"genre" poems
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine.
At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal.
It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity.
(A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds)
A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past.
Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre.
Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators.
I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success.
However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative.
A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message;
Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages.
To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past!
Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors!
Purcy Flaherty.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
What is a "soul"?
Seriously, what is it?
Ambiguity obviates all simple and complex definitions.
If "souls" do exist,
I suppose my "soul" is transmogrifying,
Transfusing the screen.
The key is Transition
Of a remote position.
Maybe someday a scientific physician
Will invent a tracking device to track its travelling distance?
Sounds sort of like a Stephen Spielberg novel
The genre of science fiction
Or is it?
7/18/11
(c) 2011 Brandon Antonio Smith
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 4:38 PM UTC
The Red Ants At His Picnic
Her pillow eyes gleamed
at his advances,
inching along slowly.
His anteater likeness,
rising,
coming to an anthem,
frolicking on her picnic,
on her mound,
hoarse and hungrily.
Rendevous antics to form.
Wave after wave,
the red ants at his picnic,
dancing,
dancing like there's no tomorrow,
seducing him in further.
He,
so antsy,
anticipating.
In his genre,
happily along,
on her trail,
like a hunter,
taking her welcoming little red colony,
to kingdom
come.
To ******* come,
where her castle and moats succumb,
relenting,
saluting to his anthem.
Where soon white clouds a bursting,
blue skies emerging.
The sublimity and antidote holding on,
holding on to her picnic.
And the rocket's did red glare,
the bombs bursting in air-
together,
to gather.
And there they were ... chaos, abuzz,
lyrical
then calm.
Sustenance drawn on their faces.
A slight breeze runs through the grass
the red ants at bay.
Logan Robertson
4/17/2018
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
“death everywhere, not age or ancient, just an infiltrated lack of life”
a puzzling, troubling line in a personal message,
instantly isolated for further review,
needy indeedy for a second medical opinion,
for it’s a description of two,
an actual place and a state of being
a place where death seems more commonplace,
not from agedness or honor,
but from a madness drunk from a special cocktail of
heat, guns and pseudo-rock stars, with beer chasers
imbibed by those who imagine themselves INRL
in a movie genre of specialized urban cowboys,
subset horror flick,
self-appointed angels
part of a world view
so pervasive that it infiltrates the mental water supply
and modifies the pure children early on
demeaning existence, with a sense, a sendup,
life is unreal, cheap, so taking it-is ok,
justice delivered, for we angels,
are subset,
angels of death
in a country where
seven out of ten believe in angels,
and one in four confident that
the sun revolves around the Earth
look to blame
polluted water
the ever-overheated atmosphere,
bringing typhoon and storm,
I do not know
*how be sun and water,
the essences, the originations of all life
today come to the planet days still
clear and warm,
yet can not infiltrate our personal mystery,
respire, re-spark the notion of the spirit,*
the simple sanctity of life peculiarly human
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 12:59 PM UTC
indie music
dancing shoes
indie music
doesn't cure blues
it starts them
indie music in the rain
indie music standing in trains
indie music for the deranged
indie music for the off-genre-ed
indie music for the off-centered
indie music for mis-fits
that aren't actually
misfits
indie music for the masses
indie music with glassless
eyeglasses
indie music for the misunderstood
or maybe that's all music...
indie music
dancing shoes
indie music
inspires blues
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC
Here is a poem
To a boy or a girl
A specific archer
Or maybe a plain Sport player
What is love?
Is it everyone must have?
In different thoughts
And different genre,
How can I explain?
How do I begin?
In the Archery of Love
There’s a bow and an arrow we must have
And here’s the target face
A mind and soul based
In this game you choose
To be the Archer
Or the target face
When your lover is the Archer
He / She can hit you
Bull’s eye!
The feeling of love
Can already make you fly.
But remember
Archery is a game
At the end
He / She will get the arrow
That hit you awhile ago
You can feel the pain
It’s end of the game
Archery of Love is just a game
So stop crying
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
Ornery odious ordinate ostensive opulence ornate optimal
Motivity meatus meticulous morsel moribund mendacity monstrance
Lucidity lingam loquacity longevous licentious lurid languishing
Votary volition verve venery vector vauntness vast
Talismanically telepathy tantamount terrestrial tellurian transition tractive
Idolatry -ics incus ictus ichor icon icky
Yogi yowl yore yoni yerk yenta yantra
Gimpy gesticulation genre gestational glitch genuflection grandiose
Dastardly douceur denouement denigrational deplorable despicable desperate
Paltry potentate portentous plagiaristic pandemic plenipotentiary plenary
Jouncy jocular jeopardy jettison jurisprudence jaunt juxtaposition
Ramify repartee radix recital rectitude rendition repertoire
Beastly bartizan bodacious belligerent brusque blatant blasphemously
Enmity exigency exacerbation extemporaneous edifice eulogy exoneration
Zoolatry zoomorphic zilch Zephyr zoic zygosity zealotry
Sultry solace subtlety substantiation suborn subliminal sensorium
Unity ultimatum usurping unfathomable uncanny unbridled unary
***** hornswoggle horizon huckster homogeny holistic heuristic
Nugatory notch nostrum notorious nihilism nimiety nimbus
Wrathy wreak wroth wrought wrest wrangle warranty
Artistry autonomy articulation agility acuity asperity acerbity
Keeky kangaroo court kowtow kobold kleptomania kinetics kinesiology
Xylography xenophile xerophilous xylophagous xylem xanadu xenobiotic
Critically credibility critique coercion conjugational conjunctive corporeal
Queasy quasi quantum quintessence quagmire quixotic quantify
Flighty flippant flamboyance faux pas fornicatious fictitious finite
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 5:31 AM UTC
I have loved you in the coldest of snowstorms that winter has to offer,
Felt your warmth through the curve of your lips,
The music of soft fingertips. My body is your piano,
We write a different genre of music when we love.
There are warm rays of sunshine cast over our flesh
And the snow glistens with the light you shine in.
I’ve never felt safer, wrapped in the protection of your arms
During the loudest thunderstorm in the middle of spring;
When the skies are dark and grey, lightning shooting like swords
Against earth’s ceiling.
I’ve held your naked body against my own,
Drawing over the cliffs of your hip bones, the valley of your
Belly button and the mountain range of ribs,
The cage that protects your heart from the heat of the
Summer temperatures that I hold within me, your warm
Anatomy heating my body like the core of earth:
From the inside out.
I’ve ran my fingers through the sweet sweat resting over
Your back, like droplets of dew on a leaf in the early morning
Humidity of summer after a night of making love.
We watch the leaves change color ad stroll softly
To the ground in autumn.
The temperatures begin to drop and the branches are naked
And bare, like my skin in summer while we sleep.
I’ve loved you like the snow that grips the bark.
I am cold, but winter has always been your favorite.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC
a love poem, of new & old,
why I am the summer-man!^
summer is winding down,
sky’s multi blues freezer safe stored in ziplock see thru bags,
marked and named by hue, the where and the when,
so when the eyes finally fail, when the squinting don’t help,
when the good things those good blues aroused,
poems, lush and morning thanks for being alive come-not-at-all,
quite the opposite, these cold blues
may help, to recall why it was worth breathing
summer is winding down,
so am I, the synchrony no accident, time,
the Pharmacy kitchen calendar
claiming another victim, willing or not,
those cars and the blue eyed models,
are now but blurred wishes and hopes, even these words, spoken,
not finger scribed, for the keyboard a
jumbled jungle of alpha-numerical
of confusion hellish and
my sons don’t come to clean up my pathetic messes, sending
their little children, beloved concubines of my heart
the daytime watcher, spanglish her native lingo,
tho single words she’s pretty good at too, but that don’t help much;
the grands, toddlers to pre-teens, the eldest a womanly eight,
tries but soon frustration bored, slips away quiet like
replacing her with her two year old sister, who knows her alphabet
which ain’t an exactly a help, but her five pencils stored^ nearby,
tagged with her name, awaiting her poems, her one true legacy
try to imagine her as a grandmother, farseeing the day when she
occupied this too too hard to-get-out-of-by-myself “easy” chair,
making rhymes with her next-next generational descendants,
faint remembering the silliness sorcery that I secreted in her brain;
zingo, bingo, lingo
tango, ginkgo, jingo,
** ** oh no, oh no!
ashes, gray hairy poppy is a silly,
when he is not a grumpy,
old man all fall down!
which she acts out with giggles galore,
adding a teacup embellishment,
a creme fraiche pearly teeth smile topping,
the day watcher agrees, verrry verrry funny,
but time to me *** and take a needed morning *****
no poppy! no poppy! no poppy!
no nap, no *** no *****
thinking the call out is for her,
stomping her feet in an alternating rhythm and rhymes
I, happy poppy, ecstatics drooling out,
foreseeing the rhyme is strong in her,
get wheeled away crinkled and crackling,
*zingo, bingo, lingo
tango, ginkgo, jingo
** ** oh no, oh no!
ashes gray hairy poppy is a silly,
when he is not a grumpy,
old man all fall down!*
a new genre me of gibberish summertime love poems
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 5:11 PM UTC
Her genre,
Honorable.
Her design,
Respected.
Her character,
Dignified.
Her pages,
Well lettered.
Her story,
Unread.
Like a book, mesmerising,
Yet too often judged by her cover.
Jun 9, 2021
Jun 9, 2021 at 12:45 PM UTC
Finite fictitious fornicatious faux pas flamboyance flippant flighty
Quantify quixotic quagmire quintessence quantum quasi queasy
Corporeal conjunctive conjugational coercion critique credibility critically
Xenobiotic xanadu xylem xylophagous xerophilous xenophile xylography
Kinesiology kinetics kleptomania kobold kowtow kangaroo court keeky
Acerbity asperity acuity agility articulation autonomy artistry
Warranty wrangle wrest wrought wroth wreak wrathy
Nimbus nimiety nihilism notorious nostrum notch nugatory
Heuristic holistic homogeny huckster horizon hornswoggle *****
Unary unbridled uncanny unfathomable usurping ultimatum unity
Sensorium subliminal suborn substantiation subtlety solace sultry
Zealotry zygosity zoic Zephyr zilch zoomorphic zoolatry
Exoneration eulogy edifice extemporaneous exaserbational exigency enmity
Blasphemously blatant brusque belligerent bodacious bartizan beastly
Repertoire rendition rectitude recital radix repartee ramify
Juxtaposition jaunt jurisprudence jettison jeopardy jocular jouncy
Plenary plenipotentiary pandemic plagiaristic portentous potentate paltry
Desperate despicable deplorable denigrational denouement douceur dastardly
Grandiose genuflection glitch gestational genre gesticulation gimpy
Yantra yenta yerk yoni yore yowl yogi
Icky icon ichor ictus incus -ics idolatry
Tractive transition tellurian terrestrial tantamount telepathy talismanically
Vast vauntness vector venery verve volition votary
Languishing lurid licentious longevous loquacity lingam lucidity
Monstrance mendacity moribund morsel meticulous meatus motivity
Optimal ornate opulence ostensive ordinate odious ornery
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 5:48 AM UTC
Library - It is a world full of books
All are interested, whether they are engineers, peons or cooks
Books of all genre you will find
It never fails to attract one's mind
But please remember the Golden Rule
Please be silent; it isn't a sin
Never be violent or else you'll disgrace your kith and kin
You may even make the librarian your friend
And ***** will provide you with books of the latest trend
Harry Potter, The Godfather and The Da Vinci Code
Not that keen? Well you could always try The Princess and the Toad
Books are for everyone; age doesn't matter
Idiot box or reading? I'd rather choose the latter
Whether you want science or fiction
The Library is a world of addiction
Once you pick up a book you will get glued
You'll shout yourself hoarse if anyone dares to intrude
You'll be reading it in class, the toilet or the bus
And when the teacher confiscates it you'll create a big fuss
Oh, Miss please! Just one more page!
It's the ****** part between the pirate and the sage
We should thank Gutenberg for inventing the press and bestowing upon us this boon
Else we'd all still be stuck watching cartoon!
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
capricorn: how often do you love for a second and then forget, how many times have you loved so deeply you've thought it might be to the grave
aquarius: can you listen to their favorite genre of music without breaking down yet
pisces: how many times have your fingers ached and you've felt like it was because of the months you've gone without holding his hand
aries: how many lovers bedrooms have you occupied, how many times have you wanted three words to occupy your bones and make you feel warm
taurus: have you learned not to fall in love yet
gemini: how often do you try to pretend she never happened
cancer: how many times have you sat outside with a bottle of liquor typing in her phone number that you deleted before you started drinking
leo: have you forgotten the way he smiles yet or is that saved in your phone still along with all the text messages you two have ever sent
virgo: how many times have you sat in someone else's car and reached for her hand before realizing she's not driving
libra: have you been able to say out loud that she doesn't love you anymore and not end it with a choking sob
scorpio: how many times have you woken up at 3am and felt around your bed praying to a god you don't believe in that she would be there
sagittarius: do you still hear him in the middle of the night when everything is quiet and you're breaking
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC
I've created a new genre.
Different strokes for different folks.
Colour painted memories,
Written on beautiful flowers
That blossom when only,
Visionary eyes can see.
I've created my own dusk to dawn.
Lost within time itself.
I wake up to the blessing of the morn.
I’m faded by beauty.
Counted by numerous
Living things.
I only can tell that my reality is real,
When your viewing from a distance,
Where you can’t be seen.
I’m distorted by the ambiance,
Because I can feel you’re there.
I’m lost;
Stuck to pins.
My mind’s unclear.
I’ve opened up to my dark soul,
To embrace your loving heart,
I can’t tell the traces,
Of a- once trampled on- broken heart.
So I will love you in defeat,
Until my eyes turn red.
Because I’ve counted many characters,
But your blood isn't theirs.
So I've opened up to beauty,
I lived with the dark,
Only to open up to someone,
That could take away my heart.
© Robyn G Neymour
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 12:35 PM UTC
Aren't books just fun to read ?
To find out " Where does this story lead?"
They are nice to read in bed, let you quickly fall asleep
And then you can enjoy slumbering very deep
Unless you read something which messes with your mind
Then you probably stay up through the night and weep
Just try not to make it bind (you)
Books are an adventure for your brain
Can distract you from all that aweful rain
So read more its good for you
Maybe they even help you though (tougher times)
So please my dear give it a go
With the right genre you'll like it, I know
We can do it together,
Cuddling forever,
Under the beautiful light of the moon
Until the night finds its end soon
~ Umi
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 2:10 PM UTC
there’s a piano player
on the highest floor
who lends a different genre
to the san francisco fog,
the same piano player
whose lonely sound
deepens and blossoms
while everyone’s busy listening
to their own sad luxury.
this is for the piano player
who carves the chore
out of all those stairs
so the burn in our legs
can finally yield to our heartbeats,
the piano player
whose fingers we feel
but cannot see.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 4:01 AM UTC
There should be a genre of poetry called waste verse
tasteless and terse like the khaki pine needles that
litter the space underneath your porch.
a neglected place,
where the broken blue bottles and dew
marry in early morning ,
attended by a congregation of woodchips,
beers cans and
guinea pig ****
dancing easy with the morning breeze,
and carried like the currency of an early dreamer's reverie,
morning.
morning.
morning is gluing a teacup together knowing
that it will be broken tomorrow.
and day by day, the absence in form will grow
until that once teacup becomes nothing but empty space, with
its base designated in place of the back porch ash tray.
when i turned back one day, there was nothing left of its body
nothing left of it that i could see but paint dust, a couple of cuts
and some blood covered by a bandaid that doesn't stay on
because feet sweat a little too much.
morning is repetition for comfort
but breaking routine is
starting to feel more appealing
than keeping it,
because I know one morning I will wake alone,
with a rusted infrastructure and fractured backbone,
and have to look upon a screen with thousand texts that read,
"there are other fish in the sea"
well, **** you, maybe he was my sea.
i mean,
he is my sea,
maybe.
there is a genre of waste verse called poetry,
and the simple syllogism of it all
leaves me reeling.
but after i finish my cigarette over the khaki pine needles
beneath your porch and go inside,
"good morning", i say.
"good morning", he said.
i cannot remember what was so important just a few moments ago.
morning.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
An imprint on your face and my mind,
Your dimples curved like gentle commas
demanding I pause to trace those lines
Between kisses of every genre
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 12:32 AM UTC
We are the stars that you ignore in search for brighter lights to guide you home
Safe and warm and ignorant you stay
We were the children born from orchids, into a meadow
and our lives have dried up, weeds thriving on our desperate longing for home
The only music we hear are the sounds of death: gunshots and screams
the genre that only people who have a warm smile to come home to can listen to at a music store
We are the people of Palestine, Syria, Egypt, Libya, The Congo, Haiti, India, Bangladesh, North Korea
The diaspora who no longer have roots anywhere on earth
we have been dug up and shat out by the soil that we sprung from
Our kin have scratched blood from our skin
We are the forgotten, the avoidees, the people who make you uncomfortable
who force you to leave your little world so painstakingly built for you to live in and die as a result of
Go, live the lives you were destined for while we dream of them
Go, have the freedom you think you have and we think we will get
We are goldfish in a bowl that has never been cleaned
We will never escape
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 2:52 PM UTC
Some of the first mecha featured in manga
& anime were super robots [スーパーロボット _sūpā robotto_],
ultimate, sometimes transforming into weapons
w/ superpowers. They are often one of a kind
products of an ancient civilization, aliens or
mad genius, are usually piloted by Japanese teenagers
& often powered by mystical or exotic energy sources;
Getter Rays, Photonic Energy, Ide, Spiral Power &c.
Sometimes they are formed from
a combination of a few weaker robots;
their abilities described as "quasi-magical";
w/ Miss America becoming less & less
a beauty pageant, it's only a matter of time
before Medusa inherits the mantle;
the revived gods of the ancient world
crossing the rainbow bridge to do battle w/
high-tech monster robots; AI meaning nothing to a flying fist;
Apotheosis, from Greek ἀποθέωσις from ἀποθεοῦν,
apotheoun "to deify"; in Latin deificatio "make divine";
also called divinization & deification;
is the glorification of a subject to divine level;
The term has meanings in theology, where it refers to a belief in art where it refers to a genre;
Defecation is the final act of digestion,
by which organisms eliminate solid, semisolid,
or liquid waste material from the digestive tract via the ****
Humans expel feces w/ a frequency varying
from a few times daily to a few times weekly;
Waves of muscular contraction known as peristalsis
in the walls of the colon move ***** matter
through the digestive tract towards the ******
Undigested food may also be expelled this way,
in a process called _egestion_
Open defecation, the practice of defecating outside
w/out using a toilet of any kind,
is still widespread in some countries,
for example in India, home of the
heroic deities of Hinduism that evolved
from the Vedic era 2nd millennium BCE
through the medieval era, 1st millennium CE
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 10:09 PM UTC
The new Genre Tourist Punk
is sailing the nation.
Hawaiian shirts and white keds are lining up all around Orlando to see
up and thrifting bands like
Lobster trap,
Lighthouse tour and
Dogs welcome.
Founded in a Starbucks
by Toni and Dash,
two MECA grads one student loan away from selling out and getting involved in
the lighthouse painting business,
The Band: Lobster Trap
gave birth to a whole new genre.
TOURIST PUNK
Toni and Dash decided they needed to provide music that was expensive. niche.
Something unspeakably mundane.
With smash hits like
"This traffic is ********
And "My name still isn't Joe".
Lobster Trap is flying
up the American top 40
faster than you can say socks and sandals
Sales of "I HEART LOCATION" merch has skyrocketed with every launched tour.
Crowds of L.L. bean boots and visors are Moshing, breaking poloroid cameras over each others heads in a salmon rage.
old school punk fanatics were skeptical at middle aged middle class suits getting into their scene.
until it hit them that they could now throw punches
at every pedestrian who ever cut them off.
"Hi thirsty, I'm Dad." By Land of the Polite
Has been played more times in the last year then any taylor swift song.
Money once invested in college-bound middle class vacationlander spawn is being wisely spend on bands like "discount Polo",
and "Local Diner"
So listeners.
if you spend an obscene amount of money on travel fair, and over priced, cheaply made souvenirs;
Or Work in customer service thriving to see those leaf peepers choked out by their own ***** packs.
Do yourself a favor.
road trip into your local bullmoose
sporting your states name on your chest.
And Treat yourself to an exclusive new album
of TOURIST PUNK.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 4:16 AM UTC
oasis soul
aches open sored genre of suffixes
or not enough crying alone
right natural science psychologists know
the medications and forms to get the payments
I am drugged amazement willing
to watch
and sigh
dreaming of a good time, dose shelters
the destination
faster than reality.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 3:32 AM UTC
Title : Beauty Within Beauty
Poet : Phyll
Genre : Love/Beauty/flaws
Year : 2018
P/Swno. : 260
BEAUTY WITHIN BEAUTY
As Authored By Phyll
Love,
You stand so bold,
And so sleek.
You have this Beaut...
Beautiful,
Rich,
dark,
And chocolate complexion.
Your smooth,
Chocolate skin...
So smooth.
So soft.
So silky.
So sweet...
So sweet like a piece of candy.
When I try and speak,
My words get so mashed up.
I end up not saying anything!
You give me this sense of urge...
Urgency to be the best...
The best person I can be.
You have this beauty about you,
That i can't go a day without.
I have this chronic disease,
The doctor called it ATAY;
Always Thinking About You!
Even though you are already mine,
You have this beauty about you...
You make me feel warm and safe.
Your beauty is mor...
More than just beauty!
Your beauty is a thing I call;
.B..L..A..C..K. .B..E..A..U..T..Y.
Never fall;
For anyone else!
They'll just hurt you in the end.
Trust me cause for them,
As easy as it was to get you
It'll be even easier to replace you.
Believe me when i tell you;
Your BLACK BEAUTY,
Is not your ideal beauty.
Your beauty,
Is the way you carry yourself;
In this high esteemed way.
That I don't care,
About what you say or do wrong.
Cause to me,
It's what your beauty entails.
The way you make words sound;
So smooth and so good.
You give me this sense;
Sense of protection and comfort.
Whenever we hug,
To me the world is just for two;
Just me and you!
When we make eye contact,
And our eyes lock;
I can feel what you feel,
You feel what I feel?
But I can't say how I feel,
With my words.
We can't say a thing,
This connection is wordless...
I just can't explain,
I just don't know why.
I want to get to know you,
More than I know myself.
Despite the fact that I'm a gent,
You make me feel beautifu...
I felt a certain way for you,
Ever since I first met you...
I don't doubt you feel the same,
Ever since I first saw you.
Just never had the courage to say anything,
But i am now your beholder.
Your BLACK BEAUTY,
Portrays it all.
That's why,
I not only like you,
But i love everything about you!
Feel Special my
.B..L..A..C..K. .B..E..A..U..T..Y.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
COPYRIGHT BY PHYLL
[email protected]
(C)2018.*
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 7:47 PM UTC
An empty pub is the worst place to be,
In a city, Where even gods stay a bit longer every year,
Perhaps persuaded by the halcyon laughter of that half dressed street urchin,
Who has learnt to celebrate her comical existence,
In the pregnant underbelly of a false saint,
Who refuses to give birth to anything but naked poverty.
Small wonder the gods have never chosen to intervene in the city of joy,
After all its the fault of these urchins who refuse to abandon their filthy smiles,
And have the audacity to peak through the walls that we annually paint,
With the victorious colours of human values.
But why do they peek,
Isn't their world filled with the unmatched profoundness of black and white photography?
Isn't their world the home to poetic muses and romantic poverty ?
Indeed, why do they peek ?
Before the label on the bottle in front of me,
Makes you judge the potency of what I utter,
Let me tell you why.
For them our world is a constant theatrical which has run different shows annually,
Yet the only complaint they have perhaps is that the genre of the shows,
Have somehow never changed.
Its always been the darkest of satires,
Like the running satire in which half our society,
Sitting safe within the beautiful walls ,
We built around our indomitable prosperity and culture ,
Indulges,
In the hysterical condemnation of a man,
Who wants to build a beautiful wall on a different continent .
To protect the same
You know, I don't speak urchin-tongue,
But I have always had the gift to read feelings I shouldn’t,
And something tells me the urchins have titled this theatrical,
“Moral ************
But that’s not all,
An empty pub is the worst place to be in a city which refuses to let you give up hope,
And gently reminds you with every drink
That even when the rest of the world is out there dancing,
To the drum beats of happy endings and ephemeral farewells,
There’s one place that will never close its doors on you.
The only thing is.
The place isn’t the home you never ended up building with her,
It’s just an empty pub.
And that is why an empty pub is the worst place to be.
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 3:13 AM UTC
(truck-drivers, bar-boozers, loser-bar yokles, blue-collar rednecks will all love this smash hit song!!!)
Rockin country genre
"Big Mouth Surgery"
(by david John Clare)
(rockin' country drunk hick juke-box mix)
Wow! She sure does talk a lot... could almost cause a riot
But we don't get... just what she's trying to say
We could hear her fine before... when she used to be quiet
Guess all them new school-words get in the way
We took her to see... a gypsy-psychic-magician
But he wanted more... than we could pay
So we took her down to see... our local town physician
And here's what old doc... had to say
Boys...
"She needs Big Mouth Surgery"
Her tongue is on the blink
She just talks, sqwacks and talks some more
'Cause she don't know how to think
So please don't be stallin'
Her brain is now corrupt
Can't you see that she has fallen'
And she just can't ''shut-up!"
Big Mouth Surgery
Cause no pills seem to work
Hurry please now doctor
Before she drives us all berserk
Big Mouth Surgery
But will it work without a doubt?
Better make it a lobotomy
Before she starts to shout!
(solo)
Our reputations are expensive
While her talk is **** cheap
You just can't tell her nothin'
'Cause a secret she can't keep
No one seems to know
What the fuss is all about
We're just waitin' for her brain
To catch up with her mouth
She needs Big Mouth Surgery
Her mind is on the blink
She always talks, talks and talks all day
Why can't she just please stop & think?
So please don't be stallin'
Her head is all corrupt
Can't you see that she has fallen'
Her fat-mouth can't shut-up!
Big Mouth Surgery
We need to find her a shrink
Hurry please there doctor
Before she drives us all to drink
Big Mouth Surgery
She's heard north, east, west & south
Who gave her brain a laxative?
Got diarrhea of the mouth!
Big Mouth Surgery
No pill can take effect
Hurry please now doctor
She is a mental wreck
Our minds: she made us loose
Her words: just seem to ooze
It's so hard: to take a snooze
We just drown all-day in *****
Beer, Whisky, Wine & ***** . . .
To wash away our ear-ache blues!
Yip Yip Zip Lip! ...Yee Haw!
(c) 2009 David Wayne Clare
CLAIRVOYANT MUSIC / BMI
all rights reserved
in perpetuity
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 2:28 AM UTC