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"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.
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Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
The media machine and its lack of authenticity
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.
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14
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
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Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 4:38 PM UTC
"Soul" Searching
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
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Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
The Red Ants At His Picnic
“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
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Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 12:59 PM UTC
Texas: “death everywhere, not age or ancient, just an infiltrated lack of life”
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
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Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC
indie music
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
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Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
Archery of Love
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
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Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 5:31 AM UTC
Iconoclasm
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
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26
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.
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Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC
Loving Someone Four Different Ways In One Year
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
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Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 5:11 PM UTC
#1299 : a new & old love poem: I am the summer-man!
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
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57
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.
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Jun 9, 2021
Jun 9, 2021 at 12:45 PM UTC
Sisters
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
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Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 5:48 AM UTC
Iconoclasm Epithet
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
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26
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!
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Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
Library
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
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Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC
vii
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
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Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 12:35 PM UTC
Opening Up to Someone.
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
0
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 2:10 PM UTC
Reading
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.
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Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 4:01 AM UTC
to the piano player
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.
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Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
Variations on Waste Verse (Morning)
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.
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43
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
0
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 12:32 AM UTC
9
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
0
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 2:52 PM UTC
Rants
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
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Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 10:09 PM UTC
I Dreamt Miss America **** Diamonds In My Hands
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
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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.
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Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 4:16 AM UTC
"We are Lobster Trap and we're here to rock your padagonia jackets off!"
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.
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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.
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Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 3:32 AM UTC
oasis soul
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.*
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Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 7:47 PM UTC
BEAUTY WITHIN BEAUTY
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.*
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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.
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Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 3:13 AM UTC
Before The Bartender's Last Call
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.
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(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
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Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 2:28 AM UTC
Big Mouth Surgery
(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
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