s tragedy, i.e. just
a massive ha ha aha ha (sneeze insertion) hush,
it had to culminate in operatic pop music...
i spotted four lungs worth of breath with that blonde cutie...
(death cab for cutie - soul meets body, great song)
it’s so ****** ballistic, there’s no underlying originality
with these vocals that can be expected rhythm guitar and bass,
there’s no easily recognisable signature monotone,
it’s just a massive crowd pleaser to test the vocal range...
which is a shame... i’m just watching air-guitar all the ****** time,
it’s pretty much all solo moments with those air-balloons
filled up with helium rather than carbon dioxide that flop
and dangle like male genitalia...
it’s a shame, i want recognisable rhythm vocals...
and i also want a geneticist to write me a genetics formula
of how man became ~99% ape arrangement
and “~98%” genetic structure of rice... i want the equation,
i don’t want the aesthetic crap of the easiest explanation:
mandible thumbs you see... no, i don’t want that
to antagonise religious groups who can be easily duped,
i want a serious carbohydrate relevant transition equation
of the genetic re-arrangement.
JDK Oct 2014
I grew up watching my parents reduce themselves to their bassist.
Oops, that's a typo:
They are not musicians.
Debasement, so crass.
Humiliation on full blast.
But I guess it's a fairly common thing to dread family vacations.

My mom can't take the hint.
She can't tell when we're disinterested.
My dad talks a bunch of crazy **** despite who might be listening.

There's an unspoken comraderie amongst us siblings.
We're all in this together.
We fight our inherited,
unwanted,
self-destructive tendencies.
When I lose a battle I can always count on them to make me feel better.

Two have found ther wings.
They flew away from this place.
One soars high,
but I fear the other found himself another cage.

It's okay, I think.
I mean, I think he'll be okay.
As for us remaining two,
we're slowly making our way.
Our way out, is what I mean.
It's what I meant to say.

This nest hasn't been kept very warm,
but I guess it's still a home.
With two featherless,
flightless birds to deal with;
I'm glad I didn't have to go it alone.
Jocular tone, serious subject. I shudder to think where I'd be without them.
KV Srikanth Mar 2021
The Beatles
with their Staple
Abbey road and Apple
Took the world by storm
Listening to them became a norm

Allman brothers
With or without Duanne
Greatest guitarist of all time
Second In that line
Every chord and riff
Rock music bliss

Jethrotull farmers name
Century later adopted the same
Progressive rock band
From England
Worldwide name and fame

Grateful dead a lifestyle
Following them a matter of pride
Defenition of Counterculture
Ken Kesey and Acid trips
Different music  at different gigs
Live concerts filled the year
From the Vaults into the Hearts

Every fans first doorway
Plant and Page gifted
Song of the century
Rendered with no hurry
The Stairway to heaven
Rock music destination
Nine Albums of Led Zeppelin

Music band called
Themselves The Band
Cover of Time Magazine
Represented  of the Rock Scene
Last Waltz on Thanksgiving
Their Music still ringing

Santana name and Band
Guitar his magic wand
Black magic woman
The world fell for that one
Added the Mexican blend
Helped create A legend

John Mayall ear for music
Matched ear for talent
Godfather of future legends
In his line up at the same time

Walt Becker and Donald Fagen
Rock and Jazz band
Steely Dan
Used Sessions musicians
A  musical revolution
Antiheroes of the Seventies
Christened by the Rolling stone magazine
Two against nature
Album of the year
Grammy in Order

Slow hand and Eric Clapton
Names dont go hand in hand
Greatest guitarist of the generation
Clapton is God
Phrase invented
Headlined many a group
Blind Faith Cream to name a few

Traffic Quatret
Band dissolved
Music evolved
Break up in line up
No low in music flow
Winwood and Capaldi in tow

Emerson lake and Palmer
Formerly of The Nice King Crimson and Atomic Rooster
Isle of Wight
Showcased their might
Together for the decade
Their albums  the most bootlegged

No Record collection devoid
The Albums of Pink Floyd
Every Studio Albums sold
Multiple platinum to behold
Live Concerts and Lighting
Divine in music and vision
Most popular in Music history
Their position in the charts
Tells the story
Made their date with history
Berlin wall a sign of division
Their song the Anthem of Unification
Popularity and longevity
A very few can hope
Change of tastes in
Generations fewer can cope

Creedence clearwater revival
John Fogerty and his brother
Joined hands with two other
War in Vietnam
Protesting in Album form
Words mightier than Swords
Lyrics heightened Crisis
Washington's biggest
Musical nemesis

Crosby Stills Nash and Young
All star team of talents
That sung
Dallas Taylor on the Drums
Dream team of Music
Created Classics

Justin Hayward and his Flute
Together formed the Moody blues
Anyone in love and suffering
Found their feelings expressed in
Nights in white Satin
Played in every household
Across the Globe

Best Drummer seated
Difference between two beats
The fastest
Keith Moon and The Who
Loudest Band in history
Equipment destroyed after
A new legacy
Greatest singer in Daltery
Greatest Bassist in Entwhistle
Lost Moon lost their muscle

Rainbow theater Concert
Earned them the Guinness record
Globes loudest band
Psychedelic and Progressive
For decades active
100 million records worldwide
Gods of heavy metal
The pride for any record label
The music of Deep Purple

The power trio
Formed in Ontario
Rush the band
Complex and fantasy
Hand in hand
Every member A winner
Every poll on Every Book
Proficient with Instrument
Volume of their talent
Topped the charts
Captured hearts
Active for  years
Till tragedy stuck Peart

Jefferson Airplane
Before name change
Summer of love
Defined by
Surrealistic Pillow
Headlined Woodstock
And Montery pop
Every list by Rolling Stone magazine
Names carved for eternity

Uriah Heep
Fictional in Copperfield
Written by Dickens
Real in music
Formed in England
5 decades and 24 Albums
Strived for originality
Showcased their capability
Arena sized stadiums
Still filled to capacity
45 million records
Enduring popularity

Eagles from California
Critical and Commercial
Success in their formula
Top of the Charts and Grammy Awards
Back to back
Very few can hope for

Drummer and Bassist
Names combined
To name the band
Fleetwood Mac
Albums and Singles
Topped the Charts
Both sides of the Atlantic
Covers of their songs
Made many Superstars
Performed together on the occasion
Of the inauguration of
President Bill Clinton


Jim Morrison the lizard king
freedom for humanity his dream
Voice and rendition a class apart
Every song an anthem
Kindred spirit at the very core
With Ray Robbie and John formed The Doors
Alex McQuate Jan 2018
The heros were at a crossroads once again,
But a much different one from the time before,
This one was one where they had not been,
And one they would end up not all traveling along the same path.

The Drummer and the Bassist pleaded for the Frontman to see reason,
That the path he chose only would lead to ruin,
But with the spider whispering its words their pleas fell upon deaf ears.

It is here that the Frontman struck it out alone,
Feeling betrayed upon their refusal to join him on this path.

He was alone now,
With only the spider for company,
Too blinded to it all to realize the dangers upon the road he went.
Act 4- Ypres
Scene 5- Crossroads II
Alex McQuate Jul 2017
It had followed him for most of his life,
Sitting patiently,
Waiting still,
For the Spider knew it would eventually get it's chance,
A cruel judgment bestowed upon him by the fates.

The Spider's legs were long,
It's beady eyes glistening,
Milky venom dripping from a maw of  nasty little teeth,
Shivering with anticipation,
For soon it would be time to strike,
And then it would finally feast.

To our hero's who were celebrating,
To the spider they were completely unaware,
Hiding amongst the guests,
Some of them the Spider had been feeding on for years,
But now it was time for a new dish.

The Bassist had turned in early,
The Drummer in another room,
The Spider closed in on the lone Frontman,
Who defenceless and alone was introduced to his doom.
Act 3- Ascension
Scene 5- Along came a Spider
Àŧùl Nov 22
I play my electric guitar on my amp,
Then there's a drum sampler,
And I sing & scream okay,
But without the bassist,
I feel like I go commando.

Fellows commented long ago,
"Without the bass guitar,
Your song feels hollow."
I looked for any bassist,
Here & there but to no avail.

What I ultimately found out,
Many play the Axe,
But none a bass,
Nobody plays it, not the bass,
And my best songs sound hollow.
My HP Poem #2029
©Atul Kaushal
Alex McQuate May 2017
They traveled together,
The passionate group of three,
They stop at a bar to catch their breath.

The Bassist was quiet quiet and aloof,
His lack of words offset by the weight of each one,
On the rare occasion when he'd throw in his two cents,
His sound was emotional and true,
He spoke without speaking,
With tired eyes,
And a half crooked smile.
He drank a Guinness from a clean pint glass.


Next was the Drummer,
Bobbing his head to a tempo only he could hear,
His sound and energy was like a locomotive engine when he gained momentum,
He would play through a ten minute intermission if let to his own devices.
His eyes were as sharp as a hawk,
Darting to and fro,
His expression of a not-quite-there-frown,
More of a look of constant boredom.
He drank some pale beer that was probably half watered down to start with from a dingy glass.

And at last we have the Man,
Who was now the Frontman,
With a well-worn guitar,
He was dedicated, but haunted by the fear of failure,
But fear can still be used to fuel a sound,
Adding an edge of importance to his words,
His eyes are closed, however, to better concentrate on the sound coming from the old and battered jukebox,
A blank face is his,
Indecipherable to even those who knew him best,
He drank a bottle of something local,
From a bottle,
With just a pinch of salt.
Here is the opener for Act 2.

Act II- Discovery
Scene 1- Roster
Margo May Nov 2014
my constant corner
is at the back
on the elevated platform
next to the drums
where there is just enough room for
the drummer
and the bassist.
where there is just enough room for
the drummer
and me.

your normal nook
is at the front
of the regular stage
between the keys and electric
where there is plenty of space for
the vocalists and
the guitarists.
where there is plenty of space for
you.

it's as if we're separated
by a musical fence
we're never placed next to each other
because it just wouldn't make sense,
but i guess last wednesday
was the exception.

i arrived early and you were already there
you told me that we'd be next to each other, how rare!

we talked
we tuned
we plugged in
and very soon
we were playing music.

we ran through the set list
which consisted
of three songs,
we exchanged smiles
all the while
we kept the music going strong.

at one point
during the bridge
of song two,
you needed help with the chords
and it was really loud
so i leaned in close to you.

i yelled the note names
as my fiery fingers played through
the progression,
your eyes said it all
and deciding to fake it
was your confession.

later on-
i continued to help with chords
you kept me from being bored
you smiled at me
when we
returned to that bridge.

at the end-
to the stage our team returned
and that is when i learned
as the pastor closed in prayer
that maybe you do care...

looking at me
you held your arm out
wanting me to join you at your side.

and so i did.
memories at church with my best friend <3
sage eugene zumr Nov 2018
never knowin what service was the best  
always tearing at my chest
demons never resting from this quest
it upsets me to be tested by the devil
and his army of complexion
its definite id rather death
then to be seen as someone
who cant stretch out a hand
and contest like this man lets
god and his ****** pests
always want fraud from a lambs vest
famous rappers got fan checks
makin me look upset and i cant rest
so i build the feat with concealed release
talkin matrix never made it in them seas
im always kickin with the bassist
and he breaks it like a beast
tension in the room
it always seems

— The End —