Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
WS Warner Jul 2014
Corpses proliferate in soaring violence; heirloom of franchise and eminence— perish in erosion.

Timid denizens of derision, cynicism in roaring silence — optimism’s paling vapor—commodity of Indecision, our halcyon days forgotten.

Chosen token of audacity; the onyx maladroit feigns, prevaricating beneath the Sacred canopy.

Etudes of apathy; attrition unlamented; streams of guile— quixotic squall conversely merge — veiled conceit, eloquent arrow of equivocation.

The policy of attenuation.

Treason’s vine obscured beneath the blind surf of consent.

© 2014 & 2016 W. S. Warner
Sometimes Starr May 2017
Sometimes my heart is coiled steel
Pulled tight over wood.

I slip into the mode
On the backyard patio
Feeding blood to my guitar, carefully.

I'm making love in the springtime.
It's so good
Making love on your time.

Good Gabriel has blessed us with music
Hear, the devil says it's useless
But every ictus of the heart of love
Rebuts and rebukes him.

I cannot cordially invite
Everyone to my party
Here at my end of the world
My own private apocalypse, but music
Music can do that.

My heart is just an instrument
That's why my guitar fits right inside
That's why my fingers need to fly,
Slide and pick
These fruits from heaven.

Fruits so good and so holy,
My flesh wilts in the presence of them
But here, my young heart knocks and knocks and knocks
It leaves little etudes in the backyard's sunshine.
Emily Marie Feb 2015
Muffled moaning
Rhythmic, robotic
Bleeding through walls
Is that what I sound like?
It doesn't sound fun
It sounds quite boring
Repetitive squeaks
In 3/4 time
I'd use rubato
I'd be espressivo
No etudes for me
Just ad libitum
But for now I lay
Sexiled to the couch
Wishing I had someone
To make music with
A private party
Etudes
People around me
Vanity and beauty
From where I sat
A glow of hope
In an ashen sky
Abandoned arguments
Reviews and dismal news
Changing moods
Pauses for profanity
Shadows and reality
Simulacrums
Patented predictions
Solemnity and sorrow
Corpses for the coroner
Silence.
I was in the backseat of a 1988 Prelude
listening to Conor's sonnets and etudes,
moving my tongue in uncomfortable loneliness
because your passenger seat was occupied and
I couldn't decide if you were quiet or shy.
I hadn't met you yet.

Hennepin was good to us at 2AM and
gave us space to sip uncommon grounds
in the typically uncommon Uptown.
I saw bright eyes in your words
and unrecognized yellow birds.

I remember things and I don't know why.
I remember the paper mache lady on Nicollet and
I remember that you sang about how it's neat that we all own guns and
I remember wishing that I was born on Independence Day and
I remember walking past empty bookshelves at the end of the day and
I remember remembering when they were stocked and
I remember loving the way we talked
about Huxley.

and it's a year or so later and I'm your passenger
and the streets are still full of images and hidden messages
and faces with whiskers.
"I saved a cat from a tree once,"
and my cackle secured the shackles on my ankles that
I picked out myself off the mannequin.

and it's always just us because Vic is always
with Lucy, Molly, and Mary Jane and
they're having dreams and hearing secret frequencies
(like the ones you pointed out to me)
and doing drugs and discovering Christianity
and decorating themselves with ashes and ashes with Ashley.

and the people I used to know from St. Paul
are working and growing small and
trippin' and slippin' and sippin' gravy,
but we're still sippin' uncommon grounds
and we're all still living in these twin towns.
But none of them are wearing the matching heavy crowns
that you and I picked out ourselves off the mannequins.
They're the same shade of gold as the birds in your words and
they're the same shade of gold as the shackles on our shins
that mold our golden grins
that we had our faces when you said,
"This is the world where dreams come true, right?"

and we're confirmed by a blinding white light that shows through
the windows of the theater in Bryant-Lake Bowl that compliments us
like you compliment me, like I compliment your skinny tie
(the one that makes me want to die.)
But we can't die because this city doesn't have any double-decker buses
or any other us-es.

and I watch you program lazers into my heart
and I think;
What a beautiful old man
What a beautiful growing boy
What a beautiful perfect cylops
with an eye of my color green to shower me in scenic joy.

and as we dance to the records we bought from Minneapolis antique shops,
I look into the eye of my cyclops from a centimeter above the ground
and realize that this is the dream where the world comes true.
"Write a New York style poem about Minnesota."
"Okay, professor."
'

"In the world of mortals there's no greater perfection than music."
~ Impeccable Space Poetess

'

Divine music beats
bombard my being
as non-rippened ripples

The surface of my ear drums aches
without perfectly harmonious
sounds
complementing

Roses blossom in a quiet garden,
some lavish quietudes here, where
I've got enough peace and not
the right space for a siren's songs
enthralling enchantment

Searching at the random pace
for the most peculiar music ~
thunders in my thoughts!

Those undiscovered waves
appear as lustrous song lenghts,
as limbs of a sound corpus slumbering
in the solace of silence and rhythm

Deep bits bite my emptiness
and this wanton yearning  
forces me to reflect upon
this uncultivated
wilderness
and
what's there to miss at all means

'

lovable etudes
classical chello drifts
bansuri flutes


'
*In the world of mortals perfection does not exist!?*

Auuughhhhhh......... still searching for the perfect music!!!!
..........at this stage of my life. Please, please! If you have your most beloved music, post it as a link here. Thank you from the depths of my yearning heart!
Seán Mac Falls Dec 2018
.
Scurrilous birds fly by,
To nest in the little painted
Houses left clear for them,
In awkward circles they romp
Their peculiar dramas
With ****** wings.

Do they even witness
The skies revolving canvas,
New masterpieces each day,
How the light shimmers
In the sparkle rays of sun,
How the golden fields,
Of vales in sighted sweep
And dance, airy etudes,
By the windfall gusts
So suddenly arising?

These visions are marks
For but few, who hear time
As it plays in stepped quartets
Of the spiraling seasons song,
For the lone mercies, gifts,
To ones most gentle, merest,
Spirited eyes who gaze deftly,
Deep in sacred days,
From a window.
.
In between shear white and jet-black
with a strong dollop of indigo blue,
lies the pale uncertainty of grayness
the most God-awful hue.

Grayness frustrates the senses.
Grayness stipulates malaise.

A shroud of indecision
arrests the imagination;
chained in wisps of doubt.

The definition of things
routed in a solitary
palette of insincerity.

Grayness negates options.
Grayness obscures landscapes.

Objects disappear
into walls of foggy smiles,
whispering repetitive monotones
of monotonous monologues
in incomprehensible language.

The mind is muted in a pall of haze.
Endless colorlessness of the days.
Days upon days of arctic blight.
Midwinter's endless drama.

White dust
sprinkled on the brain,
layering coats
of a suffocating
ashen pallor.
Dimming the wit,
Quelling the spirit.

Thoughts of light are captured
then lost
in craggy crevasses
of a dull blackened cranium.

Light can't touch the eye
Plaque builds in a hearts ventricle
Warmth escapes the body
and evaporates through
the magic of convection.
A vision remains;
barely an apparition
of a distant
dissipating ghost.


Belgian Café
Hudson St.
NYC
1/29/99

Music Selection:  
Roslavets, Three Etudes
Third Eye Candy May 2013
the klaxon carols of your grief belie the golden pipes of your madness.
the cherubs embedded in your lost happiness
slip through cracks in your voice. James Joycean.
the fugue, your discord dims, seeps through the gauze
of your field dress. your wound holds the root note
oozing Rorschach ~ Rachmaninoff
jungian etudes allude
to a deep you at the bitter end
gnawing on sweet bones to marrow sip
from the holy grail and -
a humble pagan ***. i greet you at the airport, barefooted.
found you
talking to a cloud
in your blue sky *****. it was shaped
like an anvil cloud in your iris
watched as you forged
lightning bolts -
fit to hinge
heaven's
door.

we had the same flight at two different altitudes.

and i loved you more.
Seán Mac Falls Apr 2017
.
Scurrilous birds fly by,
To nest in the little painted
Houses left clear for them,
In awkward circles they romp
Their peculiar dramas
With ****** wings.

Do they even witness
The skies revolving canvas,
New masterpieces each day,
How the light shimmers
In the sparkle rays of sun,
How the golden fields,
Of vales in sighted sweep
And dance, airy etudes,
By the windfall gusts
So suddenly arising?

These visions are marks
For but few, who hear time
As it plays in stepped quartets
Of the spiraling seasons song,
For the lone mercies, gifts,
To ones most gentle, merest,
Spirited eyes who gaze deftly,
Deep in sacred days,
From a window.
betterdays Jan 2017
old friends gather
tied together
by lines of
silver silk
memory

threaded from
heart to heart
embedded in thought
and action

actor trained
like the rhythm
of drumming fingers
on raked stage

toungue twisted greetings
bring saltwater to eyes
searching for the mentor

a congregation of etudes
belies, the sadness,
laughter hides the absence

shared memory,
memories shared
bring life into focus

years pass by
but still, the silk threads
play the heartstrings
and still we raise our
eyes in ritual goodbyes

and hug each other closer
til the next gathering
old friends remembering
the good times
Cecelia Francis Oct 2016
I was once a classically trained pianist:

My nails cut weekly down to the bit
and internal tongue ta-ta-ta-ta, ta-tee-tee
ta-ta, tom
tuned to the metronome.

Daily hours meant:
bent stick straight up
scales and etudes then
sonatas and scherzos and waltzes and nocturnes and preludes and arias

and movements memorized
by fingers that knew the way
and weight of adjusted arms.

What is the value of
a wrong note alone

or amongst many,

of memory incapable
and fingers fallible?
Void Sep 2014
Noise, Annoyance, Nuisance my fellow attorneys!

Just a minute ...!

Let me recollect the boundaries of my universe. Let us unite in Pachalbel, in G minor. Let us find the common ground and melt melt melt....Oh!
The dog barks sonatas, bees buzz etudes of joy, sharp shrieks re tuned to whispering Nymphs...and I am the centerpiece of the heavenly vocal  ******!

Just for a minute....
Sometimes Starr Oct 2016
where do you come from?
she asked me

and i told her,
to the best of my abilities,
where i was from.

i said i was born in the hell-oases of American heaven.

that i materialized from the shrieking avalanche of velocity itself
that i must have simply started to move
at some Point
and howled at the emptiness around that begged my primordial step.

i told her that howl was my father
and the Emptiness, my mother
that the pain of Eden being born, razed
and made fallow time and time again
had welled up a deep desire in me to die

to forget, and start again new.

when i told her i was adopted
and that i didn't really know my parents, she laughed
and shot me a glance that knew.

i spoke about layers laid down by Aphrodite's own gemchildren
of their soft kisses on my soft teen skin
how i came out of a hole that ripped in that skin
and met up with myself again

and glad to be new.

she looked upon me the kindest
when i told her i forged myself in tinny pattering etudes
on guitars, strung
in patient worksmanship,
and balanced the grave humanity
and its facts so grave on shoulders
that had begun to shiver deeply

i'll never forget it,

she looked at me
with the most profound
empathy.

you never were

she said,

and she spoke the slow truth.
Bob Apr 2020
It was like cigars on the air vents
Of a toddler's room
The coiling smoke of regrets
And the crooked sounds and numbing
Songs of an old guitar
Barfing tunes that nobody's ever heard before
Only a time where everyone had ears to listen
He sat upright in his white chair
Taunting the clouds with his raunchy
Etudes of longing frustration
It was an appointment.
He tried to look presentable but
Failed miserably.

And now the stars pity him.
U be the judge what it means.
Seán Mac Falls Jun 2016
Scurrilous birds fly by,
To nest in the little painted
Houses left clear for them,
In awkward circles they romp
Their peculiar dramas
With ****** wings.

Do they even witness
The skies revolving canvas,
New masterpieces each day,
How the light shimmers
In the sparkle rays of sun,
How the golden fields,
Of vales in sighted sweep
And dance, airy etudes,
By the windfall gusts
So suddenly arising?

These visions are marks
For but few, who hear time
As it plays in stepped quartets
Of the spiraling seasons song,
For the lone mercies, gifts,
To ones most gentle, merest,
Spirited eyes who gaze deftly,
Deep in sacred days,
From a window.
spysgrandson Oct 2015
a century skipped
from one soup line
to the next

never thought I would
stand in one, a homeless octogenarian
who doesn't like soup

the library serves sandwiches,
Eden’s apples too, on Mondays, but gray Sundays
they are closed, so here I be
at a holy house

that feeds beggars, bankers
and ******, but only after servicing
our souls, with etudes on eternity
and other hymns to which
I am deaf

tomorrow I will visit the VA
for my monthly meds, free potions
to pacify me while I wait for a bed
in the shiny new castle,
forever being built

in the meantime, I get the shed
behind the shack, of another "brother"
who tells me war stories

that can't be true, since he
was but ten and two when
the last bird chopped its way
into the Saigon sky

the embassy below yet teeming
with ghosts, and the screaming hordes,
scurrying still in a conquered land, desperate  
victims of our proud command

I don't tell him he does not
speak the truth, for he gets even more
potent pills than I to keep
his demons at bay

today the broth has chicken
and rice, and our platoon slurps in unison
after another plaintive prayer
to a god I never knew

tomorrow, over my white
bread and bologna, we will
be able to sup in silence, in the
calm cathedral of tomes

where I will try in vain
to comprehend the mystic
Kabbalah, or perhaps read The Grapes of Wrath
to hoist healing hope of suckled redemption
before my ancient eyes

.
i see elephants in your tone
honorary delegates to the symphony’s throne
violins voicing interludes that are attuned
to the watery worlds of young mermaids
who create splashing inversions upon musical modes
your composition sheets hold my soul in throes of solitude
resplendent hues on the emptiness of nocturnes, etudes and poems
Seán Mac Falls Sep 2015
Scurrilous birds fly by,
To nest in the little painted
Houses left clear for them,
In awkward circles they romp
Their peculiar dramas
With ****** wings.

Do they even witness
The skies revolving canvas,
New masterpieces each day,
How the light shimmers
In the sparkle rays of sun,
How the golden fields,
Of vales in sighted sweep
And dance, airy etudes,
By the windfall gusts
So suddenly arising?

These visions are marks
For but few, who hear time
As it plays in stepped quartets
Of the spiraling seasons song,
For the lone mercies, gifts,
To ones most gentle, merest,
Spirited eyes who gaze deftly,
Deep in sacred days,
From a window.
Lucas Mock Mar 2016
Dark stormy unspeakables
form eclipses of the shining sun
and the sarcastic ecstasy of a drained emotional high, of cutting veins
while scathing shards of soul
are struggling against the unearthly cyclone,
in conjunction with dirt so mundane
form a manifesto of fire
to drag the heathen into hatred
scorch the earth to raise
a plagued farm of scuttling scarabs
beneath the morphing skin
of diseased brain matter
splattered on canvases.

The cosmic cantatas of hope's celestial voices
coldly calculate into oblivion
while hordes of thunderstorms
in calamitous cacophony
set fire to the wilderness
food to fuel the demons
that crawl into our eyes and retinas
moving our nerves like we're marionettes
severing the stockpiles of memories in our psyche
forcing forgetfulness and ignorance
upon our fretted, filtered minds
and make us fail to recollect
those sunny days
hiding behind the army of darkness
singing etudes to unknown questions
praying to the eternities
or maybe begging?
If you feel like this can be edited at all, please say so. Your criticism will be appreciated a great deal. Thank you!
Aztec Warrior Oct 2016
Complete**

A song
         simple
     in the emotions
sung as melodies,
     woven
into the fabric of time
drifting along the edges
    of a night sky
and into your heart.

A simple song
          we are
sung
     in widening circles
     dance
continuous and complete
     in lover’s ache
defined
     as in your touch,
     fingers speak soliloquy
and I create etudes,
     opus and symphony,
     my love to you.

We are a simple song,
a rainbow, colorful
     complete.

Aztec Warrior/redzone 10.11.16
(Note: written after watching an art film- “Youth)
....thanks for reading...  music is from the movie..
https://youtu.be/UCVnFUUI6X4
Seán Mac Falls Feb 2016
Scurrilous birds fly by,
To nest in the little painted
Houses left clear for them,
In awkward circles they romp
Their peculiar dramas
With ****** wings.

Do they even witness
The skies revolving canvas,
New masterpieces each day,
How the light shimmers
In the sparkle rays of sun,
How the golden fields,
Of vales in sighted sweep
And dance, airy etudes,
By the windfall gusts
So suddenly arising?

These visions are marks
For but few, who hear time
As it plays in stepped quartets
Of the spiraling seasons song,
For the lone mercies, gifts,
To the most gentle, merest,
Spirited eyes who gaze deftly,
Deep in sacred days,
From a window.
Who is buried under the rock
It's a friend of mine, in Barros
Walloping scallops in French Kitchen, cradling reserved Paris
In the free, memories are made often
Of these great following, greetings today
Now tomorrow now comes yeses and sclera
Is a rocking soup, in the full stomach, day after and after

Hue, in the colorful streetlight
Imagine the night of the thunderous clap, when the fly is a ****** hull
And it just hit me, and I kicked the dirt, you're life has to full of sons
If I had music like this ramble on the porch, bleeding by the fire with the letter of tout wheatish complexion
By the dog who waits on the Mitya and Alyosha is your friend in the thought that you will survive the thing that stays after that is what survives in my mind, the Ivan remembers you in his searching elegant looks

Hooking for readable pages that him to a crime of the senescence wailing, waters won't come back again tainted by the hint at the story and talk oh human nature and passion, a bold letter took from your open book, now strewn hanging in the room

Even when I'm in the drunken haze in the clear, swarthy and dressed, lilies wilt in cold art nouveau, talk of colorful tambourines
Dietrich, Lithuania rebarbative is not subjective
Folgen Sie nur auf der Ersten unlike this we search for some facts between the lines of anticipation of something crawl from under
Auf Wiedersehen from the sending  halls that for romance was once, breadth, lengths to go if you're in dearth sickness and you just keep looking to change how you react
Now, you don't even attract me anymore with stories of Lithuania and unspoken in the loveliest languages, how slovenly though
In need for love, drugs can keep this warm, the finding a drunken haze in drugs, ******, are we arriving at the naked frumpy girl or your heaven's in crisis

Hue in the callow streetlamp, your glib about Ibsen, and talk of centuries and blazing etudes that your soul collates, a thrilling merit
When they told her, that she was "yelling."
They asked her to stop making the noise, forgetting that it was music once
They saw the determination in flowery spokes, that follow the sunflower
Parallelogram van in the dim light, strong verses terse hearses
Towers calls and church were we young once, are we full of ourselves
And becoming romantic, philosophizing on knowing you and I
We must have a purpose to do this, applying and ousting ourselves of comforting minnows yarns of jocular joints cracking by the Thomas Munroe book and fireplace, trust the recesses of your mind they aren't distinctly, but, a warm gun
A free drug and Englishman couldn't prevent the brew from brimming
The drudgery of a different time and passion
Time machine, wheels on fire that talks to us and also tells us to sleep, making sure that we keep a mindful eye optioned out of the dinner sleep and talked about that
Well, we are titillating, scintillating, coruscating, shiny friable animated
Frisco bay, curiosity in the shell-shock of the freedom that talks of captivity and caitiffs, call me a coward
We are soldiers in the prisons of our mind, except most of are in the kitchen making the derelict talk, a black cat crosses the street
Talk, and talk, then the electric silence missionaries, a tabled missionary serving food to the few toward the city in pursuit of the curious one.
Zhavaed Haemaed Nov 2021
Life happened to me

As I listened to etudes
And read philosophy

As I smoked
A few cigarettes m
And ate a lot of rice

As my beard turned grey and
my hair had to be dyed black

As my love matured
and i matured with it

And
I let it happen to me
sweetgrass encasing your soul
salvaged by streetwalkers barren as the road we came on
we broke the speed limit for pedestrians
as ****** equestrians chased our shadows home
joking, we laughed at the bones that framed our photographs
i see elephants in your tone
honorary delegates to the symphony’s throne
violins voicing interludes that are out of tune with young mermaids
who create splashing inversions upon musical modes
your composition sheets hold my soul in throes of solitude
resplendent hues on the emptiness of nocturnes, etudes and poems
Seán Mac Falls Dec 2017
.
Scurrilous birds fly by,
To nest in the little painted
Houses left clear for them,
In awkward circles they romp
Their peculiar dramas
With ****** wings.

Do they even witness
The skies revolving canvas,
New masterpieces each day,
How the light shimmers
In the sparkle rays of sun,
How the golden fields,
Of vales in sighted sweep
And dance, airy etudes,
By the windfall gusts
So suddenly arising?

These visions are marks
For but few, who hear time
As it plays in stepped quartets
Of the spiraling seasons song,
For the lone mercies, gifts,
To ones most gentle, merest,
Spirited eyes who gaze deftly,
Deep in sacred days,
From a window.
Sally A Bayan Aug 2021
/|\ /|\
/|\ /|\ /|\
/|\ /|\ /|\ /|\ /|\
   """""  
Whether  composed,
ailing...or up and about,
i'm always roaming
in this untouched forest,
where trees are tall with
inspirations...abundantly
blooming with lovely
words and phrases...and,
i always find you there.

i see you peeking, at the start
or, in the middle,
at the end...even between
the lines of a poem.

you're bound to mind
by indestructible ropes
made from vines and roots
of a durable tree...you seem
to be, unthinkably permanent,
not  even Chopin's etudes,
or Schubert's serenade
could unbind you.

you emerge from buckets i fill
with water, or from the ***
where i make meat sauce...you
rise amongst tangled leaves of
the asparagus fern, or the crisp
and fragrant oregano plants.

there, you dwell pensively
within my forest of thoughts
because............because,
you are the poem,
the longest, i ever wrote.
~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~
~~~~~
sally b


©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
August 22, 2021
Benjamin Reed Nov 2019
i do not Love you any more.

although i did once.

fiercly.

and, i find it humorous
that this is how things
should be.

i do not Love you any more.
and, this will be the last
that i will ever Write
about you.

i do not Love you any more,
because i cannot
remember
what loving you was like.

i do not Care what
odd number of
other men come to
visit your doorstep.

or love you
or you them.

i do not Love you any more,
because where once was
Chopin
and his etudes
now
there is Prokofiev.

i do not Love you any more,
because i am in love with
another;
and she portends
a future.

i do not Love you any more,
because before now
i am not sure i knew
what love was.

not really.

and maybe that's
all the more sad.
Am I playing the guitar or is the guitar playing me ?
Copyright May 9 , 2021 byRandolph L Wilson *All Rights Reserved
(an All Poetry feat to walk in
the poetic feet of Robert Frost)

Bucolic New England, circa
Early twentieth century New England
awash with dynamic harmonic leisureliness,
when much of North America favored rustic

visual whirled wide webbed watercolor
waiting afield at dusk, the thrum
of nature all abuzz didst feed thine
dizzily green jovial mien

unlike mean Gary Lewis
veritable innocence and naiveté
rollicked with mine lanky frame
relishing ambling into my own quietude

an infinite breadth, length and scope
of infrequently trammeled near ******
woodland paths grown over with brambles
nonetheless a faintly trussed harbinger

marked by weatherbeaten
for sale signposts
with here and there an abandoned plow
long since given over

to rust when the pasture
seasons elapsed since
farmer(s) left unharvested
fecund fields absent

the cloven hoof,
and deprived enrichment
manure, sans ungulates
ceased sufficing healthy

free ranging bovines,
where etudes punctuated
the terribly gross fresh air,
now no longer audibly quickening,

snapchatting, nor twittering
with the last word of a bluebird
deathly silence now 'cept
the wind in the willows

whispering woebegone laments
tree tops pining to cradle
idle youthful dreamers
boughs devoid of

psalm quivering romantic songstress
clattering debris merely
delivering echoed whooshing refrains
continually disintegrating among

in a disused graveyard
prescient ken aches with nostalgia
hallucinogenic nightmare slams
irrevocably shut the door in the dark

closed for good upon the onset,
wrought genocide against
the vanishing Red man,
a ghostly scarification meaningless ritual
wrested, removed, and highjacked

from indigenous peoples
without rhyme, nor reason
as fraternities no
longer pledge allegiance.
Finding lost lamps in the endless river
Finding lost paths in the endless sea of shiny slivers
Superimposed by cherry blossoms looking to get red, falling like the samurai wind
A metaphorical sword in the word of the kicking and rolling with the deracinated punches
Leers and steers, queers and the prayers comin' in the firm hands and the strutting souls that just can't make it through
Trembling and positive rhapsody, heartbeat flows through these terrible feelings with ease and rough edges
That gives me some relief in the ruins of a time past and has gone ne'er to wait on the cusp of time
The temerity of the weak people gets on the nerves of the patient who wait to test time
Loving you is like a trap, and the journey ends up in the faintest memory
These are things that make the spring lust, undermining everything that I remember

The sunset line can be mistaken for this road of hopeful faith
And opportunity comes with it, and some lost souls find their destiny awakening
Impression and departure, it's just case of arriving somewhere but here in the future of adversity
Fickle lady luck you've made my life, a metaphorical world
Just for a metaphysical girl, in case I just forget
How funny it is when life is times in perspective
Adding a soundtrack too can make it or break it
etudes, classical violins and broken dreams in this town of blue notes and thick smoke and purple groove
Haze doesn't work as a substitute for connective interfaces
Freedom to bucolic cygnets too truant to dream desire and demean
Swimming in the pool with the same ducks and ugly as cracked places
Traces of you, smoldering smitten semaphoring thoughts of someone close to you

Killjoy, repeat joy, you don't say; tell me more about your bebop and hip pop
Hip hop doesn't stop, until the groove is gone and the night as right
I guess I'm to blame for that rap music
Trepidatious isn't it being surreptitious, sounds silence in the dancing dark
Your mountain dog helps you awake in mended ways of a villainous version of systems and resuscitated governments
Of hootenanny, heralding the vernacular and jokes and veritable wine of aged humor, the dogs of the military take it all
Sharing it with the slightly avuncular makes it singularly appealing

Like a rat crossing the vegetations to look for slavery
Forging the plots of the bubonic pathos of plagued souls
Logical isn't how the rebirth died with a topical topsy-turvy thing called metaphors and teenage angst
Tranches and branches, stigmatize these sprigs of hovering forest of the streams of streaming rivers through the Conrad lands of radiance and splendor
Reminding of madness, barren words of the baroness, iridescent memory
Telling us only time could wait for us, and tell us to fly above all these vermins and scar tissues
Sermonize and call the heaven-sent, and ask for destiny awakening, in the crimson red, celestial bodies that resemble celadon
Love is true, till is you, that flows through the river in you
I could tell you till my face is a different hue, I dream of a better time in this place called reality
Reminding myself everything is in reverse, and distant memory is just the closest feeling I recount when each iambic meter states the verses of this timeless life  
Remember from the blues and the acropolis and metropolitan incriminating, all these people going across like fleeting figures of the literary imagination
I could care less, and leave this city too, this is a thought I keep
If I could run away from this destiny too if I wasn't sleeping at the new kid's place in this town, drinking on the borrowed time of strangers
Trenchant, turpitude and tocsin is the truth when it comes to freely loading all your murderous cases of reprise and flickering lamps
True is just me that thinks it's relevant to this germane generation following the natural order, calling it the new substance
Simply railing through this blazing road, I'm on fire
Intermission and comes transience
This hip hop is old and so is the talk of condolences, shot rappers for gold and fake names
Riches from rags, to make homes out of the outbound trembling time that scares common time
And talk of immediate memory, and thespian and tulips blossom similarly
Putting on an act, like the midnight pretenders bending midnight spoons
Surmise and I suppose to be yours if I could get over these brighter stars of the darkness
Make your magnum opus with the correction and subjective precision, that you would show an etherized patient
Terse and cursory, you're spontaneity only syncopates with the silence
The redaction of statements would be criminal and I would rather like your writing on some stolen notebook
Grasping and gaping Centauri, releasing gases like the solar chrome horses
Inane and intermittent, aren't these sunshine beams, God wouldn't want me to be a sagacious beam
In the unforgiven law of the supposed religious belief and the dream weavers, make of the same sky we share
They might mistake the distance of the Sun, for God's light shining on cues
So, says the man who sold the world, to the cumulus accord that governs the capricious desert
Surpassing this law takes some law and serfs, breakfast is served by the smurf-head
The sun shines on us all, especially those who have mouths to feed
And don't understand boulders, unsteady tears, and cologne
They revel in the thought of seeing sunshine on their weary shoulders the coalition of the hollow men
Country roads, hitchhiking, I'm lost on road called sunset free street, the straws burning
People ask me, why I never appear on this trailblazing cars and find a hilarious lintel saying "This way for Love."
Suppose, I should tell them that I'm famously private and I don't take rides from strangers and don't lend hands to those without money
Love talkin' about that sometime, honey
Sometimes is never and some semblance of the past that was fiduciary
Smug and shy, I'm not sure that guy brings me some childish dreams and inspired, stirring, and compelling stories
Norbert Tasev Nov 2021
We are all interoperable! Clumps of hair cling to us at the gates of the inner, much-lost Spirit! We dream of finding a home while chasing the way of our selfish career and prosperity! Hypocritical, well-moved moods change everyone into cared-for thank you people! Who nods at the real play all selling himself for kilos and grams and his prestige squabbling! They deliberately subdue the refreshing knowledge, and the nourishment of the more curious spirits can only extend to another private life of Celeb sensations!
 
He who dares to confess in verses, when he kneels down as a sign of his faithfulness, immediately laughs with a simple wave; remains a target! The multiplied phlegm-tangled style is becoming more and more twisted by itself: those who have forgotten the Human Law and who are fair are already trampled on by indifferent arbitrariness. Idiots, giggle-etudes jingle throat-brain, hysterical kittens, whose only desire is to be able to show up in a deliberate-syrupy reality show with a self-promoting *** gesture! - All of us
 
they got lost between two points of light; With Sisyphus architecture, the tabloids and the public media are also constantly thinking about brainwashing! Sick pink will not be a balmy bronze brownness for bombarding bikini fairies lot, but even the teenage chick looks wrinkled in the artificially generated rays of solariums and thus conserved mummies! Even under their enchanting bikini line, vanity cellulite rashes occur! Easy-to-forget bachnalia ****** are struck in a whirlpool jacuzzi; but who can honor immortal love?!
 
Your little one, who has had a cigarette in his angel's mouthpiece, is potted in darkness, and irresponsible carelessness can give birth to new criminals.
Norbert Tasev May 2021
We are all interoperable! Clumps of hair cling to us at the gates of the inner, much-lost Spirit! We dream of finding a home while chasing the way of our selfish career and prosperity! Hypocritical, well-moved moods change everyone into cared-for thank you people! Who nods at the real play all selling himself for kilos and grams and his prestige squabbling! They deliberately subdue the refreshing knowledge, and the nourishment of the more curious spirits can only extend to another private life of Celeb sensations!
 
He who dares to confess in verses, when he kneels down as a sign of his faithfulness, immediately laughs with a simple wave; remains a target! The multiplied phlegm-tangled style is becoming more and more twisted by itself: those who have forgotten the Human Law and who are fair are already trampled on by indifferent arbitrariness. Idiots, giggle-etudes jingle throat-brain, hysterical kittens, whose only desire is to be able to show up in a deliberate-syrupy reality show with a self-promoting *** gesture! - All of us
 
they got lost between two points of light; With Sisyphus architecture, the tabloids and the public media are also constantly thinking about brainwashing! Sick pink will not be a balmy bronze brownness for bombarding bikini fairies lot, but even the teenage chick looks wrinkled in the artificially generated rays of solariums and thus conserved mummies! Even under their enchanting bikini line, vanity cellulite rashes occur! Easy-to-forget bachnalia ****** are struck in a whirlpool jacuzzi; but who can honor immortal love?!
 
Your little one, who has had a cigarette in his angel's mouthpiece, is potted in darkness, and irresponsible carelessness can give birth to new criminals!
Norbert Tasev Jun 2021
We are all interoperable! Clumps of hair cling to us at the gates of the inner, much-lost Spirit! We dream of finding a home while chasing the way of our selfish career and prosperity! Hypocritical, well-moved moods change everyone into cared-for thank you people! Who nods at the real play all selling himself for kilos and grams and his prestige squabbling! They deliberately subdue the refreshing knowledge, and the nourishment of the more curious spirits can only extend to another private life of Celeb sensations!
 
He who dares to confess in verses, when he kneels down as a sign of his faithfulness, immediately laughs with a simple wave; remains a target! The multiplied phlegm-tangled style is becoming more and more twisted by itself: those who have forgotten the Human Law and who are fair are already trampled on by indifferent arbitrariness. Idiots, giggle-etudes jingle throat-brain, hysterical kittens, whose only desire is to be able to show up in a deliberate-syrupy reality show with a self-promoting *** gesture! - All of us
 
they got lost between two points of light; With Sisyphus architecture, the tabloids and the public media are also constantly thinking about brainwashing! Sick pink will not be a balmy bronze brownness for bombarding bikini fairies lot, but even the teenage chick looks wrinkled in the artificially generated rays of solariums and thus conserved mummies! Even under their enchanting bikini line, vanity cellulite rashes occur! Easy-to-forget bachnalia ****** are struck in a whirlpool jacuzzi; but who can honor immortal love?!
 
Your little one, who has had a cigarette in his angel's mouthpiece, is potted in darkness, and irresponsible carelessness can give birth to new criminals!

— The End —