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Cori MacNaughton Aug 2015
Here is the inimitable Jeff Buckley's poem, "My New Year's Eve Prayer," which he performed live at Sin-é in Manhattan, NYC, in 1996.


"You, my love, are allowed to forget
about the Christmas you just spent stressed out in your parents' house.

You, my love, are allowed to shed the weight
of all the years before,
like bad disco clothes.
Save them for a night of dancing ****** with your lover.

You, my love, are allowed to let yourself drown
every night in bottomless wild and naked symbolic dreams.

You, my love, in sleep can unlock your youth
and your most terrifying magic;
and dreaming is for the courageous.

You, my love, are allowed to grab my guitar
and sing me idiot love songs
if you've lost your ability to speak.
Keep it down to two minutes.

You, my love, are allowed to rot and to die
and to live again,
more alive and incandescent than before.

You, my love, are allowed to beat the **** out of your television,
choke it's thoughts and corrupt its mind.
****! ****! ****! **** the *******
before the song of zombiefied pain
and panic and malaise
and it's narrow right-winged vision
and it's cheap commercial gang ****
becomes the white noise of the world.

Turn about is fair play.

You, my love, are allowed to forgive and love your television.

You, my love, are allowed to speak in kisses
to those around you
and those up in heaven.

You, my love, are allowed to show your babies
how to dance full bodied,
starry eyed, audacious, supernatural and glorified.

You, my love, are allowed to **** in every single endeavor.

You, my love, are allowed to be soaked like a lovers' blanket
in the New York summertime
with the wonder of your own special gift.

You, my love, are allowed to receive praise.

You, my love, are allowed to have time.

You, my love, are allowed to understand.

You, my love, are allowed to love.

Woman, disobey,
when little men believe;

You, my love, are Rebellion."
For Hello Poetry user "Jeff Buckley":

While I agree that musician Jeff Buckley's lyrics are poetic, and often reach the level of true poetry, here is one of his actual poems, never set nor intended to be set to music.  

It is a ****** good poem,  touching on a number of subjects near and dear to my heart, which strongly resonates with me.

For the record, I have come only recently to the music of Jeff Buckley, within the past year, through my wonderful and musically adept husband Marek.  Buckley's music has moved me far more than that of most other singer/songwriters, save only for Steven Wilson, Mariusz Duda and Nick Drake.  He and I shared a lot of influences in common, from old 1920s blues and jazz, to pop standards, French music, classical and early British rock and progressive rock.  His first and only studio album released during his lifetime, "Grace," is not to be missed.

Sadly, he drowned at the age of 30, accidentally or otherwise, robbing us all of his incredible gift.  Not only was he an amazing songwriter, but a fine guitarist and, most of all, an incredible vocalist.  He had not only an amazing vocal range, but as mentioned a widely divergent source of influences, lending to some truly transcendent music and lyrics.  

RIP Jeff Buckley.  You are sorely missed.

For those interested in seeing his performance of the poem, which shows what a humble guy he was, you can find it here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=duoujUI--Mo
T Jones Aug 2014
Not a poem but in protest of flagging truth about racism in Traverse City, Michigan


Traverse City, Michigan: Racism is still alive and well in our area.

We weren't always welcoming
Cross burning's (City of Traverse City, MI)
I'm born and raised in Traverse City, Michigan and still living in the same neighborhood where I grew up. I can remember when blacks were not welcome in most parts of town and the one or two around were military visitors.

We had two known cross burning incidents. One back in the late 80's or early 90's the other was around 1924, ******* groups like Ku Klux **** was behind both cross burning incidents. I found old articles on the earlier one but someone is trying hard to white wash history of Traverse City by hiding evidence of the most resent one. Ones like me who were there remember those dark days like it was yesterday. It don't bode well for tourism or the Cherry Festival if there's a record of racism in our city.

Copy pasting one two different retelling of story reported by our sometimes biased Record Eagle articles regarding the first and and will continue to dig for the other one.

January 31, 2009
KKK was active in early '20s

The 1924 bombings and cross burnings in downtown Traverse City were not the first **** activity in northern Michigan.

The Record-Eagle reported flaming crosses in the Mancelona area on Aug. 1, 1923, a full year before. Six weeks later, Traverse City commissioners refused the **** permission to hold a Sept. 17 open-air meeting at the corner of Front and Cass.

About 300 people showed up anyway and marched to a vacant lot west of Front and Union after the unidentified property owner gave permission, carefully noting that it "did not commit him to any relationship with the organization," the newspaper said.

The Record-Eagle also passed on information from an identified **** source in its Sept. 17 report:

Two, maybe three organizers had worked for weeks in Traverse City. About 150 Traverse City men from "among the leading citizens" had joined. An open-air ritual with the traditional fiery cross burning on a hillside would be held "sometime but not yet" in or near Traverse City, and it would be "merely a part of the **** ceremonies and have no special significance."

People who expected to see hooded men in white robes performing rites at the Sept. 17 rally were bound to be disappointed, the paper said. A new state law banned wearing masks in public. It also would be difficult to tell how many in the audience were KKK members because "every person who has signed the Ku Klux card has pledged to keep his membership an absolute secret."


Traverse City, Michigan wasn't always welcoming to people of color.


Traverse City Record-Eagle

February 1, 2009
Ku Klux **** terrorizes TC in 1924

KKK cross burnings, explosions rock city

By LORAINE ANDERSON
Black History Month has special significance, since it begins fewer than two weeks after the nation's historic inauguration of its first black president, Barack Obama.

But there are parts of that history that Traverse City, like the rest of the nation, would rather forget. The city never had a large black population, but it did not escape a visit from the Ku Klux **** during a frightening night of downtown explosions and cross burnings on Aug. 9, 1924.

Traverse City has never seen anything like that night of terror. Buildings shook. Store windows cracked and shattered. Houses as far away as 16th Street quaked, the Record-Eagle reported.

And though outside agitators were blamed, some local people may have been involved.

It started about 8 p.m. after three explosions went off across the river from the Lyric Theatre, where the State is today.

The crowd at the Lyric all but stampeded toward the door as women and children screamed. Panicked shoppers spilled out of downtown stores. City police phones jangled with alarm.

A large cross burned on the north side of the Boardman River near Cass Street. About 50 smaller burning crosses appeared almost simultaneously at the centers of intersections across the city. Each was crudely nailed together and swathed in oil-soaked rags. Sparks flew when several cars struck them. A city fire truck raced through town to douse flames.

Then, a "touring car" with four men, robed and hooded, though not masked, slowly trolled down Front Street carrying a sign surrounded by red flares blazing three letters: KKK.

Copies of the Ku Klux **** newspaper, "The Fiery Cross," later were found downtown, and police determined that at least two cars were involved in planting and lighting the crosses.

**** leaders called the explosions and flaming crosses a recruiting gimmick, but it was more than that. The 1920s was a reactionary time in the United States. The **** had risen again, starting in 1915, widening its anti-black focus to Jews, Catholics and immigrants, particularly those from southeastern Europe. Its membership was strongest in Illinois, Indiana and Ohio.

The ****'s most powerful year was 1924, when it reached an all-time high of 5 million members nationwide and virtually controlled the government of Indiana. Its most popular slogan was "100 percent pure American."

The **** had a solid base of support in Michigan. The **** fielded two candidates in the Republican gubernatorial primary in 1924 and a ****-backed candidate was elected mayor of Flint. A write-in **** candidate even made a strong showing in a Detroit mayoral race.

In June 1924, 1,000 men joined the KKK in an Oakland County cross burning attended by about 8,000 people. Traverse City's demonstration took place just two months later. But who was really behind it?

"There is some doubt among the authorities as to whether the offenses were actually committed by local people or men from outside. They believe that local people were associated in the affair," the Record-Eagle reported.

An unidentified spokesman for the local **** denied responsibility, speculating that it was the work of **** enemies or rogue Klansmen. He told the Record-Eagle that the **** repudiated terror tactics and burning of "unwatched crosses."

Two weeks after the bombing, city police obtained felony and misdemeanor arrest warrants accusing Ku Klux **** organizer Basil Carleton of Richmond, Ind., of setting off explosives. Indiana police arrested him on Aug. 29.

Witnesses testified in two trials in December and January that Carleton had purchased 25 pounds of dynamite, fuses and three caps from Hannah & Lay Mercantile Co. about two hours before the explosions. A Park Place Hotel clerk said he saw Carleton hurrying away from the direction of the explosions about 10 minutes later. Two **** members testified that Carleton was not at the scene.

Yet he was never convicted. Juries acquitted him in both cases because the prosecutor could not prove to their satisfaction that he was at the scene of the explosion or that he personally set off the dynamite.

The bomber escaped justice. But the good news was that in Traverse City, no night of terror like that happened again.

It was this event that sparked the cross burning in Traverse City. We had only one black family in our city, when Betty Ponder and her family left Traverse City for the first time due to no one wanting to rent to them, population of blacks in our predominately white city drop to zero.


******* Movement Targets Northern Michigan

by Robert Downes

National Alliance advocates the creation of "two Americas"

Traverse City, Mich., noted primarily for its beaches, tourists and cherry pie values, appears to be erupting as a national battleground of opinion over the ******* movement, with forces on both sides of the issue coming out of the woodwork to vent their outrage over racial issues.
On Thursday, June 5, residents along stretches of Washington and Front streets in town came home to find a slick package of information from the National Alliance hanging from their doorknobs. An outgrowth of the American **** Party, the National Alliance is a ******* group which advocates the creation of "two Americas," one of which would be "White Space only with no Jews or blacks." The Alliance, advocates genocidal practices if need be to achieve its goals, and plans to distribute 1,000 information packets in Northern Michigan.

Protest organized to oppose July "NordicFest"
The incident arose only a day after more than 150 people from throughout Northern Michigan gathered at a "Hate-Free TC" meeting to oppose the NordicFest, a skinhead rock festival sponsored by the Ku Klux ****, to be held at a secret location 20 miles south of town, July 3-6.
The NordicFest is being advertised on the Internet and will feature at least six skinhead bands featured on Stormfront Records and Resistance Records -- both of which are purveyors of neo-**** hate music. It will also reportedly feature speakers from the Ku Klux **** and Aryan Nations.

Thus far, the NordicFest's location has been a closely-kept secret by David Neumann of Bloodbond Enterprizes, the concert organizer and a former director of the Michigan Knights of the Ku Klux ****. Neumann has told local media that 300 tickets have been sold for the concert -- about half the number he expects to sell. Reportedly, concertgoers will be provided with maps to the secret location at a checkpoint.

Bands expected to play at the NordicFest include Intimidation One, Aggravated Assault, Blue Eyed Devils, Max Resist and the Hooligans, and No Alibi.

Local churches offering seminars on the ******* movement and the importance of diversity
GATHERING STORM

Journalists have made inquiries on the NordicFest from as far away as London, New York and Colorado as a result of the Northern Express story circulating on the Internet. A segment for National Public Radio is expected to take the issue nationwide, possibly focusing the world's attention on Traverse City on the eve of the National Cherry Festival -- an event which draws more than half a million visitors, many of them from ethnic minorities.
"We're creating a rainbow ribbon that we hope everyone will wear in rejection of skinheads and the ****," said Rabbi Stacey Fine of Hate-Free TC. "We hope to have hundreds of ribbons during the time the **** is here, available from downtown merchants."

Fine says the group also hopes to march in the National Cherry Royale Parade with a three-by-eight-foot banner covered with thousands of signatures in a show of support for racial and cultural diversity. Thus far, Cherry Festival officials say they have received no applications from Hate-Free T.C., but will consider the request if approached.

Dottie Kye of Hate-Free TC says the group doesn't plan to try stopping the NordicFest despite their opposition ot the concert. "We're ignoring it," Kye says. "We celebrate anyone's right to organize and free speech. But our thing is unity and celebrating diversity." In addition to several church seminars on the ******* movement and the importance of diversity, Hate-Free TC is organizing a three-day "Unity Festival" which will feature dozens of musicians, artists, poets, actors and peace activists at the Traverse City Opera House, July 3-6.

Concert organizers Tim Hall and Tom Emmott say that more than 40 musical acts will send a pro-diversity message to area teens, with performers including Willie Kye, Alright Already, John Greilick, Samantha Moore, the Motor Town Juke Boys, Bentley Filmore, the Sisters Grimm, and Lack of Afro, among many others. A concert with Fishbone is planned for later in the month.

"Even if the NordicFest doesn't happen, something positive is going to come of it because it gets people thinking about the prevention of violence"
THE TEEN CONNECTION

The Unity Fest counter-concert is seen as a vital tool in fighting the influence of the ******* movement on teens in the area. After the initial story broke, the buzz in local high schools was that the NordicFest would be offering free beer to minors. Although that notion is clearly erroneous, a small number of teens in the area still cling to the idea and have also been attracted by the rebellious nature of the skinhead rock scene.
Tim Hall believes that his Unity Fest concert will help turn that tide. The three-day concert will be located in the heart of Traverse City in the old City Opera House, with easy access for the hundreds of teens who hang out downtown, often with little to do. "Our message is going to be one that values racial and cultural diversity," Hall said. "And we've had a great response so far. We had to put a lid on the performers when we reached 40 acts, because everyone wants to play at this event."

The Unity Fest will also coincide with the Annual Reggie Box Memorial Blues Blast, which was created five years ago to bring the heritage of black music to Northern Michigan for the overwhelmingly white Cherry Festival. This year's Blues Blast will feature John Mayall, Marcia Ball and the Bihlman Bros. in a free concert downtown on July 6. The concert will also feature a strong message promoting diversity.

The law enforcement view Traverse City Police Chief Ralph Soffredine says members of the law enforcement community, including the State Police and sheriffs from Grand Traverse and Wexford counties, are taking a wait-and-see approach as to whether the NordicFest will even be held.

"People ask what we would do if the skinheads wanted to march, and it's our position that they have the same rights under the First Amendment as anyone as long as they're obeying the law," Soffredine said. "It's a neutral situation for us. We just want to maintain the peace."

He added that skinheads coming to Traverse City would be treated "no different than if longhairs come into town, or square dancers. We'd certainly observe them and respond if there's trouble."

The chief noted that a similar event occurred in the Buckley area several years ago when several motorcycle gangs gathered for a rally. While the event was monitored by local police agencies, few people in the area knew that it occurred.

"Even if the NordicFest doesn't happen, something positive is going to come of it because it gets people thinking about the prevention of violence, which has become a serious problem in our community and our schools," he concluded. "The unfortunate thing is that it sometimes takes a ******* or a racial issue for people to get active."

"Sheriff Barr implies that people who have the courage to confront them will be put in jail."
ANGER FROM ACTIVISTS

Not everyone is happy with the neutral attitude of law enforcement. Judy Lowenzahn of Traverse City thinks that local police agencies should get tough on the **** concert, which has no legally-required bond or liquor license.
"These hateful groups are using skinhead music to recruit soldiers for their facist movement," Lowenzahn said. "If they are allowed to hold this event, in violation of local, state and federal laws and in violation of common decency, we will be capitve audience to their deranged homophobic, anti-semitic, racist, sexist ideology. Those who protest this message, along with those who are their scapegoats will be targets for hate crimes."

Lowenzahn upbraided Grand Traverse County Sheriff Barr after he made comments in a local paper that "I'd just as soon personally let them have their little event and be on their way." Barr added that if there was a confrontation between the skinheads and protestors, "there's going to be someone in jail."

"Does Sheriff Barr suggest that people of color and others who don't fit the aryan model hide inside their homes for the holiday weekend?" Lowenzhan responded. "Rather than offer a plan to protect the community from the violence that grows whenever white supremecists do outreach, Sheriff Barr implies that people who have the courage to confront them will be put in jail."

Northern Michigan targeted because of the predominantly white population
KLUELESS

Up to now, the vast majority of Northern Michigan residents have been klueless on the **** and the ******* movement. Many, for instance, had no idea that there even was a Ku Klux **** operating in the region until Neumann revealed that there are about 60 members operating mostly as "a fraternal organization" between ******* and the Mackinac Bridge.
Similarly, the existence and agenda of the National Alliance is all-ne
Mike Hauser Jul 2014
This honey bee flew up to me

No idea from where he came

He said his name was Buckley

But I should call him Jeff all the same

Honey flowed from this honey bee

As he opened his mouth to sing

I've never tasted notes so sweetly

As the ones that came from the mouth of

Jeff Buckley
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
finding gravity on a bicycle...

surely... given that most people
don't write a ******* hemmingway...
and there's no william buckley jr.
doing the interview...
and there's no norman mailer...

and that: no one really bothers
with kierkegaard and that:
kant "famously" didn't marry starry crap...
why didn't i have kids
and start a family?
uh... dunno... mother's best lie...
or the best lie a neighbour brings
with her... whenever you're
being a 2nd witness without
the 1st witness being there...

and she says an "also" with regards
to her son having the same luck
with women...
when the comparison comes:
a koala bear versus a gorilla...
bonsai tiger!
like a koala is a ******* bear
to begin with...
cuddly soft-pouch toy-ah-thing!

but there's that great feat!
finding gravity on a bicycle...
my mother helped me with that...
and that famous fail of
a rotondo... well... more or less
a cricket ground egg shaped, oval...
or a rugby ball...
the shoulder on the salto bike
hard... rammed into a car....

as a child you were supposedly well
loved...
and this is modern poo'etry i hear about?
here's to: john sounding like johny...
will sounding like *****...
richard sounding like: **** and not richy...
it's cute... matthew... matti: finnish...
leonard is: leo oh leo...
why art we all not named: Li Lo Po!

of course everyone managed to spot
the tetragrammaton vowel catchers that's
hey'zeus! no... not the bloke strapped
to the mannequin of tailoring...
oh no... not the crucifix pendulum
"for us all"... by blood... by cross...
who is to exfoliate on the crucifix...
better than some well scouted for materials
on a mannequin canvas for tailoring
a suit?
the guilt?! oh the guilt!
well... thank god this metaphysician would
never address the material realm of
enjoying a... dabble with... wool...
when donning a suit...
or leather shoes... or any presence of suede...
beside the crucifix mannequin: replica
and pittance!

- but finding gravity on a bicycle is one thing...
finding gravity when swimming is another...
it's called gravity...
but some heretical circles call it:
balance...
after all... it is both gravity...
and balance... given that while riding
a bike... or swimming...
you're pretty much sure, assured:
to not be falling...

you can find gravity with newtonian hindsight...
of sure...
that's there... it involves the magicians orbs...
copernican mathematics and...
target practice when it comes to
propaganda spew...
and Steward... the lesser... Stew...
cousin of the house of Stuart...
not Steward... Stuart...
which is (again)...
a McKiteit and MacCoddlewit...
some Glaswegian *****-donor clinic
"miss-up" mix-it: tend to...
lounging busy... which is of course...
besides the "look"...

5 bazookas cleared for a salvo!
hip hip! burger-pound!
hip hip! boom shizzle shoom!
hip hip! hooray!
oh now we'z getz uz best
partay birth doy wishy-washy
"protagonists"!

but given the current Persian affair...
i couldn't help to notice...
love actually... the narrative...
the u.s.a. and england...
the Z-spezial re-la-tion-ship...

so... who's spastic... and who's fantastic?!
spaz: B-bristolian-esque joking...
never aside...
who's the spaz and who's the frizzy-fuss?!

spe-zial mother russia talks down
to dog Kiev: yes, it's in (the) Ukraine...
spezial iz not what iz?

h'america... kept a yorkshire terrier...
media leetches of england
firmly in its grasp...
cuz onez we woz: once -
the militia contra the crown...
of north virginia...

coz b'rah: a 79-year-old man
who lit himself on fire protesting
against russia's language policies
in the capital of the volga region
of udmurtia has died;
name? alberto raisin...
which sounds terrible in its
non-native spanish...

but there's something worth of gravity
without debating
the heliocentric model...
finding one's balance on a bicycle...
a posteriori events...
but... the same balance can be
translated into a swimming session...

my god my father tried to teach me...
if i was supposed to learn
to swim in the sea...
with the fear: of not seeing the depth?
isn't that like a thesaurus
congestion of: acrophobia?
isn't there a word in the borrowed
lexicon of the ancient greeks...
concerning... fearing to swim in a body
of water... where you can't see the bottom?
i could learn to swim in a swimming
pool... thankfuly all because and due to...
moi...

i also found gravity in water...
i could... lie in water and become...
the antithesis of: the body consists
of 90% of water...
yes sherlock watson & sons... ltd...
but in water i'm mostly fat...
if i find the right balance...
i float...
which is why swimming is a bit
like riding a bicycle...
you find: the center...
or gravity...

again... in this special "relationship"
of bruv-love...
between h'america and whittle brit-pop interlude...
oasis on the continent...
my my... blur, even...
breakfast at tiffany's back in the dough-dough-us...
who is the ******* SPASTIC?
in this "SPEZIAL" relationship?
i guess the english must be the SPEZIALS...

a bit like watching:
go-go-gonzales trip up on a spelling mistake...
which is all i care for...
like a comedia...
a deviation from the informal, later,
subject of language implementation...
and all this peacocking prior...

where else does gravity allow itself...
a presence of the multi-vector?
up and down... left and right...
it's not as easily explained as:
on a ledge... with an apple...
drop it... newton with a header!
a 1-all equalizer in stoppage time
an F.A. cup re-match!

gravity on a bicycle...
it's hardly a drop affair...
gravity in water...
it's hardly merely swimming...
there's that aspect of finding... buoyancy...
there's not need for you to swim...
to exhert so much effort...
that you might as well drown 10 meters
in after swimming the 'undred...

no buoyancy: no chinese fortune cookies...
i still don't know which is more grand...
beside the acrobatics of... olympic level
acrobatics...

it's not bound to youth via lifting weights...
or supreme mao tse tung's winter olympics
of: hunger strikes in Vinter...
the gravity bound to a bicycle...
or the gravity bound to swimming...
after all... the latter is a bit "funny"...

"levitation" and buoyancy...
the dracula soundtrack:
only because of gary oldman and the composer
wojciech kilar... and the given, current...
b.b.c. spin-off and how...
yes... it's that terrible...
i don't even know where those five-stars
came from!
the archetype of feminine romance novels?
the syphilitic lover? the "vampire"?

yes, no? two guesses as good as: nein - keiner...
and, quiet honestly...
nothing could make this exercise in:
not engaging in any of all the available
comments sections on any website...
any worse... than it already is...

it comes as no surprise that: i write this poo'ems
not because i don't write poetry...
but because i will neither write
a poem by standards reserved for
pedagogy or demagogy...
or write identifiable puzzle-bog-trots of...
language reserved for politicization:
and not for... counter-marxist...
"psychiatric" post-...
hardly modern or... "today's journalism"...
eh... pushing it toward a Beckett-clause...
concerning language that is not expected...
oh but i certainly do know
a difference between formal language
and... this... the informal language...
the cognitive extension that does not
require a "free speech" protection bias...

none of this was spoken...
it was seen...
weaved into "thinking"...
that's the difference... isn't it?
from my end of the tenniscourt "promenade"
i've heard nothing but clickick...
off this dead-end replica piano
of a qwer
asdf
zxcvbnm

unless my shadow spoke... or there was some
telepathic connection
with the schizoid "group-think" of me
sourcing my sometime odd...
cognitive-murmors of "thought"...
"hallucinations"...
so be it...

this defence of a freedom of speech...
how does that even extend into writing?
i will never know...
and to be honest? i don't want to know...
writing is an extension of thinking...
which is also an inversion of speaking...
but it's never speaking...
where's the audio on this piece?!

how about... plucking your eyes out,
after fating yourself with the
original curiosity to begin with?
sounds better: than... what still persists as...
not being, said!

this was written, it wasn't said...
this is not a transcript...
this is not a transcript...
if this is censored...
then my... "schizophrenia" is not even
my original thesis of: bogus
mono-lingual parody of bilingualism...
no need to cite **** sapiens
jurisprudence advocates...
lawyers... the thesaurus bargain barons etc.
this is... what's those words they use?
invasion of the tabernacle?
do my "auditory hallucinations" stem from...
these words...
a private investement in internet access...
again: nothing is being said!
because this is a "public arena"...
a "forum"...
and the eyes on the other side of this text...
are c.c.t.v. eyes?!
not private eyes?

what's the point of freedom of speech?
when the freedom to think:
and subsequently write... is bombarded
by being who: see via reading braille...
and read... comments likes dislikes and all
those other ratios?

writing is an extension of a freedom
to think... most people who speak freely
don't speak via a precursor script...
that's not free speech: that's scripted speech!
and just because it happens be placed
in a public "forum"...
that's the argument that this writing
is a freedom of "speech"?!
really?! i guess your average u.s. citizen
is more despotic than the *******
president... then...

again.. blah blah blah blah blah...
blah blah.... blah blah blah blah blah...
blah... blah blah... blah blah blah blah blah blah...

you'd sooner convince a parrot to sing
you a song in sparrow than call this "debate"...
evenly focused on one or neither side "winning".
Braxton Reid Nov 2016
The rain makes me ache with memories
Black coffee, your books, and my singing
You were something borrowed
I was something blue
Honestly, the rain reminds me of you

In spring I drank mostly wine
Listened to Buckley all the time
Constantly pestered you with the knowledge I held
Of a poet that was six feet under and very pale

But you'd listen

And in a sweeping moment I knew
There may never be a love like you
Your art spoke of this type of entanglement
And it seemed by the pictures it strangles quick

Yet, the world felt softer now I think it through
Because I'd rather go back than sit here and brew
This coffee taste black, cold, and shrew
This isn't what reminds me of you
Michael Kusi Aug 2018
President Reagan sat by himself in the White House
Trying to understand what had happened.
He heard his wife scream
What have you done with my husband?
I want the real Ronnie back!
He sighed.
This is what happens when you listen to experts.
Reagan had been in debates before.
From Kennedy to Brown to Buckley to Carter.
He did it his way.
He won his way.
Reagan always liked stories and humor.
Details and data, not so much.
He always thought that statistics don’t feed people.
Because people can’t eat an equation.

But the experts said that he should have more knowledge.
Reagan listened to them.
The thing was, it was too much knowledge.
And Reagan had to be president.
So when he debated, he was tired.
The youngest looking 73 year old man.
Just looked ancient at this point.
He held onto the podium
As if it had answers.
But the podium gave him nothing.




His actor’s instinct called up an old line.
There you go again.
It worked against Carter.
But Mondale neutralized it.
Mondale was good.
Not like Kennedy, who was more passionate.
He remembered Bobby very well.
He would have made a great president, if he had lived.
Or like Buckley, who had the scholarly instinct.
Because he read books when Reagan played football without a helmet.
Reagan defeated both of these men.
But he did not beat Mondale.
Because Mondale had answers for everything Reagan said.
Reagan pondered to himself.
I must have something for which Mondale does not have an answer.
I must make something that Mondale cannot answer.
But I cannot tell the experts.
They are nice people.
But they don’t know debate, I do.
So I can file it away.
It would be a break in case of emergency punchline.

The phone rang and it was Roger Ailes.
Ailes said, Mr. President you were not at your best.
But the sun will rise again.
Use a laugh line as your life line.
Rely on personal experiences, not dead data.
Remember Mr. President this is your re-election.
Reagan took that to heart.
And the second time around, Ronnie was back.
He grinned because this time it was fun.
But Mondale was still good.
And then the question came.

The question for which Ronnie was born.
It was about  President Kennedy’s working hours during crisis.
And if Reagan had the stamina to match Kennedy.
Reagan smiled.
It was time to pull out the joke.
He said, I will not make age an issue in this campaign.
I will not exploit for political purposes my opponent’s youth and inexperience.
Reagan delivered it perfectly.
And suddenly, he heard laughter
Laughter from the questioners.
Laughter from the audience.
Even laughter from Mondale.
Tears of laughter.
Reagan drank his water and smiled.
The Gipper scored a touchdown again.
And hit it out of the park.
If I were to paint you
I'd paint you in blue
And that would be you
Painted in blue
If I were to paint you
There'd be a moon
A great big old moon
Shining on you

There was this stranger
Someone I knew
Who promised to paint me
Paint me in blue
Love isn't easy
We seek and we find
Strangers and Painters
That leave us behind

Do you still remember Love?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mKCxpHFyJec
Marie-Lyne Nov 2017
Mashrou’ Leila will lead the revolution
Songs made in my country never fought the system
They never expressed what the youth wanted
or how they really felt about themselves
But their songs make us dream to the Marrikh
They give us a connection to reality in Fasateen
They expressed what the society of spectacle is in only 3 minutes
We could think about our ex in Ala babu
We are able to remember our country in Lel watan
How we always live in a state of exile in **** El-Khandaq
Manipulations In a daily life in Taxi
Grief and tough love in Abdo
Evolution and infinite surrenders in Wa Nueid
The barriers of language and sexuality in Kalaam
The devastating stages of a separation in Bahr
The closeness of strangers in Habibi
They are The Doors of our generation
They made crowds go crazy just like The Rolling Stones
But at the same time they were pure and melancholic just like Jeff Buckley
Thank you for keeping us alive in dark days and heavy nights
Your music will always give us new and unfamiliar feelings
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
who needs a giraffe
when you can **** a rhino?

elongated neck,
a smirk,
a take on being
the emblem of savvy...
the last of the worth
of 20 odd years...

jeff buckley:
before i hear your cry...
and i will hear
your cry: your *****!
you will cry! *****!
it's jeff buckley!
you will cry!

i don't want to,
but i will...
and i will because
i am not .i.am.
and because i...
want to & too...

i have more worth
of a heart,
yet i heave so much less
to incorporate
a tear to guarantee
be a bitten beat
of rhythm...
your:
my kiss my heart,
and the tooth nibbling
spare,
to be left in youth:
a promenade's worth
of a a spring's
and a promenade's
buckle scoop
for a squander...

     jeff buckley
would never become
a brandon lee..

          with such song on
the air, and with such ache,
dying...
   will be satiated by
an anaesthetic...
whereby:
  all of dying revolves
around the simpleton's quest
of the worded: just fine...

i am willing to die,
to have died,
with such tenderness
of a closure with
the gravity of
jeff buckley's:
hallelujah
of the mea culpa
             variant...

ha! no life prior
to 30 and not having listened
to miles davis' kind of blue...
as if i were
prior to learning
the concept of lounging
and billy the kid
experiecing the object of
sofa...
   and...

what comes within the confines
of... a "lost feather"...
and what is the "necessary"
base for script...

              and what is
the submerged feel
of tongue...
  and what is akin to it:
a broken wing...
and...
                the turmeric's worth
for the worth of:
sun begot slip,
and slip begot the baron
clot of hindsight
of a scraatching vinyl
on ice lord: loop.

i need both a lemon
and an orange, peeled,
for a sunset...
but to be given either,
as both,
to make resemble,
an equal clarity!

             how about...
i lose any and all
ambition to cherish
anything of worth and
anything at all to have
have been lost,
and synchronised
in being cherished too?

how about that?
am i, what deserves a p.s.
and only thus,
said and lost
and lost and said and better
forgotten...
and no rubric,
and certainly not the Beatles
and certainly no Evlis...

and you my cold Monday,
and you...
my lazy Sunday,
and you my: never a cure
the cure pop slash of song...

stranded sire,
of a sinking ship,
bound to an achor,
and weaving
waves to a wadering
wind
made tumult:
what could have
been a thought,
a soul,
a, a breath,
came as lightly as...
nothing more than
an elongated vowel
and the captured
elongation of a vowel
in a consonant:
AH...

            what was
to be a riddle...
became as simple as...

a...
        
                  sigh;

sighs do not allow themselves
to be congested by
a tomb...

       i: tow the debt of...
whispers without an
anonymous script of:
people who'd love to be
associated
with given: scrap 'o'
           cohen...

who is the www.poetryfoundation.org?
who is anyone,
who is:
the person with a head
for a shank of lamb
prior to the Edward crowned;
oven invitation only:
         supra to no ditto?

choc. chipped cookies:
and all that's
assured the conventional
terminology of
an Etonian, mess...

         me?

             what: ****'s worth
of ******* a ******?
do i look like some
English bourgeoisie?
      no!
                 i have hibernian
attaché "squirm"
              spots of minder
to "attempt" to gravitate from...
in Catholic,
as in:

      'eire and the paul's slack
& lack...

           fidgit: the LOAN TITO TEEN OH
'phbet...

scout the 'ed
& eer' 'n' oh...
                  to loan a sme'ck...
and rattled by 'eeve'
  to confine a:
Mr. to every Moun't'aey.
Ophelia Jan 2014
You were my gangster
And i was your little princess
We always listened to oldies on the radio
Those lonely nights, nothing to choose

You know, I love the silence
But silence without you is not a silence
Karma came around
Like I knew it would

Look, she's laughing
And you laugh like you have never been lonely
Pretty girls are spinning around you
But loneliness is our queen

Let's go to the miss America
'Cause Jeff Buckley is my second daddy
You said "We are not alone"
But you are a lier

I loved you thousand times and i still love you, honey
I thought you are too good for me, but I was wrong
You are a bad boy, aren't you?
And I love the way you talk with me

Look, she's laughing
And you laugh like you have never been lonely
Pretty girls are spinning around you
But loneliness is our queen

Look, she's laughing
And you laugh like you have never been lonely
Pretty girls are spinning around you
But loneliness is our queen
Ophelia Jan 2014
I'm going to L.A. and I'm going to smoke and wear black
What a rainy day
I would be safe and warm is I was in L.A.
Flower's dancing in the rain

Dream brother, dream brother, dream brother is on my mind
Jeff Buckley, hell yeah
Oh how sad
It's too cold to wear only my ******* and long t-shirt

Only Emerald Cat can save me
I don't feel inspired anymore
Gimme that tiara, princess everywhere
Honey, welcome to '50s

That soft and jazzy sound on my mind
You know, when I get tired of life I listen to Elvis
I need my man, I need somebody
I don't want to listen to oldies all alone anymore

Only Emerald Cat can save me
I don't feel inspired anymore
Gimme that tiara, princess everywhere
Honey, welcome to '50s

My red, velvet party dress
Feeling ****, killing you
Feeling '50s queen in my heart
Living like a homeless, but c'mon

My red, velvet party dress
Feeling ****, killing you
Feeling '50s queen in my heart
Living like a homeless, but c'mon

Only Emerald Cat can save me
I don't feel inspired anymore
Gimme that tiara, princess everywhere
Honey, welcome to '50s

Only Emerald Cat can save me
I don't feel inspired anymore
Gimme that tiara, princess everywhere
Honey, welcome to '50s
Bamboo Bean Feb 2014
These are the songs I listen to while I cry and think about my beautiful sister and friend who I lost in July. What are your crying songs?

1. Consequence, The Notwist
2. Stuck on You, Lionel Richie
3. Hear You Me, Jimmy Eat World
4. Silence, Matisyahu
5. Drive, Ziggy Marley
6. Asleep, The Smiths
7. To Build a Home, The Cinematic Orchestra
8. Hallelujah, Jeff Buckley
9. Worry List, Blue October
10. Take a Little Time, Josh WaWa White
11. Ghost Towns, Radical Face
12. Kettering, The Antlers
13. Santa Monica Dream, Angus and Julia Stone
14. No One's Gonna Love You, Band of Horses
15. The Scientist, Coldplay
16. Fire and Rain, James Taylor
17. The District Sleeps Alone Tonight, Birdy
18. Yamaha, Delta Spirit
19. These Waters, Ben Howard
20. See You Soon, Coldplay
21. Unconditional Love, Tupac
Left Foot Poet Feb 2018
I used to live alone before I knew you

so
of the mundane tragedies endlessly writ
repeat rinse repeat
repeat
how awfully awful
is the complaining without cessation
of busted everything;

recall the the doctor’s office sign
"no cure for the broken heart here"

so when I hear a Buckley sing
the words of the Cohen, High Priest of Songs,
I, a broken hallelujah,
smile with recognition
  though the true cure is
yet  still forever being researched

patience is a patient within me,
for my muses and their endless,
poking aching whispers of write, write, write, right,
they are the company I keep,
they are the company that sweeps me up
I, a broken hallelujah

they are not the desired flesh, true,
that affirms confirms and denies me
denying my needy frailties
but for now,
mine company to keep,
so when we do meet and
you greet me with a
tell me about your previous lovers
as you humanly must

will recite my poems from
from before I knew you
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
and the moon high above its iris -
in the bony sclera " noon" of 3 a.m.
in September -
            or as the western philistines
said: we need the Karaoke -
and we need the Judas cult -
as sung king David,
and evermore the kind of
comparisons of *** with brushing your
teeth: simply, a matter of, hygiene -
and wasn't Tailor's 1989 anthem
an ode to overcoming h.i.v.: bad blood?
wasn't that part of the narrative?
if it wasn't... shoot me...
**** me, by being a poet you can
become such a smuggler of images,
of a fake Mona Lisa (e.g.), you can turn into
a right oddball smuggler if you want...
you can smuggle so many paintings,
ad desecrate as many icons as you might
wish to speak Somali...
and sometimes the odd huh...
is enough: like Hendrix with Dylan
and all along the watchtower -
or Jeffdoing one more for the encore
against the Cohen variant -
because the Gentiles always sung better
than the Jews... truants are named
at every bar mitzvah - ben shalom -
or son of a hello...
                       and none the wise-thinker
in kinship with Solomon...
                    as the one stressed:
in solitude you will find me,
as i find no one in taking me to the wilderness;
yes, the gentiles always sang praise
to usurp the jews - hence tier above
soprano with the castrato - banned by 1903 -
sometimes you rarely write poems,
but, rather, connectivity of encyclopedias -
at times you think: when the son of Bruce
was named Jeff, and died a death akin
to Caesar - and you think: too wish
t have been spared the hospital bed,
and the inconvenience belt Hermitage of
those awaiting the butchers' slaughter -
i too, among the angelic be of kin...
but, from vaguely to a reality: sadly no.
they never really love the smart-***
that doesn't perform well in mathematics,
they just love how  pervasive the Axis
evils have become synonymous with
sanctimonious grace of those defeating them...
how eager to sing-along than
sing against... how easily the argument
against euthanasia quashed by the new humanists
of Benelux - god, the shivers,
                   the fates of ghost writers
haven spoken last...
                    in an age when those who
publish literary works are dyslexic - and who
hardly read... well... aren't we living
in an age, when the least, and most you can
even do is find space-exploration a salvation...
for a while...
                           just a while...
                as the Beatniks said in accordance with
the Sputnik missions... and later Jim Morrison
immortalised - this is the end;
                     beautiful friend... this is the end...
              my only friend, the end...

forgive me in a 100 years... should i shy from truth,
and say: i agree with you - that it was actually otherwise...
            thus: i'll simply reply: inshallah -
for i'm a foreigner to state as having any responsibility
   occupying wording handshakes,
                     and not shaking hands with agreement,
and of all political games, i chose nouns to mean
ambiguity, and conscience to be actions worded,
diverging from actual actions undertaken -
   thus so distant the word bombs
     and the action undertaken - so, inshallah -
and Pontius Pilate to boot.
jmc May 2012
The machine turned black as the power
went out. Slowly returning to our natural
origin of birth.
My mind went blank. White. A tabula rasa of
sorts. Now she said as we entered the field of our
own existence. The familiar pulsing sensations
that made its way through my body pushed me forward
into this strange world.
Rotating fields of energy greeted me on this
new plane. As if entering a new universe opened
up both body, mind and soul. So did it expand our
certain sense of who we are as individuals.
There is a certain acknowledgment of discovering
the strange and abnormal, without leaving one's
place. But through the act of leaving the body,
and using one's mind to achieve new boundaries,
our souls enhance in ways we cannot comprehend.
May Jeff Buckley's soul and song live on...
JMC - 06/24/08
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
i'm reaching my own very secondary hell...
this reach into... something of a nieche,
something of an echo chamber...
something of a jettison approach with regards
to almost everything...
the voice in my throat is no longer
necessary... some variation of:
this ethics and this "philosophy" is a bypass:
it's not a bypass...
i might just as well be "saying":
i haven't read a single book in my life...
which implies: i haven't read the required reading
either...
but i have read several books and...
among the contemporaries alongside
the shared breath... i have a library that's pretty
much a graveyard...
i'm hardly mastering some: in vogue...
old ideas come crashing down while
all the others are kept intact...
perhaps as honest as one can be...
i have... read... books... by... dead... people...
will alexander... a california poet is still
alive... i seem to have...
stuck to the living in the medium of cinema...
and music...
yet i still managed to balance it out
with a nostalgia for old cinema...
and old music, german, folk...
but i'm shy when it comes to:
darwinism explains everything right, and "wrong"...
i'm just practically tired
of being the turkey being shoved
darwinistic idea-stuffing down my throat...
i'm tired of darwinism...
long ago... a "philosopher" would be someone
who... overcame past mistakes...
or whatever...
one of my prime past mistakes?
taking a ****** relationship with frivolity...
if i wasn't using a ******:
she implored: don't use it...
god knows how she missed the *******
impediment to begin with...
i'll take contraceptive pills...
impregnation... phone-call...
i'm pregnant... well... you should get an abortion...
what were the chances that she moved
from novosibirsk to st. petersburg...
to edinburgh... that she would: settled for
moving to the outskirts of London and live...
with the parents of her would be:
father of the child...
and the supposed father being "merely" a roofer...
oh i've learned my lessons since being aged: 21...
the only honest **** these days
is with prostitutes... who are oh so careful about
contraception...
we would even talk about it...
since 21 and i'm nearing 34?
how many relationships apart from...
casually picking up a thai-surprise in a park etc.
how many? to be ensnared by:
a lasp in judgement with regards:
the ****** doesn't bother me...
the ******* does... but i can't be rid of it...
how many relationships?
0... i was given the moral scare from that
one... ahem... "relaxed" relationship...
pro-life implying: there's no guarantee...
this is already: a dollop of mustard on a spoon
as dessert if you please...
since 21 though?
it was always going to be a safe bet...
prostitutes...
hardly "*** slaves" as...
the women i know would not wish upon
themselves... a lottery of impregnation...
there could have been so many ways she could
have ensnared me...
pristine John i ain't...
but this period of time... nearing 13 ******* years...
wow...
wow... it tells you something...
because this pro-life contra pro-choice "debate"...
via: so while i *******... that's perfectly alright
in terms of: imagining a genocide with you?
because it's only life...
when coupled to a woman's body...
i don't like this pro-life argument...
not when there's "sensibility" concerning:
how far along?
contraception, yes...
but there has to be some time-reference
with regards... both parties can admit "oops"...
i don't see a point of:
i ******* there's no pro-life argument...
because i should be ******* "on a whim"...
since i... oh! this is the male argument...
i ******* into you... therefore you have something
of me... therefore you must have it...
oh... i see...
because i honestly don't get it...
if we made an honest mistake...
and you want to ******* into frivolity...
by all means... i'm no chain no baron and you're
no serf... matter of fact... this same girl is on
her third marriage... if i was her first and
we were engaged and she was 19 and i was 21
and, honestly... if you lived a life back in 2007...
it was ripe with magic...

but since then... that phonecall and: i'm pregnant...
and we were already beside being engaged prior...
and i was like: what?
it's not you're going to move down to London
from Edinburgh just for my looks...
she didn't say: i'll get it aborted...
i said: you should get an abortion...
a pro-choice man... at 21 and this litany of
excuses: mind one more?
to not have had ***... i proved that...
me and about 9 prostitutes proved that...
when there's a clarity of transaction...
there's no worry about contraception...
those precuations are prime...
the heart is a feeble liar when the *** is free...
imagine...
due for ***... but there's no...
"gifts"... there's no liar of the heart to mind
when... i have no excuses?
this happened 13 years ago!
i should have hoped to be freed from this...
"conundrum"...

scatological... william f. buckley jr. interviewing
allen ginsberg... and this word crops up...
it's somehow the covert expression fundamental
marker...
scatological... there's this avant garde of
poetics and how...
when poetry ascribes less images and...
teases philosophy...
that's no fair game...
but when philosophy employs short-cuts
with metaphor or imagery...
then words are no longer skeletons
and juiceless prunes... or whatever is demanded...

but that's the problem:
i only managed to love once...
or... rather... **** to the zenith of my efforts...
and bypass the goldberger skin-leash too...
because it was never about being satisfied...
but about seeing: satifaction...
and this old chestnut will haunt me
to the point where i will no longer be a chanced
ghost solo... but a ghost in a story...
and i don't mind the future...
i already know that i'm standing
a plateau plough moment of... resurrection...

for my time is no more linear than
the experience of gravity...
but... since i'm not falling...
and i'm either standing, walking, or sitting?
then time is not so much linear...
as it is circular...
after all: i am bound to a ******* carousel, aren't i
or aren't we all?
i was expecting circular time long
before people conjured up:
a pioneering linear "ontology" of time...
time moves "forward" without
the confines of history and within
the confines of technology!

after all: who to better the spoon!
the improved staff! a crutch!
the improved horse... a talking donkey!
but again and again:
why should my life be so precious
as to stand outside the circular nature
of time... to stand, alone...
in the prized linear...
from beginning middle and end...
why so?

of course the baggage and: if anyone, notably,
myself, should engage in any further
intimacy - beside the brothels' delights...
no... the money the clarity of transaction...
there are no flowers... no anniversaries...
i can't remember the last time i bothered
to celebrate my own birthday...
i tried that once...

what's pro-choice again, in terms of man
and responsibility or simply not *******?
13 years and that same cautionary tale...
i knew i wasn't going to make the same mistake
and relax myself into love...
because i don't think a woman should
be left barren with a pro-choice conundrum...
it's as if: you have to force the choice upon her...
otherwise it's called a golden ring...
and there's this whole flamboyant procession
in a church and two otherwise estranged families
come together and there's all this and that and
the other and afterwards the *****-licking
starts and blue and pink and a baby several months
later...

oh right... the argument it's a blessing
and that irish luck of a spontaneity should you...
when all the other couples are left
limping because of one wooden leg
among the four that should stand ***** and:
oh gaw on gaw on gaw on gaw on mrs doyle -esque?

imagine telling a woman: you should get an abortion...
because those contraceptive pills didn't
exactly do the magic...
and a ******* is already a discomfort when
you decided to learn from the Donatelos of
the boogie nights movie set that
peeling it back... for the aesthetics of a circumcision...
a ****** was the last of my worries...
well that's better than allowing a woman
to make that choice herself...
honest to god and st. patrick the gnostic gnat...

obviously i'm paying the moral consequences
of these words...
was it true is it true... it was a telephone call
and i was already busy trying to...
have to bother not... a chemistry degree is
worth as much as a humanities and this
bilingual status is not really anything
if it's not arabic or... otherwise...

why wouldn't i have made precautions in those
years?
if going to a brothel is a way to escape
the impregnation conundrum?
if for the sake of recreational ***...
*** without consequences... tennis ping-pong ***...
if that's what's being sold...
and not the monogomy quack-**** with
a boquet of moral verbiage...
yes... i made that mistake...
but why would i have a moral authority
over a woman's choice... she ghost jerks-me-off...
we perform genocide of ***** into
tissue... flush down the toilet with
crocodiles and we later baptise ourselves
as dove resurrected coming from the shower
having down the no. 1 no. 2 and no. 3
on the throne of thrones?

did i ask for my phallus to make
it into the ***** shortlist?!
i wouldn't think so either...
i'm no model with either a face or a little richard
for that matter...
perhaps men call it heart-break...
while women should call it...
fried-eggs...

a poultry abortion a day...
keeps the ****-of-cuckoldry away...
at least among professionals there's
never that: oh i like like likey...
let's have ourselves impregnated and then
kumbaya ourselves with: shtrong...

'cause if you like it, then you shoulda put a ring on it...

oh... i would have...
but... how does this contraceptive contract work?
'cause if you like it, then you shoulda
sly impregnate yourself or what the hell
am i talking about?!

ce-no-bite...
go figure...
because no ******* is some day-dream victim
of the feminist movement...
the ones that are killed, probably are...
if you had enough time to talk to any of them
without priest of psychiatrist nagging you...
lying naked... talking about a 15 minute quickie...
talk, lips, kisses of the eyelids...
inversion of sculpting a crude block of clay...
god's plagiarism etc. etc.,
is this even a celebration: oh yes it's a celebration
when two parties know the perils
and have contraception as their prime
concern...
not some loved-up happenstance
teenagers...
because wisdom is what supposedly happens
when you make a mistake aged 16 and
later, live to be 69 and utter some
*******-wanking's worth of a maxim!

and by god everyone who hasn't read
a philosophy book... thinks that philosophy
happens in old age... that philosophy is not
fashionable for the young... or the middle-aged...
how, old age, philosophy...
dementia... "wisdom"... it's also called
the optical illusion... or the detriment of youth...
since? at least a portion of the lessons
of life must be learned...
beside the technical relax of technical details...
the old lessons of life persist...
and these are always archetypical...
the archetype never dies...
that's its most demanding access...
to: if i currently had a 13 year old son
named... Isidore...

what? there was a Peaches Geldoff...
Isidore is an old name...

because what's the difference between
a pro-life man and a pro-choice man?
the pro-choice man sentences himself
for sisyphus with the claim of baggage...
i did not have the required
resources to claim a moral responsibility
for what would eventually become
an onomatopoeia of me talking to it...
that would transcend a more sorry
state that a new-born lamb...
that would learn to wipe its own ***...
that would not choke on peanuts...
that would learn to not be gullible...
not entertain friendship with good faith...
that would... at best...
become this shadow of solitude of its
father's own demise...
but i rather rob a woman of this choice...
that allow her to bask in it...
as it would be her, responsibility to undertake
such a choice...
again: if this irish reasoning stands...
this ****** reasoning stands...
me, tissue, toilet, flush + ******* = genocide!
but a woman oh a woman can
stream it! video it! she's shooting blanks!
so... a lapse... not until...
not until... is a ***-shot pregnancy readied?
how much can i own beside
these stones that i stack to fathom
a shadow and not a morality,
nor an architectural feat to overshadow
mountains using pyramids?!
well... among sand dunes you, you just might
figure out this wild dream,
this wild ambition!

i will still persist in lamenting that:
i own a private library that mostly constitutes
of death-ringers...
it's slyly called a necromancy...
they arrive in my lap as former living:
now ascribed to dead on paper...
and the dead that they are...
recoil from the ashes into the skeletons
of words: and they walk among
the living inside the horde that i am...

and as they roll in their ***** graves
to a dance most stupendous...
their eyes burning and their ears pricked
to attention over a raindrop
bound to savour the disgruntled sea...
in both the magnanimous effort
that pouring a liter of water overshadows
the raindrop... or pouring hot oil
and pork scratchings with onions
into a soup...
balloons perhaps pop! but that well-known
sizzle!

a body with the demand of
two shadows' worth of remark...
whether true, or fictional...
better my choice over her "choice"...
and the consequences?
both the realisation of responsibility
as the nagging curse of shying
away from them...
focused on? the lack of material
conventionality for:
the up-coming, better life...

hmm... learning from the past generation?
they managed to work hard
and sight the Maldives...
i? if i didn't travel solo?
would i have seen Paris?
Stockholm... Moscow and St. Petersburg
are not a given...
but perhaps this one last time:
before i go... to the Faroe Islands, one
day i might... i just might...

what gambit assurance?
the moral high-ground of pro-life...
for a child... that would live...
a life worse off than his father or mother?
the life-in-itself "argument"...
as far as i am concerned...
this verbiage should come to its own
conclusion any minute now...

it's almost strange to have to recount
something that's 13 years old...
lucky me, lucky year...
i'm still not convinced as to why
darwinism can be allowed to explain almost
everything in life these days,
esp. when mingling with sociological "issues"
and how everyone should be readied
for rubric testing their bible knowledge
as their knowledge of either Orwell or Huxley...

"philosophy" once the "love" of "wisdom"...
how does trivia come into all of this?
to have to amass an encyclopedic know-of...
i am, also, a trivia focused spew-recycle-machinery...
darwinism around every corner...
there's no scientific fact the public are exposed
to that doesn't have darwinism at its center...
nothing of scientific popularisation
is ever not about darwinism...

not even Einstein... once upon a time...
it has become so overtly: universally applicable...
in psychology... in...
yawn... if it doesn't have a darwinism patent...
it's either part of the dodo project or
an existentialist cul de sac...
and my god, this momentum...
oh it's certainly not wrong...
but it's always so right: so many times...

come to think of it...
i probably haven't read any books to begin with...
i shouldn't have...
all the ones that i have read...
are never going to be in vogue...
they were in vogue... 50 years ago...
60 years ago...
they're not in vogue now...
they might as well start yelling at me:
pretentious literary ***!
should have abandoned us in high-school!

oh right... there's till the living Knausård...
come to think of it...
who the hell discovered Stendhal in high-school
if it wasn't me?
come to think of it...
i took that ****** bus no. 86 every morning...
and i can only remember seeing myself
read...
back of the bus and that Montgomery boycot?
didn't really help...
the loudest always went to the back
of the bus... took some neo-**** blonde scalps
with them for ***** and screetching licks...
and... just ahead... a silence of reading
Taoist maxims...

nice to know... that i'm still able to write
such explosive spew...
counter inhibited and "thinking"...
this like any other...
mildly exagerrated with a whiskey stew;
rummaging and rummaging
over a brain-pickling!
mandala lama Jan 2014
spider boy one and spider boy two, the life of the boys in the buckley shoes.  remember their dancing their undead prancing like limbs on a wire of heartstrings and vertical movement a ghost in the moment fragrant talc and wax slowly flashes flash a pretty mouth on a pretty mask nightcool winds blow past their wings a paper dove a razor king
uncanny xmen said it right when he said he doesn’t want to work

because a lot of the bosses are big fat rich ******

they don’t care what the needs are nor do they care for they want to do

you everyone wants to work, i will do my art

everyone wants to work, i will do my art

art can be a job, oh yes it can

you see you can meet real famous people, if you concentrate on art

you see only rich ****** do what your bosses do

especially when your work isn’t up to scratch

everyone wants to work, i will do my art

you see everyone wants to work, i will do my art

i help the poor because the rich don’t give a ****

i want to give conserves one almighty hit

you see brian man nix said it right, when he said life is too good to work

doing art is much more fun, and if you do it right, it can save the future too

everyone wants to work, i will do my art

vic buckley, is a real australian big fat rich *****

everyone wants to work i will do my art

CAUSE ART IS MY JOB, GOTTA PROBLEM WITH THAT

check my art on art colony under brian allan yeah

you see doing unnecessary jobs is not brian allan’s stuff

i want to help the homeless every chance i get

even if i have to stop and say

everyone wants to work, i will do my art

and that makes me happy, i am an artist

a friend to the homeless a friend to the poor a friend to the young

in a way that suits me

everyone wants to work, i will do my art
Is your soul fabricated of The ***** Gore Vidal depicted? Is morality subjective?
Or do you find your truth in Atlas' Shrug? William Buckley's perspective
Marie Antoinette, she said without fret, there's no plight just let them eat cake
Then she ate all of it, and with her soiled wit, her head was the people's to take
James Madison's stake, was to assure we make, the rich to be the priority,
He said without them, the poor are condemned, so there's no room for quarrels morally

Yet I ask you to ask, I beg that you mind
The Guillotine falls, and that's by design
From the top it tumbles, cleaving the wicked
The evil, the malicious, and I pray the indifferent
Trevor Blevins Sep 2016
Two days into being back in Van Lear upon onset emergency,
I feel trapped in my childhood home and engulfed by jingo lobbyists who have posters of Ronald Reagan,
And I read about Pascal's Wager in an essay by William Buckley to realize how anyone, in annoyance, could fall into conservatism.

I come home and all the farmers are talking Communist uprising,
But back in the university the Mormon professors are talking up our structure and that we should roll with the punches.

Noting that everyone disagrees on something,
Everyone back home is too sessile to talk or debate the issues.

I must leave at once and argue with tact about the grander schemes of life and money,
I'm just getting started.

///

This is not a place where you can accumulate *** and alcohol,
And thus not a safe space for creative expression and thought...

In the dormitory halls I would put on my Aztec print sunglasses and parade the hallways declaring myself the most immortal of men from third to fourth floor.

And then you inevitably get trapped in a two story country house,

Cry for the fact that the sky is too calm.

Nothing happens here.
Nothing happens here...
It makes me uncomfortable.

Let me sit in the corner of room 403 and meditate with more excitement than a shouting match here,
Or how everything is so quiet and we're waiting for a phone call of awful news.

They all must think I eat nothing,
I subsist on nighttime ghost stories, or something,
I'm a creature of the night,

Then who are you,
Man of American with your European jaw,
Or King of all men who dare to call themselves free,
Why is it that in a decade of invention and creativity
That it's the appeal of brawn that wins out continually?

We are regressing.

Eastern Kentucky is the center of the wound,
The eye of barbarism and I am not welcome.

I will move west to spite my family and then become successful to spite society.
John F McCullagh Nov 2015
John Charles Buckley with his one man crew
set sail for Boston on the ocean blue.
With a makeshift sail and with favorable winds
they left Ireland behind and their journey begins.
Our cockleshell heroes soon lost sight of shore.
Not even a gull could they see anymore.
The days passed by slowly as they worked, side by side,
Slaves to the wind and the whims of the tide.
The Atlantic holds terrors,I cannot deny;
icebergs and fearful waves twenty feet high.
One starless night as they battled a squall
they were tossed like a cork with each waves rise and fall.
Sunburned and hungry, they started to drift
and their sense of time passing had started to slip
when they spotted a seabird, a sure sign of shore:
The harbor of Boston- their next port of call.
Their small wooden rowboat with the sail ripped and torn
was ******* to the dockside that September morn.
Heroes or Fools? I'll let you split the difference.
Theirs the smallest boat that had traveled the distance
In 1870 John Charles Buckley sailed a rowboat with a make shift sail from Cork in Ireland to Boston harbor.
So, I started listening to Johnny Cash,
And yes, it hurt, why do we feed our pain with music?
Why do we do that? It isn't enough to just feel pain,
We have to feeeeeed it,
Bit of Jeff Buckley, no Hallelujah moment for me though,
Just salt tears and - hello (is there anybody in there?)
I've found my way to Floyd,
I wish I was ******* numb,
I haven't been comfortable for a long, long time.
Welcome, Radiohead, because I need to know that I'm a creep,
I really need to wallow in my weirdness.
Hell, let's have some Smashing Pumpkins while we're at it,
I'm ready for some Billy Corgan angsty rants.
Yes I'm your zero, The world is a ******* vampire and
despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage
You tell 'em Billy, hey, let's move on to Nine Inch Nails
Because there's something I can never have
My whole existence is flawed.


"I'm lying in my bed, the blanket is warm
This body will never be safe from harm
I still feel your hair, black ribbons of coal
Touch my skin to keep me whole

If only you'd come back to me
If you laid at my side
Wouldn't need no Mojo Pin
To keep me satisfied

Don't wanna weep for you, don't wanna know
I'm blind and tortured, the white horses flow
The memories fire, the rhythms fall slow
Black beauty I love you so

Oh, precious, precious silver and gold
And pearls in oyster's flesh
Drop down we two to serve and pray to love
Born again from the rhythm
Screaming down from heaven
Ageless, ageless and I'm there in your arms

Don't wanna weep for you, I don't wanna know
I'm blind and tortured, the white horses flow
The memories fire, the rhythms fall slow
Black beauty I love you so
So, so, so

Oh, the welts of your scorn, my love, give me more
Send whips of opinion down my back, give me more
Well it's you I've waited my life to see
It's you I've search so hard for

Don't wanna weep for you, don't wanna know
I'm blind and tortured, the white horses flow
The memories fire, the rhythms fall slow
Black beauty I love you so, so
Black, black, black beauty"


~Jeff Buckley
Tim's beautiful, beautiful boy
https://youtu.be/oo8GRnICt-Y
BUCKLEY BOY


Caressing half-sounds
Stumbling your stories
Under star-snake glories
Round the flickered embers


Did silence shake you
And tear you apart
As desperate loss
Tracked endless plains?


Dying in your dreams
When the cord tightens
Did your execution
Proceed as seemed it must?


How many atrocities
Were buried in the sand
And laid aside
Then brought to hand?


Years without kindred
Did you lose control
Find communion dead
And cease expression


Traversing the empty spaces
In dark companion?
Did you long for traces
Of what was told?



In the waste and fever
Did regret ride high
Chaffing the leaver
Chiding the loser why


So many roads were tried
Through trackless wastes
Where stream beds lied
And haste led back?


Walking on the edge
Of no escape
Left on hillsides
By your last mistake


When the dark broke in
Was an icy flaw
The token endpoint
Holding a wider line?
Eden S Lucf Jun 2018
I...
I dearly miss you
Not because loving you brings me to life
Not because you made me smile a little brighter
Not because I once thought we were meant to be
All these things made me desire your company
But I unspokenly wanted all your attention
If I had asked, would you have accepted?

Or would my greed and insecurities
have driven you away?
You knew my insecurities about
             my appearance
                       my family
                               my past

You took me as I was
But I never found a common ground with you
Keeping me in the dark about you
         Your attention
                  Your Patience
                            Your composure
                     seemed to all be a facade
I wouldn't notice thunderstorm in the background
   Of course, I notice
I always wanted you to be truly happy
A happiness that might not involve me
Sadly with a smile, correct myself
      Will most definitely won't involve me
              if I catch a glimpse
                  please let me smile and cry
                        Let me drunkly sing to
                          Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah
I hope you love them as much as they love you

Bye My Love
SG Holter Jul 2014
I lean back on my factory-fresh
Couch (that still smells of IKEA)
And turn that Jeff Buckley's Grace
Up so loud the cat escapes under

The bed; ears flat, wide eyed...
And remember. I flip through
My own history -forgotten love,
Nights of such beauty they

Forged themselves onto my
Mind. I see myself stronger;
Dumber. Rougher hands and
Mind.

I hear Chris Cornell and Tori
Amos in shared recollection.
I walked Oslo's paved streets
From a job I loathed.

But it was summer.
I was free.
I was a rock star waiting
To be.

I see hopes I had that remind me
It's not too late for that.
And begin to resonate with
This is your time.

This is when you choose your
Future. Choose.
It's never too late for
Anything
.
Ryan O'Leary Jul 2019
I'm back, after a 45 year
absence, part fugitive,
part ostracised, part exile.

" A lot has changed, since
             you left "

As if it needed to be brought
to my attention.

It is what remains, is of interest
to me, because the only constant
in life is change. No points for that
I am afraid.

Becoming American and having
a nice day, with the same climate
as was here when I left, is not the
attraction one think's it is.

The Clock House is no longer
reading five past six, the iconic
time it read as I was parting.

A semaphoric symbolism, which
verbalised, meant, get to hell out
of here, a request, rather than a
friendly suggestion.

So, what's home if everything has
been altered, including myself, as
I no longer drink!

Hmmm let me think ??

Buckley Brothers on Tuckey Hill,
is still here, the last bastion of
the Mallow I remember.

An oasis for sentiment, nostalgia,
tradition, where one can still look,
for what, you are not expecting to
find, (time), the essence of our being,
where the lost protocol of our past,
is still practiced, politely.


Ps.

Buckley Brothers is a hardware
in Mallow County Cork Ireland.
If it could be Trip Advised, 5*.
samantha neal Mar 2014
I crave you in the most innocent of ways.
You're like my morning refreshment,
that pulls me awake in a single thought of what's to come.
However, you're also my nighttime procrastination,
attempting to not think of time spent before drifting into slumber.

I indulge in the memory in the bright morning,
when I imagine that it is your sleepy smile pressed against mine,
instead of the lipstick stained rim to my coffee mug.
I imagine that it is your breath I am breathing in,
instead of the steam rising from my small cup.

And as I prepare myself for the day ahead,
I envision your arms wrapped meticulously around my hips,
instead of the sweater you always loved to see me wear.
I envision that it is the warmth I used to feel radiate through my inner body whilst watching the slight curve to your smile as you would greet me every daybreak,
instead of my car heater, striving to produce comfort in the early Texas winter.
I envision that it is your voice chorusing along as you strum an assiduously memorized Hallelujah on your guitar
instead of Jeff Buckley emerging through my worn out speakers.

And yet, I spoil myself with the memory of you as I yawn through my afternoon work;
I compromise: just one cup of coffee will keep me mindful.
But I also begin to deplore these sedulously laid out fabrications and daydreams when it's 3 in the morning, and the sun is still asleep and I've just brewed my second cup of you're sweet quality for the day.
sorry for how sloppily this is put together, i've been writing out little parts of it on random pieces of paper throughout the last 2 weeks and tonight i just pulled them all into one quickly.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
you are,
a slithered with and upon,
a crude fission of
mind -
  a scatter
of rattling echo...
and a tongue to scrape
rather than gather...
the grim
scoop of skins
in the desecrated
temple
   borrow of:
what feud in
the feud of
the scattered
tongues...
   am i..
ever to satiate
the precursor...
and precursor
whatever:
makes it all,
the dire,
with all the variant
of calmly
agitated commands;
less...
and even more so:
ever less...
    inevitably... suspect.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
so you can understand the voice of eva cassidy, and hear the beauty of plagiarism as above original composition; sometimes it fares to count a minute than live an hour, when all an hour can bring is asphyxiating sails that have but a viking dreaming of greenland, and deeper north to no sunrise awaited turning viking into eskimo; but it's still a bit **** that they remember jeff buckley than eva; i preferred his father, timothy; n'ah, not really, hence the whimper, hence the weep, hence leeroy cohen giving us the bricks and the pavement to wrestle drunk trails of the otherwise respected walk of pride, or shame, into the grave.*

wet your hand before touching ice,
and i promise you,
you will turn into a spider,
a wetted hand touching ice
will cling like traversing
odd geometries,
you really don't need
an oxbridge education
to speak a tongue
so easily exported to australia,
india and new hampshire,
but like i said:
i will not go to that sikh *****'s
wedding a daughter out
of principle, as i breathed out
a soul most recognisably seen in winter
(a bottle of wine for me is
a glass of beer for you):
we shall meet again Darshan,
with soul and ease of thought,
for ease of thought means soul,
and that, my dear feline imam,
who i chiselled a gravestone off
a grave to bury your ash...
is as far as the buddhist sun will be allowed
to rise from horizon frequented by
stars in depths and squid reminding of
the oceanic fluorescent graffiti,
search one's own depth before searching
a depth to others...
you provide a shallowness
others will acknowledge as sound relief
readied for critique...
just because you read don quixote doesn't
make you a genius, more a plagiarist...
but it helps to have something bulky...
my metabolism states:
a verse at a time, two hours for one
in the cantos, then a newspaper article
(i never managed to understand why
people read trash upon wake & transit,
to some odd affair with address and signature,
why read the world's rotary gullibility
with tongue in cheek tongue tied predictability?
why not begin the day straining the eyes
at tolstoty's ******* no one dare read
for fear of being ransomed by boredom?
you russian or something?
there's no prize concerning national pride,
so why bother?
philosophers say the dumbest **** about philosophy,
they talk perception perception reality via "the perceived",
and then they say it takes ageing, or quiet simply
old age, loss of libido to define the subject matter;
i say... it's defined by spontaneity, because
it's a subject once it's fleeting, a butterfly conundrum,
anything beyond that is a tapeworm:
it feeds by feeding of a host, and that's that.
Darshan, my quicksilver in water,
we'll meet once more, again,
when we'll say: thinking with ease,
to the ultimatum of arguing whether a god exists
exploited to exchange pronouns with nouns
and vice versa... to be less identifiable
as a hope for fame... to think with ease,
disregard points of closure... with soul...
to be with soul and the ease to think,
such is the travesty of unquestionable morality...
the ultimate defiance of the gods in terms of mortality:
man's rebellion was to ask of morals,
the gods simply gave us mortality.
SG Holter Aug 2017
She moved since then,
But between where we got off
The tram, and her place,
There was a tiny place that sold
Sushi.

Walking through that smell,
Pavement still wet with rain
Outside,
We more often than not
Sent me back out

With her dog Shelby
To do her business. I  
Tied her to the
Street-thing outside, left
Tips and our pride with

The shop, and returned  
With a walk-content dog and
Too much sushi. She would
Have candles lit; Jeff Buckley
Playing,

Looking at Shelby and I as
If we had been gone for
******* ever as we came in.
"You hungry?"
She'd laugh, hug me, command

The dog to bed, me to sofa.
"Thank you."
We'd eat. Open a bottle from her
Impeccable stash.
I bought it. I brought it.

I never ate before her first bite.
Julie Butler Oct 2014
you people disgust me
i use to feel lucky
but now all i yield
is the feel of
unlucky
trust nothing
your words feel like shields
i feel yucky
as soon as i see or
spin wheels
words like
gray
names like buckley
have I spilled all our disgusting taste
you're a ******
face your ear hole my dear
I hear nothing
fear nothing
surprised by the fault
in our skies
brown eyes you mean
something
but everyone gets stuff
like something
i want more than your stuff
& your pour
fills
my
nothing

— The End —