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Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
.i have come to realiße that... it's not so much what you write about... but the mere fact of writing... i can't imagine myself being subjected to something, like a narrative, or furthering a character study... i can be the object of whatever is whimsical enough to come into my head of its own accord - i want to forget forcing something to come into this puncture, this dam, this incision that i am coordinating... and it's not that i'm objecting to something, but i am not going to subject myself to - no more than a whim, of its own desires... with no attached: i think so too... it's not about what i write anymore: it's the fact that i write... if i'll be able to spew 3 thousand words tonight... i'll be content... because... i know that i have crossed the threshold of not being left "satisfied": nonetheless constipated by an instagram haiku... mind you... that's a very troubling hindsight note you have in there... wouldn't an object the size of the earth... in a vacuum of space... create its own winds to imitate movement? there is no wind on the moon... yes... and we're talking hindsight from 420BC... the moon landing happened in the 20th century... let's give it some times before that becomes an obvious hindsight too... do you feel movement - rotating - did the turkish dervishes help at all?

the fine line between: competition and corporation,
otherwise known as a: very, very, naive poo'em...

by a definition alone:
it's not so much concerning whether this
would ever become a capitalism vs.
a communism "debate"...

after all - i'm ref. walking a tight-rope...

of the latter, verbatim:
'an association of individuals,
created by law or under authority of law,
having a continuous existence independent
of the existences of its members
and powers and liabilities distinct from
those of its members'...

can i just point out, foremost,
in an environment of competition laws can be bent...
to add to: the spectacle...
the athletics doping scandals:
it's within a spirit of competition...
the sprinters are not corporating for give
a spectacle... they are competing...
for the the spectacle...
ask me again the difference between...
what used to be a competitive event
done during leisure hours...
and what was a leisure event akin
to reading...
and ask me again: the difference between
taking part in the event of competing...
and watching a competition -
and what had to be involved to give
the spectacle its architecture...
i don't think it was so much competition
as it was corporation... never mind for now...

after all... how many times have laws
been bent when watching a football match?
the passing of law is hardly an objective
crux that so many "rational" and logic-"riddled"
people stress - can be made by one man...
sure... laws in vivo - science and what not...
these objective safety-nets...
that can lead to endless to-and-fro...
but i hardly think... man is capable of passing
objective laws: in vitro... notably in -
           in unum: omni...
unless that's a schizophrenic metaphor...
which is already a metaphor when
tested on a bilingual brain...

how many people did it take...
to pass: the earth rotates around the sun?

the heliocentric model...
genesis in the west from philolaus,
heraclides ponticus,
pythagoras (hindsight...
wouldn't an object moving in
a vacuum of space... create winds of
its own?)
aristarchus of samos,
then onto philolaus of croton -
anaxagoras; whoever was
debunked by ptolemy... then so many years...
until enough time passed...
before people could take the plunge and
be certain: for old time's sake with
copernicus - well the people have been sleeping
for long enough...
enough time has passed and we can pass...
this objective truth... that the heliocentric
model is true and that the pharaohs held
no authority as the sons of the sun
in the static geocentric model...
likes Xerxes ordering the sea to the be whipped
to calm down... and become a lake...
some pharaoh must have had a wild
idea telling a sand dune to stop moving
or seeing some mt. sinai said: shrink!
so instead be said: let's build us a... perfect pyramid...
a mountain that looks... geometric from
both afar and near!

or at least that's what Homer would have
said when visiting Giza: Δ'uh!

so a single man is somehow justified
in passing an objective truth?
unless the mob encores...
but what about the jury - a trial without a jury
is any trial at all...
murky ground if you ask me...
i don't expect man to pass...
judgement for a universal equilibrium...
but what i do expect is that:
he doesn't think he's capable of this: grandiosity!
clearly he's not... the objective reality
of falling... the subjective: i'm right as
allocated the status judge: therefore i'm standing still.

competition in a medical environment...
only in the realm of psychiatry...
and the mine-field of misdiagnosed misfortunes...
but i hardly think... competition is a catalyst
for getting surgery done...
corporation, yes...
among farmers? a rare treat....
a hobby pursuit for a selected fraction of
the crop... the dear-to-my-heart "g.m." tomato...
but all the other tomatoes... need to be harvested...
but this my pet-tomato... which needs to be:
THIS BIG! another matter...

sport and competition...
but work... and competition?
no wonder work and competition,
rather than corporation gives end results as...
who's wearing the most trendy sneakers?
who's social media account requires...
the most editing? who's child is the one with
the smartphone? etc. etc.

the bait of the poo'em is that it's naive:
but i think it is - so there's that to begin with...

i still can't fathom that "capitalism" was solely
promulgated on competition -
i'm still having to address the "model" as...
having to retain a "socialist" aspect akin to corporation
to get away with... what later became:
an all out economic "war" of competition...

naive utopian of me to somehow huddle
at the fireplace of corporation...
work - if so many people hate their work...
what would be the only gratifying
alleviation? and i'm pretty sure some places of work
are less about competition: and more about
corporation - as i write this...
the british national health service...
some people will compete by cutting corners...
competition will lead to doping scandals...
competition is... an Elisium for the few
and... a crab-bucket for the some...
call them the 10% cliff-hangers...

i've noticed it in poetry... slam poetics...
what not... this affair is already riddled with too many
****-up ****-wit window-lickers:
of which i am primo...
but i don't think it necessary to compete...
this was never about competition...
not every work is required to be
tinged with competition...
sometimes... it's just better to corporate...
do... undertakers compete?
do... postmen compete?
last time i heard: each is allocated his volume
of letters... it doesn't matter whether
he finishes his chores before the other postmen...
no postman is stupid enough
to take up someone else's allocated letters...
the first finishes his chores sooner...
the latter works overtime without pay...
it's a corporation of endeavours...
all the same... but there is no need to give these
postmen running orders when
they can walk the ******* mile...

competition within the realm of sport is one
thing... i guess a long time ago...
some people engaged in competition: sports...
to escape the general lagging begin plateau
of corporation... Rome wasn't build in
a single day... others dedicated themselves to
slouch and sloth of expanding the cranium
by reading a book...

the naive is still the bait...
is conscripting in an army...
about competition... or following orders and hierarchy
and therefore: not solely about corporation?
hierarchy you ask...
well... wouldn't that be something borrowed from
plutocracy / nepotism?
competition in an army environment...
what if you're in the royal guard
competing at what... shooting more blanks
into the sky expecting to shoot down the moon
at a wrestling-match fake
of staging of a state funeral?!
the cannons sounded... and that's all these
ever did... they were shooting with
empty wallnut shells! the wallnuts were
eaten by gunpowder gremlins long ago...
before the pomp & circumstance was shot
with: aenemic *****...

this is not a capitalism vs. a communism
debate... communism was riddled with nepotism...
come to think of it...
capitalism is not there yet...
but it's already there...
from what i've heard...
capitalism as this utopia ideal is not a meritocracy:
exceptions are made...
cicero was an exception of the roman empire
under nero...
exceptions and genetic freaks...
is this still a naive poem?

i can understand where competition works -
notably in what jobs it might work...
but most jobs require a stable work ethic
of corporation...
perhaps all self-employed entrepreneurs...
"perhaps" have no corporation in mind...
to a greater degree of orientating themselves...
in that corporation is: outside the bracket...
if everyone was suddenly...
self-employed... there would be no fear of...
the robotic onslought to come...
at least then... the microcosm would open...
and there would no longer be any employees...
just self-employed facets of...
"corporations in name only"...
which they already are...
corporations in name only...
given that... the corporations are no longer
competing with each other...
they have consolidated on a monopoly...
and since they are no longer competing with each
other... they have designated their former...
inter-competition into a hierarchal intra-competition
of "employees"...

can a bus driver, or a tube train operator compete?
by law... you can only drive a bus for 8 hours...
to operate a tube train... you can do X number of hours...
and these include breaks... necessary breaks...
can you find competition in these:
ultra-corporative environments? no!
capitalism might think it is necessary to scare everyone
into: the robots are coming! time to be self-employed
and compete! compete!
but some jobs are still: primed to corporation!

could i ever see undertakers competing?
in times of a spiked demand - during a plague...
what is healthy in sport -
is not necessarily healthy in a workplace -
after all... most people detest earning money -
it's a chore - mind you: do i enjoy writing poo'etry?
am i being paid for writing it?
no... i am "volunteering"... for the love of
the art... for ****'s sake... nothing more!
nothing less!

is this still a naive poo'em: yes... sorry...
i forgot to be caustic and there's no rhyme... my bad...
but this is not a capitalism vs. communism
tirade... from the yoke of the soviet union...
i learned from my mother that...
flues weren't really that prominent...
not until the 1970s...
by then it was a common theme...
biological warfare... while the crown-virus has
yet to claim a life outside of the mandarin
genetics: in the age of propaganda journalism:
you hear a "truth" one day...
three days later you're singing along to your
own "biased" / solipstic narrative...
after a while you have to adopt the "autism"
of solipsism: the world can only bite so much
out of you... you have to turn to standards of delusion
to match to their: from the many, one...

in sport, competition is the "zeitgeist":
it's not a metaphor, it's a misnomer...
but given the " " ditto brackets - i'm tired of looking
for the: "required" word... sometimes...

by the 5th definition of competition...
it's not as direct as corporation, competition
needs to borrow from an -ology...
again, verbatim: 'rivalry between two or more
persons or groups for an object desired in common,
usually resulting in a victor and
a loser but not necessarily involving
the destruction of the latter' -

what is untrue about this is that...
the destruction of the latter is paramount...
at least these days...
am i to believe that capitalism was not,
not ever, tinged with a belief in corporation...
that it was always, somehow, only about
competition?
what was communism born from?
when did the abolishment of serfdom happen
in russia? 1861...
the abolishment of slavery happened
in england in 1865... 4 years after...
but... but!
in russia? the slaves were thought of as...
people from within russia...
in england? the slaves? en route a trade from
one foreign place to another...
wow!
all slavery: either foreign, or domestic...
and to think that communism was a "failure"...
hard to imagine... truly hard to imagine...
given that... communism was born...
4 years prior to slavery in general was abolished...
of foreign to become "nationals"...
what does english he-he-history tell us about
native slaves? four years prior to the slaves
moved from africa to the cotton candy fields...
there were slaves that were not: ***** out of africa...

reperations who's who?!
why didn't capitalism bloom in russia...
why will it never bloom - oligarchs and...
currency of modern western capitalism:
nepotism...
who is jared kushner?
mr. cushions mr. cushtie...
mr. minted in: network baron...
slavery was abolished on the international scale
in england in 1865... four years after...
internal slavery was abolished in russia... 1861...
isn't that the sort of wow you were expecting?!
so when was slavery-slavery abolished
in england?
again... if internal slavery was abolished in russia...
4 years after slavery on an international
stage was abolished...
communism was a failure because: per se...
or... was communism supposed to be...
a short-cut attempt to catch up to capitalism?
was it a failure in catching up to capitalism?
in the 2008 financial clash...
where was Poland? recession free...
again... communism was a failure per se...
but... was it a failure in terms of catching up
to capitalism?
to me... it's still catching up...
when again... we're talking... freeing people...
only 4 years prior to people who would
otherwise still be... rummaging the romances
of Kenya and seeing no albino tourists sipping
brandy on their shores...
perhaps better for the whole load of us...

i ask, again, in my naive way...
that's the difference between competition and corporation?
not much...
a football team needs to compete with other football teams,
but it needs a corporative methodology behind it...
you can sometimes spot a maverick who wants
to be the solipsist in the team and become
nothing more than the top goal-scorcer -
then again: a kevin de bruyne and the number of assists...

if there was to be a level playing field...
everyone was to be self-employed...
what fear from robots?
competition on a ford's:
each man is a cog in the assembly line...
you can't compete... were you supposed to?
i thought that the only reason sport
was fun was to be compete and corporate...
it wasn't solely about competing:
not even in tennis are you ever competing...
unless you're serving a ****-ace...
competing but also corporating:
for the spectacle: with 19shot rallies...

to reiterate: this is a really naive poo'em...
is has to be!
- again... before capitalism became this hell-scape
spiral of: fear of robotics / a.i.:
let's just see if we get enough self-employed
people on board...
oh sure: the self-employed undertaker...
the self-employed bus-driver...
i'm sure there was, what's not called:
a "healthy spirit of competition" in work related
niches of existence...

i'm an alcoholic living among workaholics...
not a pretty sight... believe me...

i'm sure that capitalism... must have began
with: a "healthy spirit of corporation"...
that one henry ford would benefit more than
all the assembly line workers: fine...
the brains is allowed the conscious efforts
to move the eyes, close them,
use the jaw... bite... do magic with the tongue...
the liver has no knowledge of alcohol...
the heart isn't exactly aware of either veins
or arteries... fine... a henry ford cigar can get
away with thinking he's not adding
a chimney to the whole affair...
or a rhine-valley load of chimneys...
the stomach doesn't know what taste is...
sure as **** the small intestine knows
what it feels like to be a woman:
should it find itself unfortunate to have
a hitchhiker tapeworm attached to it... etc. etc.

but i imagine the capitalism had a sense of
corporation before...
it worked too many psychopathic sport analogies
into itself... precursor to the fear
or a.i. robbing people of their jobs?
testing people in a self-employed job market...
again: oh sure... the self-employed undertaker...
the self-employed busdriver!
perhaps a self-employed cabbie...
a self-employed surgeon?
how would that work?

        what's that? the cult leader... would not find
a job status match... in a corporate market of ideas?
then a ******* maverick he is...
esp. with such dates as: the brian jonestown
massacre hovering over his head!

perhaps i am naive is reiterating:
work implies corporation rather than competition,
in that work implies chores...
i've seen this in my father -
he doesn't underand household chores
on the basis on corporation -
he understands them on the basis of competition...
and he's to somehow... take pleasure
in the "free bread and circus"...
when the circus is not what it used to be?
once upon a time: the circus involved
men... who were footballers...
but they also did part-time metallurgy work...
they would clock in at a certain hour...
then be let off work to play a football match...
they weren't paid: professional:
disappropriate wages...
because their "work"... was over-inflated
by the gambling syndicate dicta...

there was a utopia in Poland...
it lasted for... roughly 30 years... from 1945
through to 1975... after that the herrings
didn't want to be pickled...
the baltic sea started to boil and the fish
strarted to froth at the mouth...
it's not a nostalgia segment: i was born in 1986...
this is mythology: curating the temporal
standards of modern journalism...
history: what time ago?
50 years? elvis was abducted by aliens...
n'esst ce pas?!

slam poetry competition with fellow:
poo'em eaters...
can i jut take the armchair with Horace?
i don't feel like competing...
what am i competing for?
volume... a new YA novel?
i will not ***** language...
even if it is a language i acquired:
and it's not a tattoo native first come first served
expression...
this is not a capitalism vs. communism
affair...

all the: towel in champions of capitalism
have made it clear:
start a traditional family, start a farm...
milk some goats...
pluck some eggs... living the dream:
brown fingers and all...
                       way way out from competition
in the workplace...
so... no need to corporate...
solo does it...
                                and if i'll be needing some
milk... i'll likewise claim: an autistic
pension and enough barren land to feed
goats organic glue and toilet paper that
magically morph into... a propaganda poster...

olim truncus eram ficulnus, inutile lignum:
once i was a stump of fig,
a wood without use... this is my best Horace:
thank you, goodnight...

what is to be competed for?
rather: what it to be retained, kept, status quo
enclosed... this pride for corporation?
competition in the workplace can only go as far...
not all professions can allow competition...
some will forever retain their base:
corporation...
to compete outside the realm of sport...
sport... those with enough awareness
of the body would pursue it...
those with a bit more brain in tow...
wouldn't... the ghost limb terms:
there's nothing of note
when it comes to competing with i.q. in
mind... or corporating...
there's this ancient feat of "solipsism" and
self-bettering... rather than running
the "expected" mile...
was capitalism always this:
chicken-shack-shackled into... wishing to squeeze
out drinking water... from pig ****?

again... this is not as easy give-away
that it's a capitalism versus communism base scrutiny...
all the eastern european laid-deeds have made it into
their chandelier filled land-allotement sights of
better ****** that gynocentrism...
i don't mind...
      yes... because among the bulgarian strip-party
i'm the ottoman janissary turned
well spoken sheikh... when morocco is given...
a fictional name... and i'm the Ali
that rubs Muhammad's lamp and
averts the... most ****** schism...
oh sure... Islam would be a pure religion...
and they would be allowed to complain about
porky-pies...
but... you see... how long did it take
for a schism to emerge between the orthodox grees
and tha catholic italians?
how long did the islamic schism take
to grovel and dig trenches?
not that much...
after all... Shia... Persians... Ali Woke-oh-Haram...
and the ****'ite... the ***** muslims...
the Saudi bin-Ladens...
well... that schism... didn't take that long...
some whisper about a schism in the monotheism
of the hebrews...
ha ha! i write ha ha... but even i have to laugh
out loud... a monotheism an inbreeding
of something more than genes...
fix the idea... and continue!

by now even i know that christianity has reached
a status of polytheism...
it's the same jesus... sure sure...
via no other than the orthodox,
the catholic, the protestant (calvinist, lutheran)
standards... or the baptists... or the jay-***-***-V-and-G
standards...
next thing you know: the vegans are
the gnostic monks!
because it has to be a joke at this point...
if christianity is a monotheism...
i'm mother theresa and that albanian
that stole george w. bush' mickey mouse's watch
on a state visit...
so to complete the holy trinity...
i'll be... alastair campbell... always for the giggles...

an alcoholic among workaholics...
who always had the satan's postbox concerning
the niqab... the same ones who were to be always
quoted: the beast from the east...
jesus is coming! look busy!

i mean... no need to look busy...
when the high a tide is making a comeback...
would you believe it?
if you saw the words... united kingdom...
england, scotland, wales... ireland...
that this was not moldova?
this is a language these are letters so arranged...
by an island-dwelling folk?
if you're the first, driver...
shotgun! who are we smuggling in the passenger
seats behind us?

imagine my surprise at the rereading,
with the typo: a missing (s) in letter()
and a missing (d) in arrange(d)...
i call them... the lost key of solomon...
or my own personal, hybrid,
hard-on...
oh god kept me with a phallus...
while giving all the angels a proper chopper
of the ol' wood... **** to stump...
i'm the one that wasn't circumcised!

and all i now have to sing about... is...
a forest of pines! a forest of pines!
pines pines pines! yippy caye!
Seán Mac Falls May 2015
Winter ends in bows
Now burst the cheerings to Spring
Leaves budding in trees
Aa Harvey Mar 2019
I will only give encores to an all female audience.


This is dedicated to all the beautiful women in the world;
Especially those I have had the pleasure of meeting.


Oh my!  Maya;
Would you be mine?
I am in love with you truly;
You are the light of my life.


Much love to the beautiful woman with the blonde braids,
To every beautiful face,
To anyone who ever thought I was worthy;
To red hair Rachel from the Surgery.


To Gemma; you are beautiful.
Much love to the Dark Night Girl.
To Vicky you know who,
I will always love you.
To the beautiful redhead who always has a boyfriend;
I’m over you at long last, so let’s just be good friends.


To every gorgeous woman who ever looked twice at me;
For the beautiful black woman, who smiled just for me,
As I turned back a second time, to defy love at first sight.
For Sarah…only thanx for saving my life.


For every woman who I have ever thought beautiful.
I love you all truly; I give you all whatever you wish for.


(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Sven Stears Aug 2013
I wanted to eat you alive with my heart,
Disseminate my love for you,
soul coughing a Heimlich dance routine
that struggled to keep us one.

You were to busy ignoring the coward
that kept me alive
to see the bravery fighting chance
and drawing curtains against fate

There was feeling in these young bones
where the medicine was make believe,
all sugar coated fiery tales to drive us to the well,
wishers of hope forgot that love is an effort.

Liars will tell you that there is just one,
and that one and one is one, and I too,
will lie to you but only to keep the placebos
sweet jesus if you knew the truth.

There's a colourful cobweb
I tangled round us
And yeah, I'd take the floor away,
if it would keep you falling for me.

There is not a thing I wouldn't do
to keep the demons from your door
And the wolves in docile dream states
Nodding yes to your every request.

But Memory lane is no place to build a future,
Lets move past all the haunted houses
and build the home from more than cards
glued together with coffee stains.

Fits of laughter and pits of passion
litter landscapes of love in foreign places
where speaking in tongues
becomes common language.

Blissfully aware of our ignorance
We turned a blind eye to status chorus,
breathing freeform jazz into
independent harmonies,

Shards of Shotgun Showers
Add bass to blissful dreams,
A sense of the real, reeling us in,
A foundation shaken in eternal sin,

As the sax plays us out,
its a standing ovulation,
that keeps us on course,
encores are for failures, and things that... stop.
A man saw the whole world as a grinning skull and
cross-bones. The rose flesh of life shriveled from all
faces. Nothing counts. Everything is a fake. Dust to
dust and ashes to ashes and then an old darkness and a
useless silence. So he saw it all. Then he went to a
Mischa Elman concert. Two hours waves of sound beat
on his eardrums. Music washed something or other
inside him. Music broke down and rebuilt something or
other in his head and heart. He joined in five encores
for the young Russian Jew with the fiddle. When he
got outside his heels hit the sidewalk a new way. He
was the same man in the same world as before. Only
there was a singing fire and a climb of roses everlastingly
over the world he looked on.
Patricia Arches Sep 2013
For I did not come here in hopes of a hello

Of a simple stroll down our village

Or an acknowledgement of my existence

I came here because I care

I care

I see in your eyes the difference

Cover up with words soothing to the ear

But actions onset on hindrance

I did not come for a duet

Or a memory that we’d never regret

A heart to heart throughout the night

I did not come for my own benefit

I come because I care

I care
I worry, in fact

That you do not realize

How much you are
Who you are

Or your worth


Because the things you do show otherwise
But see in my eyes, and the eyes of others

Too concerned while we watch the beautiful eagle continue to believe he’s just a worm

You’re too distraught by the blindfold in front of yours

To realize the cries for help

Drowned out with insanity

Because the world is stealing your flame

While you continue to be baffled by the pickpocket’s show

"Do not take it!" I scream

“Do not let it take you!”
but those eyes

So precious, full and alive

are 

still

blindfolded.

The procession goes on while the main attraction continues to burp out synthetic love and false hopes

Temporary 
enjoyment

And you have become the fool of the show

With that blindfold 

Darned, pestering blindfold.

I will still scream for its demise!

I will still plead for the final scene!

I will rip away the curtains held up with burgundy lies!

I will still care.

The show must eventually stop!

For actors must be given a break and plays must be forgotten

To not be cliche

There will be a time when there are no more encores

An end to the grand show

scattered flowers on the first row

And utter silence in an empty space

A dangerously

Dark

Desolate 

Stage

But I will still be there


Holding a match for a new flame




And a warmer smile

For I care

I truly care
No saintly tears for this belted
asteroid 208 .
A rock headed into
insignificance , as it twirls
around some son/sun of long
forgotten already tomorrows .
Life's long road ,
crushed rock , hopes , and dreams ,
are tarred into
submission ;
driven madly over in derision .
Yet you dare crave more
than time , and space , and memories .
When we know that tears from heaven
saintly flow forever .
And will wash all traces away .
Like the riders of the storm
that deluge the three rivers charged
with pain , forgotten love , and time's
indifference .
Hush now , the last flickers of light dim ,
thy song was beauteous , but there are never encores granted
by the Angel that never cries .
John R Dec 2013
After cocktails at Luigi's Bar, and then The Golden Bowl,
I proposed we play a gig of jazz-inspired rock and roll.
We all thought we'd make the fans cry out for encores every night.
But our schemes were dreams that faded in the morning's ruthless light.

My blue guitar should captivate the people every night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
My dream faded out of sight.

Playing keyboards was Patricia. (Never 'Trisha', never 'Pat'.)
She'd a taste for gracious living in her small art deco flat.
She would practice chord progressions, sipping lapsang souchong tea.
Then she played away at weekends with her special friend, Marie.

She trained her dainty fingers to explore new grooves each night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
Her dream faded out of sight.

We had Ritchie on electric bass, with tap-and-pull technique.
Such a clever devil — Ritchie almost taught the bass to speak.
Ralph the drummer's backbeat cymbal crashes measured out the bars.
We agreed the speed — then found we could not play like superstars.

Would the crowd be wowed by passion from my lovely blue guitar?
No, the dream crumbled, as the band stumbled.
Our dream faded overnight.

The Blue Guitar Quartet
was as close as we could get
to our vision for the music of today.
But we bumbled and we fumbled,
our aspirations humbled.
So we slowly put our instruments away.

"The Blue Guitar Quartet
is down, but not out yet.
With practice you will crack it," said Marie.
"Let Patricia be your singer;
she's a musical humdinger,
and as soulful as a solo girl can be".

"She can improvise a blues
based on any riff you choose.
Let's have handshakes and embraces —
this quartet is going places!
Here's to jazz-rock, and The Blue Guitar Quartet!"
annmarie Nov 2013
please wait for me.
Save me a space
right in the center
where the mornings smell
like black coffee; and
the afternoon air
carries cigarette smoke
all the way up to my open window,
where Mason jars full of
loose change, paper stars,
and wanderlust sit;
and the romance after dark
twinkles just as brilliantly
as the city lights.

Dear New York,
don't stop listening.
My name is resounding everywhere,
from curtain calls on Broadway
to Madison Square Garden encores—
from the horns of taxicabs
to men in booths on street corners
that offer you half-priced dreams
and happy memories.

Dear New York,
keep your eyes open.
I'm in everything you see,
from statues in museums
to the architecture on every block,
from marks made in alleyways
with spray-paint cans or brushes
to fashion off the sidewalks.

Dear New York,
stay aware, of all of it.
You never know
exactly when
something like love
can open the door,
or hope can rise
from the remains of ruined towers,
or the train station underground
can mean a lot more than
traveling from Point A to Point B.

Dear New York, you're everything.
The silver lining
behind all my dark clouds,
the reason to keep trying
though the Midwest is enough
to make anyone give up.

Dear New York,
please wait for me.
Allen Smuckler Aug 2010
Tormented fingers
clenched tightly in a fist
of condescending blues.
Maple leaves and acorns
strewn about the landscape,
and I, on my knees
reaching longingly and hopefully
for a past I’ve left behind.
Understanding and nurturing
those thoughts of ambiguity,
the reckoning of the present
resonates soundly within and
encores prevail from
future reverberations.
I continue to question,
while on my knees,
all that is worthy and good
and yes, even meaningful.
I often stand corrected,
like a blizzard’s whiteout,
however confused I get, and
you, always on my mind,
and again, you find me
floundering on my knees,
searching, groping, exploring
the world...on my knees,
trying to rise and be counted.
While on my knees,
bloodied and wounded
from the heat and the pavement of life,
and the hardness and complexities of time
and the unyielding fact that
I must remain on my knees forever,
if I am to survive another day.
November 6, 2009
Barnabas Smith Jul 2012
there's a story on the wind
can you hear it?
an ode to a classic hero
facing enemies at every turn
a ballad from a love struck sailor
to his land locked dame
the lamentation of a tired soul
ready to exit stage left
epics bound in flesh
breathing the same air
walking the same earth
yet completely unaware
of when plot lines intersect
one persons sunrise
is another sunset
riding off to where the sidewalk ends
a stunning view of Mars in all his glory
from another window
an example of an empty vessel
hungry for content
with each step we act our the script
the world's a stage
the plays the thing

let's pan out and take into view
the aspect ratio in conjunction
with our soundtrack
monologues
dialogues
analog has less room for falsehood
than these digital lives
digital lies we lead
rewriting the scope and depth
of the narrative
without changing pace
or thinking to replace
certain key elements
like setting and grace
peace comes when the curtain closes
don't fret
encores are in order
but on the b-side of the single
we must note
with remixed emotion
that the stories we live have no sequel
so we must trust and ******
ourselves into every opportunity
paving the way to success
not just for us
but for those that read the synopsis
and hit rewind
Geno Cattouse Jan 2014
They threw boulders at glass house and roasted marshmallows AT the cookouts. MEDIUM RARE.

The troglodets, they put on a.show, sang four part harmony in the round in open air.

Fred Flinstone dropped in for a cameo and Barney held the door.

the show went over pretty well.
To three or four encores or more
I dont know who sent in the clowns
But slapstick ruled the day.

The animal act was
Kind of wack
mel Nov 2017
i can't escape you in my head
with worried words you always said
the ones about us not foreseeing
what this Love could end up being
today i felt you as i woke
the Sun it shined on words revoked

the poems they just come to me
flowing from this heart that beats
the one you opened up for me
and now my head is stuck at sea
hooked on all the Love we'd be
i can't forget your humble might
you had the light when i lost sight
you shined upon my darkest nights
but now we're far apart in time

oh tell me that you think of me
when happy couples dance and sing
and kiss out on the wooden floor
the one where you struck me with more
more Love than i had known before
more Heart than any Soul had worn
it is that moment i adore
i'd give it endless more encores

i swear i'll find my way back to you
i'll travel far and wide to do
those things you promised me, i knew
one day i'd fly away for you
i'll leave this country and all i see
if only it means You and Me
the Magic we had felt will be
eternal and our losses we
had carried heavy will all flee
as you join them there with me
we'll bury them in Sand of We
rhyming my way back to you
Rheanna S Feb 2016
"MISTAKE
There's  nothing  wrong  in  making  a  mistake.
As  lon­g  as  you  don't  follow  it  up  with  encores.

Keith  Wilson.­  Windermere.  UK  2016.;"**
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1559961/mistake


Except - this has been published, already. In 2005 - not 2016. And not by Keith Wilson. See for yourself:

How to Develop a Positive Life
By Bob Mangroo, 2005

Links provided in group: http://hellopoetry.com/collection/19619/plagiarist-problems/
Lewis Bosworth Jul 2018
The lights are dim, conductor bears the brunt,
So now ten weeks’ hard work to entertain.
Allegro molto at the starting gate,
My tuning fork and pipe right here in front.

But choir’s five songs are causing my descent.
Their off-key pitch a momentary slide;
So harmful do I find it to my pride
That autoharp and banjo I will rent.

If music I don’t wish to circumvent
And tracks or melodies to take in stride,
Then practice every day til I’m bug-eyed!
Perfection is the prize self-evident.

No tuba player’s yawn will stop the train,
Nor second movement snores encores abate!
The lights are dim, conductor bears the brunt,

So now ten weeks’ hard work to entertain.

Allegro molto at the starting gate,
My tuning fork and pipe right here in front.

© Lewis Bosworth, 2018
Frieda P Apr 2014
Steamy ink boiled over
the kettle of opportunistic metaphors
poison'd doses in gray's gangrene slur,
don't attempt to sleep in my mouth
like a w*e in head, the sword in bed
taboo artistes in monotonic ambivalent jaws
clamping down without remorse
chomp'd away at an asunder analogy
****'d in my jeans and expect'd to get fed
spit it out on the polar opposite cafe floor
unicorns dwellings of butter'd blessings
broken bread & barely berry wine of Monet's encores
bite the ear that fed you preaching van Gogh
perhaps they'll listen for insanity to be set free
confining rules taught us naught to stutter
pay your monopoly dues in bleakest sermons
pass the bucket of superiority's conquests
bled of analgesic ego's epic divided faction's fiction
don't forget to wipe your shadow on the way out
decompoetry Jan 2011
was much like our first,
my arms reassuring
your every worry,
our lips locked,
welded and padlocked
with the steel
that heaven conceals
at the bottom of a pond
too perfect for those
lacking the Beyond.

My face pressed in your face,
it felt like an embrace
that’d fail to fade,
and years later we
find ourselves in
the same place,
on the last day on earth:
the finale of humanity;

and like our first day together,
we barely acknowledge
there are others around
anyway,

so when the sky comes
crashing down,
we won’t even notice
a difference
in temperature,

with our lips bound
to withstand the sound
of confinement,
and pulverize the lies
of denouement;

and when it is just us left
to waltz over the moon,
you’ll take my hand
and I’ll take yours,
and give those stars
infinite more
encores.
vermillion
Jayanta Jun 2020
Insanity engraved in
Exhibition is going on
Madness instill
Paradox of false learning continue!
Nature encores its own functions
So called exhibitionism never inspire
to learn, unlearn and relearn!  
So, madness continue
to engraved its own coffer for exhibition!
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
happy birthday me when i'm dead...
all those balloons had helium in them,
and all your celebratory  encores
and choir fancies were but chipmunks
in my imagining how,
otherwise, the celebrations took place:
i told the Japanese army to
bomb that ******* Tsunami...
did they listen?
                           noo.
                                     for ordinary
people like me, the only chance to see
organised crime, is to look out for
Jehovah's Witnesses knock on doors...
ginger!               ginger!              Swahili in Haiti!
that's the closest we'll ever get to seeing
the Italian mafia in practice -
and who the hell writes poetry in order
to wait for an interview?
  she publishes me... she ends up in hospital
with water in her lungs.
        you heard of the fascination
with those old migrant to the English coast,
central European pelicans on these isles?
took them over 2000 years to come back,
and they're shy creatures...
   whoever thought about writing poetry
to not utilise their shyness by otherwise waiting
for media interviews: is a ******* potato-head
stump worth a piñata bashing.
Debbie Taylor Mar 2016
We are South Africans
   We live in a real live circus

The Clowns run around acting serious
   just one look at them walking proud
      and the World laughs out loud

The Chimpanzees run amok
   Their handlers ail of Culture shock

Chasing Trapeze artists round the ring
   Men on stilts are finally suffering

The Lions have sold their claws and roars
   For a few extra child subsidy encores

The Tigers crouch in fearful shame
   The latest casualties in the Blame Game

And the crowd just stares on dazzled
   As everything fails, likely embezzled...
A little too vivid
Apologies if I offend...
Under the bleached bluff
sea shells shape the bay
the grey and white
like seagulls
shines in sun

each tuft of grass is hardy
rough
tousled by sudden wafts
of salty gusts
that ride the waves towards the land
where
free as air
the litter flies across the sands

swung in the sky
the birds are tossed
their cries
those far off saddened screams
that make the coast their theme

a contrast to the balmy days
when summer winds are warm
and breeze
a welcome sense of calm

the tide comes in
now challenging
its rattle of those shells
percussion in the out of doors

a band that takes repeats
encores
for granted
while it roars

until the change relieves its chores
receding back again
to join the great wide ocean main

Margaret Ann Waddicor 25th December 2015
I felt like feeling by the sea.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
we used to leave the extra Statistic lesson after 3.30pm, used to jump across the wall over the playground, catch the train home... we used to break fast with dates when Ramadan came along... then the hens came along... that sort of brotherly ******* doesn't really concern me these days... i'd gladly **** your mother these days... like you ***** my mother telling me whatever that ***** said you ought to believe... do i believe in God? do i have to? do i have to believe you said those words rather than a maggot? personally i think a maggot said them... on an existential inspection, you're just someone that goes into a charity shop and buys everything for under a quid - you're just a ******* gypsy to me; but believe me, i really want to be a gypsy, mortgage free, living like river-rat... i'm comparing your intelligence to a donkey when is shouldn't be insulting a donkey... i'd love the circus, the gypsy uncertainty... i can't believe your mother actually liked me... and that you have to lie about me as "non-engaging" schizoid... when i meet your mother in heaven i'll not fail to mention that detail.

it's a funny tale,
how they cite the words          the 21st century
and subsequently ditto them    "     "           "      ,
ever the airs, every the formality,
ever the should have been,
contrasting the ever would haves...
it's hardly a reason to be comparative
with the 17th century,
the 21st century isn't that much
of a surprise... it's not a surprise at all...
it's actually quiet mundane,
the quiet everyday... as said:
via articles definite, and via the charcoal churning:
iron maiden's *strange world

versus duran duran's ordinary world,
as i said: subhuman, cancerous laughs
and still the belittling you:
it was all a worthwhile care for calcium salts,
petroleum jelly and aliphatic acids - some said
sodium acids too...
some mentioned chemists as it was
an aquarium for choir encores to a deafening,
but it wasn't - i too would have learned
the plumber's jacking-off without
groupies... had you minded my intent
to leverage the safety as worth nothing
anything but the Selfie and the jelly-baby sucrose
glue.
i'd like to go back to the 17th century with
the musketeers... i'd be fed less jealous comparisons
with the reigning Louis XIV...
i'd be diverted by an adventure, laying siege to
Lyon, which would mean much more to me
than paying the taxes as a medical doctor....
i'd be agile on the musket, a musketeer,
shooting heads to later write a Don Quixote for
a ballet... but as 21st century's writing proves:
i only wrote because my life was truly banal...
i would't have written otherwise...
had my life the attributes of a Don Juan...
you think i'd have written anything?
only banality prompts you to write...
if you decide to write, and keep banality
as a saintly ordinance best kept unscathed,
well... then you better salt your eyes for an improvement
of the bitterness of shed tears awaiting the
once anthem-blessed glorification a nation likened to Iran
having a pointless streak of competition
sparked alive with a necessity of breathing being excused
so that the competitive acquirement is stocked
and compiled to an encyclopaedic assurance,
preference: A prior to Z.
Lewis Bosworth Apr 2017
He's needed someone to understand him;
I’ve only been trying to fix him.
—Erin Celello, 2013

I don’t know what will happen tomorrow,
or even today.  And I’m okay with that.
—James DeVita, 2017


I speak the screeching dialect of remembrance.
And I hear the bursting of bullets,
I smell the fetid stench of ***** blood drying.
My life is a toss-up, a takeaway.

Trauma is, for some, a set of limbs broken
Into scores of pieces and unable to heal.
Thanks be to the great healer for prosthetic
Devices and physical therapy.

For me, trauma is bits of brain, hiding in the
Cerebellum, which cannot speak to me, and
When they do, they are rusted out, and they
Speak to a different drummer.

There is no present, no past, just crumbs
Which lead and follow me, like Sisyphus,
One step forward, two steps back, and
There is no greener grass elsewhere.

I dream the fantasies of a decorated man,
Beribboned and exalted, his thunder claps
Echoing throughout the ward in which he
Sleeps, bottles of pills to guard him.

Such is the world of anxiety, odd breaks to
Touch my loved one, her backstory, as vivid
As mine, is dying on the vine, our fable one
Perverted portrayal of destiny.

We speak the language of a student trying
Out his gap year to avoid the stress of being
Grown up, when the passage of time grants
No favors or refreshment.

Is this act two of my life, and did I skip the
Prologue?  I experience now only daily
Hiccups of fear and loss, and she is trying
To love a touchstone.

I live in multiple dwelling-places, homes, yes,
Some in foreign lands, some upstate local,
Some in safety nets swollen by well-wishers
And methods.

I try to fly away, to invent my own environs,
To stretch out on a cloud or bury my toes
In sand, but to no avail because I keep seeing
My home base, and I must learn to stay.

Sun starts to shine on my tangled world as
An old barn becomes new to me, and a dog,
My service companion, comes to rescue me
From the fields of war.

Leave it to children and four-legged critters
To balance the equation of stress and trauma,
To equal the benefits of modern pharmacy’s
Stratified cocktails.

The canine tongue and wagging tail know
Only love and never ask to be rewarded but
By the same gratitude they give me, a star
Performer of the simplicity agenda.

I close my eyes and imagine a mystical figure
Playing an anthology of applause- generating
Encores, to which I whisper thank-you’s and
Promise to be loyal and true.

You can see a portrait of us: me, my spouse,
My dog, the townsfolk and friends, the
Children and the visiting vets, my comrades,
By glancing at the smiles on the horizon.

It’s a new deployment, unfettered by rules or
Metered regimen, by missions and bombs.
I have good days and bad, but we greet every
New day with confidence.


©   Lewis Bosworth, 4/2017
Ronald Jones Apr 2017
burgeoning geniuses of rhythm and song
hugging the blues with their guitars
on street corners or in ghetto blues bars
that cry forth clinging laments, soulful chords rising tolling
ancient sadness, exquisite madness
musicians finding their identity
as troubadours of the anguished heart
by way of a beggar's cup
a little luck
and those shouted encores worth more than a million bucks
EssEss Oct 2023
It takes considerable research to pick an ideal vacation spot,
The end result can be pleasantly surprising, more often than not,
Spain offers a multitude of choices that can be very exciting,
It is those small tucked-away towns that are the most enticing

Cadaques is a pretty Mediterranean location in Catalonia's Costa Brava,
It is a hippy seaside town akin to a hidden cove, that is no mere trivia,
Located on a small peninsula on the eastern side of sunny Spain,
It has all the trappings of an ideal getaway resort, with much to gain

It is the most inaccessible town north of Barcelona, though seductively beautiful,
The road winds through mountains replete with hairpin turns that are an eyeful,
Passing through cliffs one after the other, a rocky coastline is the final descent,
Entering the Spanish village with a breathtaking landscape, makes for rich accent

The idyllic setting, with unbeatable tourist infrastructure, is a veritable holiday haven,
For anyone looking to enjoy sun and sea, the attraction is like a piece of heaven,
The beach town gleaming above the cobalt-blue waters is a joyful sight to behold,
The allure of the windswept pebble beaches is so mesmerizing, if truth be told

The village is always teeming with tourists lazily walking the cobblestone streets,
The animated incessant Spanish chatter with exciting overtones is such an audible treat,
The blazing sun beating down all day from a spotlessly blue sky is never a deterrent,
To people of all ages sauntering the streets, joy writ on their faces, that is so apparent

Colorful sun umbrellas can be seen planted all along the beach, spicing up the milieu,
While the adventurous brave it out to get their suntan, unmindful of little else in view,
A dip in the clear blue water provides an exhilarating experience thro' the day,
The feeling is of total relaxation charting new frontiers, in a wholly different way

It goes without saying that Cadaques is a delightful town for the epicurious,
Restaurants abound in plenty, as they wow to whet the appetite of the curious,
Visitors flocking in droves at all times of the day, is such a common sight,
The menu dished out is of an irresistible variety - naturally, a gourmet's delight

Dozens of gelato shops can be seen virtually in every street,
The vast variety of flavors is mind boggling and an inviting treat,
Serpentine lines at each shop reflect the popularity of this delicacy,
Experimenting with combos is perhaps a fitting culminating fantasy

For strollers, the meandering lanes of Cadaques are an absolute delight,
The sloping by-lanes lined with shops on either side, are an interesting sight,
Skilled artisans flaunt their wares, with determined attempts to persist,
At the end of it all, the inclination to splurge, is undoubtedly difficult to resist

Spanish painter Salvadore Dali's house in Cadaques definitely merits an outing,
A walk around the house depicts his life in the village through his painting(s),
The scenic walk around the well-preserved grounds holds a lot of history,
That he was a tremendous inspiration to the locals, is of little mystery

Groups of people can always be seen walking from one end of the town to the other,
Animatedly chatting mundane and specifics that is delightfully difficult to decipher,
While the preponderance of Spanish locals is perceptible, global participation is nothing less,
It is this cosmopolitan aura that lends color to the charming town, stopping short of iconic-ness

The sound of lapping waves still rings in your ears long after you leave this quaint beach town,
You wish you could turn the clock back and dash back yet again as if making a U-turn,
It is this very quintessential charm that lures visitors to the hidden town with quiet coves,
Spread the message through word of mouth, that visiting such places merit many encores
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
.i've seen cover songs
                 being overplayed:
t.a.t.u.,
              snake river conspiracy...
of the smiths': how soon is now?
mind you... do you feel that
chernobyll itch? do you?

i like this quote:
the loudest applauses
craft the most silent encores...
who was it? i guess it must haven been
me,
if it wasn't me, then...
we have a problem.....

well thank you,
the danes found out...
the warsaw pact attempted to keep
it hush hush....
                  i am:
the sleeping diatribe
...

such a spectacular disobedience
to having fathomed
the obedience
to the last remaining iota
of a purpose....

              friend to boyo fiend,
and the jargon buste (adjunct)....
while toying with
being enemy to the squish
  and the tentacle lover
            of lost
& last concerns...
serves you a: counter sushi
masterpirece with a worth
of herrigs....
to mind a counter with...

                   you know how "god" abhors
"original" sin..
what becomes "sin"?
well... "unoriginality"...
      i too hate  & abhor the platitude
of plagiarism;
i'm a blatant Evangelist
at this point...
             i'd rather die...
before i'm reborn...
then again... i'd slso act
like Jack Nicholson....
but then again my demands
are worth are shutters squat...
to mind...
          what becomes a Led Zeppelin
"original" sin...
           tobacco shutters...
taping-course:
wet tobacco...
not chewed, rather, smoked...
whatever...
people will never believe the victim...
they will, when there's
a dead body... otherwise...
dead wise no war no death sold...
apparently the dead
are "wise" when there's no war....
then again...
when war...
the "wise" also claim:
there are no casualties....
who needs them?
no one can recognize them, anyway...
mother death justice earth:
who can blindly recognize either!
the twin justice,
that justifies encompassing both...
the joy that originates
from wet.... tobacco;
i don't care who's to blame...
all i care about is that...
someone is actually claimed,
as requested
for being made to claim blame.

now god, now no god,
now the infantile man
with a belief in a god,
now a memorable
  now a seriously acclaimed man
of concrete disbelief...
that... pristine atheist...
i too hold my claims
to be of barren wastelands
in order to have them
be made for the worth of them
being cherished.
Ryan O'Leary Mar 2021
I wrote a song about
disturbing hibernation.
To highlight the incident
it was necessary to put a
Butterfly in my Guitar.

Recently, I played the tune
and had a video made of it.

After it appeared on youtube
I had literally thousands of
hate letters condemning me
for exposing a creature to such
confinement and excessive noise.

The video has since been removed
and my song banned world wide.
I am attaching the chords and lyrics
of the song here. But please do not
put a Butterfly in the acoustic chamber
of your guitar. Than you. Ryan O'Leary.


Mute Pappillion.

D
I was feeling ecstatic
G
when I went to the attic
A
and found my auld busking
D
guitar*

D
But I felt consternation
G
I disturbed hibernation
A
at first it seemed quite
D
bazaar

D
When I blew off the dust
G
it smelt like old must
A
but t'was time to give it a
D
bar

D
It was then I heard flapping
G
which sounded like clapping
A
my first ever round of
D
applause

D
It stayed with the beat
G
while tapping my feet
A
I kept playing despite all my
D
flaws

D
I took early retirement
G
though its not a requirement
A
But "Bad Buskers" all get
D
menopause

D
I'm strumming the strings
G
and the echo it rings
A
but no jingling of coins as they
D
fall

D
So I play here alone
G
as to what I was prone
A
never made it to Carnegie
D
Hall

Chorus

D
Time to call it a day
G
as they used to say
A
for no encores or no curtain
D
call

D
Time to call it a day
G
as they used to say
A
for no encores or no curtain
D
call

D
Time to call it a day
G
as they used to say
A
for no encores or no curtain
D
call

Outro

D
There's a butterfly
G
in my guitar

D
There's a butterfly
G
in my guitar

D
There's a butterfly
G
in my guitar


Ps.

When playing the Outro
it is imperative that the
pick hits the woodwork
of the sound chamber to
simulate a Butterfly flaping.

Also, it needs to be sung
with a Tennessee/Texas
accent, preferably akin to
the "Bad Blake”character.


Ryan O'Leary ©
March 13 2021
Tragarriff
Bantry
Ireland.
Sparrow Junk Jun 2017
Music brought me into this world
It only grew during childhood
To be something important to me
To hear voices who understood

The words they reach me
The words they teach me
The beats they fill me
The beats they thrill me

I think of all the people I've met
Only to be never seen again
We had bonded over talks of music
Getting excited by the hits of then

The rhythm it takes us
The rhythm it makes us
The melody it soothes us
The melody it moves us

I have the discs I have the tapes
I have the audio escapes
I have the files I have the streams
I have the digitalised dreams
I have the music
The music has me

I find that it's never enough now
Always trying to find the hidden gem
Finding the old hearing the new
Living my life by the rpm

The chants I will speak
The chants I will repeat
The encores we demand
Encore we want the band

I have the discs I have the tapes
I have the audio escapes
I have the files I have the streams
I have the digitalised dreams
I have the music
The music has me
Music has been a big part of my life, it was the desire to write lyrics that got me into writing. I thought it would be good to write a piece to show it.
Ryan O'Leary Mar 2021
D
I was feeling ecstatic
G
when I went to the attic
A
and found my auld busking
D
Guitar

D
But I felt consternation
G
I disturbed hibernation
A
at first it seemed quite
D
Bazaar

D
When I blew off the dust
G
it smelt like old must
A
but t'was time to give it a
D
bar

D
It was then I heard flapping
G
which sounded like clapping
A
my first ever round of
D
applause

D
It stayed with the beat
G
while tapping my feet
A
I kept playing despite all my
D
Flaws

D
I took early retirement
G
though its not a requirement
A
But bad buskers all get
D
menopause

D
I'm strumming the strings
G
and the echo it rings
A
but no jingling of coins as they
D
Fall

D
So I play here alone
G
as to what I was prone
A
never made it to Carnegie
D
Hall

Chorus

D
Time to call it a day
G
as they used to say
A
for no encores or no curtain
D
call

D
Time to call it a day
G
as they used to say
A
for no encores or no curtain
D
call

D
Time to call it a day
G
as they used to say
A
for no encores or no curtain
D
call

Outro

D
There's a butterfly
A
in my
G
guitar

D
There's a butterfly
A
in my
G
guitar

D
There's a butterfly
A
in my
G
guitar


Ps.

When playing the Outro
it is imperative that the
pick hits the woodwork
of the sound chamber to
simulate the Butterfly *****.

Also, it needs to be sung
with a Tennessee/Texas
accent preferably akin to
the "Bad Blake"character.

— The End —