"frontman" poems
Just in the pubs and clubs
******* our own gear around
Seemingly, always upstairs
For weddings and birthday parties
Sorting out miles of wires
Well-worked practise
But when those amps were turned on
With an audible amplified thud
As switches are flicked
And their lights gaze like tiny red eyes
That's when I am ready
First number and the drums and bass
Connect to create new heartbeats
And now I'm into it
Not the man in the mill anymore
I'm the frontman for the band
And the music soars through me
As the night goes on and grows
The crowd has grown and is dancing
Gaining energy from the music
And feeding it back to us in turn
Now THIS is being alive
And so it was
By Phil Roberts
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 8:31 AM UTC
"It's good to have a schedule, 'cause then you'll have at least pseudo-legitimate excuses not to do things you want to do even less than what's scheduled. It can also be nice to have a regular rhythm in Life other than your heartbeat and breathing, which, if you're like me, go overlooked enough as it is."
"If I need more rhythm in my life, I play drums."
"You fancy yourself a percussionist too, eh?
Well, for a fellow clock, you're pretty **** sharp!
What the hell you talkin' to me for? You got it already."
"Just finish tuning that guitar already. 'Open Z minor,' right?"
"It's 'drop go-fuck-yourself,' actually. Your mom's favorite."
"Funny, your mom loves it when I bang with my eyes closed."
"Alright, both of you: shut it before I leave both of your moms beggin' for more. After last time, they sure as **** know we bassists go deeper."
"As the frontman and vocalist, all I have to say is that worthy ladies appreciate the guys who are confident and good with their mouths, so y'alls gotta be sure to get in on those backup vocals! Also, before I forget: please ask your moms about my Funkadelic records. When things have gotten a little too freaky, I tend to be in a hurry. Whips, latex, chains, ******* ball-gags, belts, oils, sandpaper, rubbing alcohol, vinyl, blowtorches, candles, wine.. you know how it is: it can be hard to remember everything you leave in the locker at the end of a long day at the gym!"
"Hah, I'm sure. But, like I was saying.. we need to schedule more gigs."
"I already scheduled some more with your m-"
"I know. She told me."
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 2:23 PM UTC
.*i still can't find my generation bv limp bizkit online... that's... just, just ever so bothersome... and what did: the who, ever receive.... oh... right... the sunday times magazine front-cover.... HIS generation... roger daltrey, the Who frontman, on the groupies, the madness of keith moon - and backing Brexit... nice... nice... but i can't search for lim bizkit's my generation - song... this is the part where you pray with the congregation... when the last of the Auschwitz survivors die... hmm... a free world... when the last of the Auschwitz survivors die... hello wowld.*
like burning out
cigarettes on the tips
of your knuckles...
just because...
you're too cheap
to intake tattoo ink.
always a blast with
a blur,
of a remnant scar;
sure as hell
beats taking to
defining self-harm
with inking.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 8:23 PM UTC
The anthem ripped out from the Frontman, the Drummer, and the Bassist,
Making a sound larger than should be possible,
Their anthem ripped out through the old amps,
The music revitalizing the old speakers.
The Drummer hammered out powerfully yet precise.
His feet rattling off like machine gun fire,
His bandana tied around his brow.
The Bassist laying down a metronome-like effect to it all,
Notes swaying and dipping to the tune,
Flaring out occasionally to add more gravitas,
Showing he was still his own musician.
The Frontman declaring to the crowd of transgressions committed,
Of battles won and lost,
But also the views from the other side,
That the enemy may be man still.
A story of agony and anger,
Sorrow and Savagery,
With jubilance for the act of violence.
The Frontman's solo soaring high before axe kicking down upon the audience's heads.
The Agent was stunned,
His dropped drink forgotten,
As he reached for the payphone on the wall
The experience in front of him spurring him faster.
The Band continued,
Their sound crescendoing,
Coming to an almighty peak,
Only to begin it's decent to the earth,
Crashing down magnificently,
Down upon a dive bar in the run down part of town.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 2:32 AM UTC
A hiss as pressurized fuel escapes as a gas,
Fumes escaping into the atmosphere.
The crackling of steel scraping on flint,
The cacophony of sparks following,
A fountain of brilliant orange light.
The ignition point is a dark blue,
As one of the sparks finally ignite the billowing fumes,
Spreading almost instantly,
Eating up the latchkey mixture of oxygen and fuel,
Produced in such a violent reaction was...
a singular light
Its flickering warmth
Dancing across the winds as they pass nearby.
The heat deflects off cold steel,
And soon a change was being made.
The Frontman took forth the Elixir,
The gift of the very helpful spider,
Providing him a way to save that which had been lost?
The Frontman looked at the Elixir,
Multicolored & unintelligible patterns flashing through the post mortem aqua vitae.
The Frontman drove the cure into his body,
Hoping to fill the long bleeding wound in his heart,
Hoping he could just speak to them again.
Too late to realize that the Elixir was gilded,
That the game had been rigged from the start,
The flashing covering up the milky white venom,
And the cure?
A nail in the coffin.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 3:55 AM UTC
It had followed him for most of his life,
Sitting patiently,
Waiting still,
For the Spider knew it would eventually get it's chance,
A cruel judgment bestowed upon him by the fates.
The Spider's legs were long,
It's beady eyes glistening,
Milky venom dripping from a maw of nasty little teeth,
Shivering with anticipation,
For soon it would be time to strike,
And then it would finally feast.
To our hero's who were celebrating,
To the spider they were completely unaware,
Hiding amongst the guests,
Some of them the Spider had been feeding on for years,
But now it was time for a new dish.
The Bassist had turned in early,
The Drummer in another room,
The Spider closed in on the lone Frontman,
Who defenceless and alone was introduced to his doom.
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 11:24 PM UTC
The heros were at a crossroads once again,
But a much different one from the time before,
This one was one where they had not been,
And one they would end up not all traveling along the same path.
The Drummer and the Bassist pleaded for the Frontman to see reason,
That the path he chose only would lead to ruin,
But with the spider whispering its words their pleas fell upon deaf ears.
It is here that the Frontman struck it out alone,
Feeling betrayed upon their refusal to join him on this path.
He was alone now,
With only the spider for company,
Too blinded to it all to realize the dangers upon the road he went.
Jan 26, 2018
Jan 26, 2018 at 12:26 AM UTC
As time went on,
The days grew long,
And the struggle for The Frontman grew ever greater.
Feeling adrift in time,
Without a map or compass,
The spider ensnared him further still.
It whispered wicked things,
Full of malice and hate,
Corrupting the Frontman wings,
A cruel arrow shot through him by fate,
A great gift tainted by the spiders poison.
Like a volcano that lay dormant,
For so long it seemed almost forgot,
But after too long it exploded,
The target of it all were those that were adorant,
Tearing asunder all that it sought.
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 11:51 PM UTC
The Agent stood on the corner,
Smelling faintly of bourbon and stale cigarettes,
Loss and despair.
He was a rising star when he had started,
A keen eye for talent and shrewd in business.
But those times had long past,
For all he had now was the bittersweet yearn of nostalgia and just enough in royalties for a dumpy apartment.
A light rain started,
It's cold droplets stinging lightly on the Agent's reddened nose,
Irking him,
Beyond not just having a drink.
The Agent spots his shelter,
A bar just down the street.
As he walks in,
He shakes loose the rain that hadn't clung yet,
And shuffles over to the bar with hands shoved deep in pockets,
He goes and orders a drink.
It is then that he looks over to see a band getting ready in the corner,
It is then that the Frontman belted out the count in.
And the agent dropped his drink.
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 11:46 PM UTC
The space cadet needs a new face
It has to have fun
It needs to learn how to manipulate darkness
The new space cadet needs to spew evil out of its guitar and encourage the crowd to stomp it to death
The battle between good and evil was a thing of the 60s. The flower children say they 'fizzled out' but the truth is they lost.
Now its all covert.
Now we're spies
Undercover
The flower children's death gave birth to new factions
Star children, spider kids, the punks, etc.
I aspire to create a new faction because I see a lot of people around me who seem lost just like me but every band needs a frontman
Every faction needs someone on the front lines.
Someone so fed up that they snapped at the system. When you do that you need to be careful so you don't snap yourself. Your self confidence and your confidence in your cause must be unbreakable. You must confront the red seas unshaken and bare the brunt of the first blow. I'm not sure what I'm talking about yet but when I do you'll know it.
I suppose my sign will be the buck
All these factions work for the same organization. We are in your books. We're in your music. We're on your television. We're in your breakfast cereal.
God is dead and the devil lives in heaven. Forever working to dillute us.
We live in its illusion.
Jack is in the box.
The black iron prison.
I am recruiting.
I'm in trouble.
I need help.
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 2:16 AM UTC
Their message was sent,
The people,
They had rallied,
And at the front of this force stood The Three,
They traveled far,
They traveled wide.
By now The Frontman was a full adult,
The face of a man you'd trust,
Well spoken and confident,
Ready for anything that could come.
Their faces we're everywhere,
Their voices and sound being sent on all the wires,
Bound for History were The Three,
The only factor was time.
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 7:37 PM UTC
The Three had been delivered into the valley of fate,
it was there that they were armed with only their instruments,
seemingly shrunken in comparison to the valley's reaches.
So it was here they marched on,
their Frontman blazing the path,
the bonds between them strengthened,
through their shared success,
reinforced by shared lows,
when the weight was equally heavy upon all their shoulders.
It was there that momentum was gained,
a confident crew that had just hit its stride,
with faces that hadn't entirely lost their boyishness,
their walks and actions, however, told a completely different story,
for these new up-and-comers.
It was time.
They had to create an epic of the histories,
They had to make an album.
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 1:26 AM UTC
They traveled together,
The passionate group of three,
They stop at a bar to catch their breath.
The Bassist was quiet quiet and aloof,
His lack of words offset by the weight of each one,
On the rare occasion when he'd throw in his two cents,
His sound was emotional and true,
He spoke without speaking,
With tired eyes,
And a half crooked smile.
He drank a Guinness from a clean pint glass.
Next was the Drummer,
Bobbing his head to a tempo only he could hear,
His sound and energy was like a locomotive engine when he gained momentum,
He would play through a ten minute intermission if let to his own devices.
His eyes were as sharp as a hawk,
Darting to and fro,
His expression of a not-quite-there-frown,
More of a look of constant boredom.
He drank some pale beer that was probably half watered down to start with from a dingy glass.
And at last we have the Man,
Who was now the Frontman,
With a well-worn guitar,
He was dedicated, but haunted by the fear of failure,
But fear can still be used to fuel a sound,
Adding an edge of importance to his words,
His eyes are closed, however, to better concentrate on the sound coming from the old and battered jukebox,
A blank face is his,
Indecipherable to even those who knew him best,
He drank a bottle of something local,
From a bottle,
With just a pinch of salt.
May 27, 2017
May 27, 2017 at 11:25 PM UTC
Objective upon objective,
They stack one upon the other,
Higher and higher indeed,
Until a snag scrubs it entirely away.
A new stratagem was needed,
A long term goal to help better align the rest of your life,
But steps must be taken,
And too soon they always pile up,
And the stratagem must be cast away.
This continues onwards,
Farther and farther,
Leaving The Frontman awash in an ocean of grey.
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 9:56 PM UTC
Silver tongued bandman jamming on a six string
Silver lunged frontman
Making their ears ding!
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 7:18 PM UTC
I understand it wouldn't work.
And trying would make it bad.
A band can have two guitarists
but only one frontman, it's sad,
really, but I understand why.
Oh, friend of mine, carry me to
acceptance, when my feet hang,
dangle, when my legs lose angle,
push my body overseas, take me
to a place of peace, and island in
between, nothing to be seen, but
waves and clouds, colliding, turning
into one.
I'm not telling stories anymore,
what is wrong or what is different,
what is better, maybe left indifferent.
I told stories to fight the bore.
Unique, feeling, pursue that,
pursue it with passion as your
driver.
Wipe it off, use the doormat.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 8:29 PM UTC
Just in the pubs and clubs
******* our own gear around
Seemingly, always upstairs
For weddings and birthday parties
Sorting out miles of wires
Well-worked practise
But when those amps were turned on
With an audible amplified thud
As switches are flicked
And their lights gaze like tiny red eyes
That's when I am ready
First number and the drums and bass
Connect to create new heartbeats
And now I'm into it
Not the man in the mill anymore
I'm the frontman for the band
And the music soars through me
As the night goes on and grows
The crowd has grown and is dancing
Gaining energy from the music
And feeding it back to us in turn
Now THIS is being alive
And so it was
By Phil Roberts
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
Their first gig,
Where they were headliners as opposed to being the opening act.
It had been a couple of months since they had formed,
And a couple of times they had almost lost their way.
But find their sound they did,
Improving all the while,
They had transformed into a solid opening band,
But no more,
It was their turn to shine.
5 minutes out,
The jitters were settling in,
The Frontman took a swig from his luke warm beer,
Trying to calm his shaky nerves.
The Bassist in the Drummer shared an amused look,
For they had been there before.
It was time,
The stage lights for the place burning bright,
And it is here that they tear into their first song with gusto.
Heartrendingly honest and raw,
For the Frontman it was a releasing of demons,
That held him back in the past,
Their hooks in our protagonist's flesh being ripped free,
The weight being lifted from his shoulders
The Frontman was finally set free.
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 1:12 PM UTC