"gigs" poems
I never really wanted to have an agent
Just one day I met this lady and she starting arranging my gigs and stuff
She gave me this kelly green handkerchief and told me to wear it in my left back pocket at all times
I have followed her orders religiously and now own more laser discs than all my friends combined
Do you know where the Trinidadian bakery is?
I'm supposed to meet the paperboy there and give him this pencil case
May the black cats of January be afraid to cross your path
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 1:11 AM UTC
Doctor Ponsonby’s Patented Empowering Electrical Rosary
*This ilke Monk leet olde thynges pace,
And heeld after the newe world the space.*
Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales
How out of date are simple wooden beads
An upgrade is what the Rosary needs!
Something to give your meditations spice
Connected to your electronic device
Beamed back and forth to The Cloud, you see
With mega-mega gigs of memory
Doctor Ponsonby’s Patented Empowering
Electrical Rosary is just the thing!
The Ave Maria is so out of date
It’s Ave ME now, ‘cause we’re all so great!
Make your prayers less about God, more about you
Signal yourself through sacred Tooth of Blue
A camera hidden in the crucifix
Enables you to take your selfie-flicks
The Pater beads count each joggery mile
Or kilometres if those are your style
The Ave beads are recycled with care
To save the forests, the rivers, and air
Designed in Germany, made in China
High-definition beads; there’s nothing finer
Buy the first (as advertised on tv)
And we’ll send you a second all for free
Remember: for weddings, funerals, and daily devotions
Let RAM and ROM go through all the motions
Doctor Ponsonby’s Patented Empowering
Electrical Rosary – O make it sing!
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 7:24 AM UTC
If society was a person
it would be a girl with
perfect hair.
If society was a person
it would be a burden too heavy to bear.
I society was a person,
it would have rotten insides.
If society was a person,
it would be a Rottweiler
or a runaway bride.
If society was a person,
it would be a student
and ideas it would seek.
If society was a person,
it would be as sharp as a mountains peak.
If society was a person,
it would smell like sweatshirts and gigs.
If society was a person,
it would hide behind colourful wigs.
If society was a person,
consider it suicidal.
If society was a person,
its acts would all be genocidal.
Society is a thing,
heinous but misunderstood,
Society is ruined,
like the embers of burnt wood.
We broke it
Not bothered to fix it
Want to know it
Want to change it
Go and understand it
Change it
Break it
Make it
But I’m just a writer,
What should I know about it?
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 2:25 PM UTC
Washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning
The work is never done!
Lunching, shopping, relaxing, reading
I’ve heard is much more fun.
Sweeping, mopping, dusting, shining
Who thinks up all these gigs?
But what I really want to know right now
Is who left open the barn door to let in the pigs?
Mowing, weeding, trimming, seeding
Are mans work, but I’m all on my own
I gave birth to a virtual army
But housework is their No Go Zone!
Yelling, screaming, crying, keening
Achieves naught but my puffy face
I’ve given up such futile exercises
That puts no one in their place.
I hear “Can you help me please”
They hear “Blah Blah Blah”
Maybe I need to learn sign language
One gesture can go so far!
To this end I have ultimately decided
And I really do think this is for the best
To sit right down with drink in hand and
Let the little piggies wallow in their own mess!
24/07/2010
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 5:56 AM UTC
Thinking that maybe there is music on planets other than our own
With different tones that we just can’t seem to hone
And instruments like triple necked trombones made of recycled robotic bones
Rockstar aliens playing in bands and doing gigs on planets in neighbouring zones
A gigantic galactic space tour to call their own and silver and chrome skyscraper cities to rock and roam
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
The Super Heroes of Rock!
There’s a little person named Gem, with a banjo in his hands;
But he’s too drunk to play.
There’s a guy with one arm and he’s slamming the drums
And I think his name is Dave.
Jenny plays the Bass, with a rash on her face
And she’s going to die today.
The lead guitarist (Jimmy) has no legs,
But he always tries his best.
But his lack of fingers and thumbs,
Is starting to become a pain
And the fact I can’t sing!
Well it doesn’t mean a thing,
Because we’re not even getting paid to play.
No we’re not, getting paid to play.
Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we came to save the day.
Yeah we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we came to save the day.
When Kurt decided today was the day
And put a bullet hole in place of his face,
They called the Super Heroes of Rock!
To come and save the day.
And when Black Sabbath crashed the plane
And Axl cancelled the show again.
They called the Super Heroes of Rock!
To come and save the day.
The little person, Gem, he used to sing,
But a girl named Lisa broke his banjo string,
So now he simply comes to our shows
And joins us up on the stage.
He used to be the ladies favorite,
But now he’s lost all of his confidence.
Because he hit the bottle hard
And he hasn’t been the same since.
But we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we’ve come to save the day.
We’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we’ve come to save the day.
And if there’s nothing else I can say,
I guess we’ll just rock the show our way.
Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we came to save the day.
And ladies there’s no need to fight;
Just come and form an orderly line.
Then come and be the bands groupies;
With us back stage.
And the fact that I can’t sing!
Well that doesn’t change a thing.
Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we do this voluntarily, anyway.
We jump into empty gigs slots,
When a band’s singer has lost the plot.
We’re the rehab missionaries
And we don’t get paid to play.
Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we’ve come to save the day.
Yeah we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we came to save the day.
And if our music isn’t your thing;
Well we already know we stink.
But we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we only came to save the day.
Could you give us back Jimmy’s false legs?
He only wanted to try and crowd surf.
Things are already bad enough for him,
What with the leprosy and he’s just lost his girl
And I think Jenny has died,
I can see Dave’s put a drumstick in his eye.
But we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we’ve come to save the day.
Yeah we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we’ve only come to save the day.
Yeah we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And our music will never be stopped.
Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we’ve only came to save the day.
(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 5:02 PM UTC
When you're a writer, you get invited to strange gigs
sometimes, where usually, the audience is arty farty
or even a bit precious and pretentious.
You know, the blue rinse set.
But I was once invited to recite poetry in a bar,
where I knew my audience might be ******
or maybe even abusive, and wouldn't give
a **** about writing.
Yeah? Well, I'm a bit of a word warrior, really,
so I didn't back off.
I stepped right in for the fight.
I said straight up that my poem was especially
for people like them who thought that writers are
wishy-washy, woffling, **** weak and luke-warm.
So then I said,
PPPHHHaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrtttttttt.
Very loud.
I told them this was some royal raspberry,
just for people like them,
who thought this was going to be another boring poem.
And then I threw in a few words like, ah, **** doggy fashion,
finger up the **** you know, just to liven things up.
I told them what I really thought.
***** You! Especially seeing as how you think poetry’s
some wimpy, bleeding heart, limp **** stuff. Right?
So let's get right down and ***** here.
Which is much more interesting, eh?
And do you know what that says about you?
No? You bleeding, blinkered, blind-as-bats
broomstick-up-the-arsed, boring, bonehead ********
So don't call this poet piss-weak any more
or I'll hit you bang between the eyes
and up between your thighs.
I've got some things to say you'd better not ignore.
When it comes to words, I'm a gouger and a biter.
I'm a brawling, hard-as-nails, no-holds-barred street fighter.
I'm a writer.
Yeah, well, no surprise here. That made them quieter.
I'd shut them up. So what did that prove?
I'd just abused and confused them.
It made me think, well, why did I bother?
Poems are for believers and lovers, aren’t they?
They don't need me to fight for them in bars.
Poems just are.
Yes,and some of them might live
as long as the stars.
Mike T Minehan
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
Imagine the outrage
If a band, all-male members,
Refuse to play tunes
for the opposite gender.
Imagine the uproar
The venue would face
For excluding a half
of their customer base.
“It’s rank discrimination!”
The ladies would moan.
If the males got to listen
while the girls stayed at home.
Yet the Bulletproof Stockings,
That band that wears wigs,
Exclude guys from their concerts
Not just chauvinist pigs.
“It’s a matter of Faith!”
The girl band members say;
No guys at their gigs!
No men hear them play.
Yet I’ve heard pious Pastry chefs
Don’t get to choose.
If gay brides want a cake
It’s a crime to refuse.
An Orthodox authoress
who published a tome
would be most put out
if male buyers stayed home.
So if girl musicians
seek public expression
They ought to think twice
about gender oppression.
Its great that they’re keeping
an orthodox home.
But enough of these concerts
For women alone.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
The only reason I ever went downtown
was for music class
or orchestra gigs
or for LA Phil concerts,
but I found this cool bookstore once.
I walked around with you once
during a break between rehearsals
and you asked me if I thought anyone
actually lived here
"LA's just a movie set," you said.
I was downtown for an audition once
and they were filming Batman.
There was fake snow everywhere
and you told me that you and a friend
pretended to have
a snowball fight.
Imagine.
A snowball fight in Los Angeles.
Impossible.
Except when Los Angeles is Gotham
or New York
or Chicago
for the day.
No one is ever on the streets in LA.
Unless LA is Gotham
or New York
or Chicago
for the day.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 7:23 PM UTC
Parents would prefer kids stay away
from these three jobs,
cause as they'd say
*There's no way to make any money.
At least you can sell paintings with art
or hock a few bucks with albums from your music.*
No parents encourage children into any of these gigs,
especially prophecy.
Today, a kid would be fed pills for breakfast
if they expressed any interest in becoming the next Jesus or Buddha.
Suppose Moses decided to go try an open mic comedy night
instead trading his commandments for a set list
but I bet his adopted parents would have lectured him just the same.
At least Moses would have gotten a few laughs.
The job descriptions are strikingly similar,
just like the outcome
a 50% chance the audience will applaud and chant
or watch you in heavy, maudlin silence... sweating nervously struggling
to maintain a sane face while raucous thoughts of loathing and doubt chew then spit out pieces of heart and soul forcing a confrontation of an emasculated existence for five to seven minute while....
whoa, hi, sorry.
Must've been having a flashback for a few seconds,
forgive me.
There is a difference though,
in the mindset of this trio.
A poet knows they're crazy,
a comic ponders if they're nuts
while a prophet thinks everyone else is just cuckoo.
I can see why parents don't want you to
go near these three jobs,
problem being, it's more of a calling than a culling,
and once it's answered,
all I can say is, well...
good luck.....
have fun.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
there are vanilla scented candles
and plaid scarves,
acrylic paints of every ******* colour
and wool socks,
a closet full of pretty dresses
and a bookshelf full of good reads
but I’m not happy
there is laughing
there is smiling
there is feeling good
sometimes
but I’m so unsatisfied
with what I’ve got
though I seem to have just about
everything
I have a good mother
I have friends that care
I have blankets
I have good teeth
I have rubber boots
some people say I have nice legs
I have compassion
I have the drive to create
I have trees
I have long hair
some people say I have kindness
I have a bus pass
I have a new job
I have flexibility
I have enough money
some people say I have talent
but I’m unappreciative
and hard on myself
still
there are booked gigs
and improv shows,
interesting conversations
and instruments,
trees and leaves and twigs
and pinecones,
the sky,
the zoo,
the cafes
but I get insecure most of the time
there are long hot baths
and biting nails,
then painting nails,
then repainting nails
and biding time,
then hating time,
then being okay with time,
there are long stares in the mirror
sometimes glares
sometimes there are puffy eyes
there is frustration
in my fingers
in my head
in my voice
at the piano
on stage
being vulnerable in a crowd of cool actors and musicians
fear of being seen
fear of being unseen
fear of doing it WRONG
fear of looking stupid
looking ugly
looking pathetic
sounding stupid
sounding ugly
sounding pathetic
there are dreams of leaving
this city
this head
these people I have known
for what seems like forever
there are dreams of healing
and loving my skin
and the natural amount of fat
that is underneath it
there are dreams out there
there are so many of them
that I’m afraid to wish
that I’m afraid to think of
from caution of them not happening
from caution of disappointment
and loneliness
and neediness,
then purposelessness
there is wanting
and wanting
and wanting
something better
I don’t know what
just something better
but waiting
and waiting
and waiting
for it to come to me
instead of
trying
and going
and getting
it myself
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 4:30 AM UTC
Azzurro
The boots were blue in colour
Painted to look like the sky
And worn by a gal with other things
She was aged 18 to 45
And looked timless ageless
It was the blue painted ex army boots
That she used wore to gigs
Pubs and clubs when she was free
Not working as a programmer
In the Italian civilian aviation industry
The job was boring but paid well
She'd done it for 8 years
Was a legend at the plane factory
The lady who wore her blue boots
Even in the office a different pair
She got results delivered the goods
Had worked on 36 different projects
They simply knew her as Azzurro
The blue booted gal
Aug 27, 2022
Aug 27, 2022 at 5:43 PM UTC
Just outside Toronto,
we'll work coffee shops and gigs
and make this what we want to.
No longer do I hide
behind apathy and equations
that make no sense.
Here and now I have you
after I've waited so long
to make you mine.
Our adventures across the lands
searching for ethnic flavours
will forever dance throughout my brain.
Your arms wrapped around my waist
and your kisses on my lips
will help bury my demons.
Your illnesses will fade away
so much quicker than before.
Now I'm here playing with the puzzle called your heart
in the conscious effort to put you together as you should be
because someone foolishly played the gambler and felt your heart was worth the bet.
Once you claimed you were upset
not suicidal
but still I worried.
My heart was in your hands
and the melancholy thought of losing you
made minimal scars reopen.
Now, just outside Toronto
we work coffee shops and gigs,
making it what we want to.
With the things we always dreamed to have
and the love that no one else will ever understand.
We'll be bitter together, burn the world together as once we decided we would
because the thought once was so intoxicating that we became lustful for it,
and made the choice to create what we wanted, in Toronto, working coffee shops and gigs.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
And he's provocative, a provocateur, a beacon of free speech and foul speech and vague speech and pointed speech, pacing the Conference Room Alamo on the ground floor of the Hilton, testing his lapel mike, asking the crowd of eighty, ninety to move to the front rows, and he mouths something to the photographer, a dreadlock'd skin and bones white boy, and the photographer flanks the crowd, angling the shot to solidify the intended narrative: he is a provocateur, a popular provocateur, a staunch opponent of political correctness (which this bystander must note strangely equates to a champion of hate speech), a former poster child for the alt-right, but—and quoting here—he says, "I cannot be pigeonholed," and perhaps that's it, the secret to his former success, his viral, shapeless nature, a terrorist of language and persona, and perhaps that's it, the secret to his demise, his shape forming, his identity emerging from the podcast ghettos and GOP speaking gigs, and he's on the stage and he's in all white and this is intentional, this is the redemption tour, the other-side tour, and the crowd claps now as he pumps his arms (at this point in the presentation they used to shout, I should point out), and he calls Hillary Clinton "Satan's ingrown **** hair," and the men in the audience laugh and pant and cough, and he spends fifteen minutes on fake news and hit pieces and the nuance of video editing and how liberal snowflakes won't stop protesting his appearances (for clarity here, there were no protestors at this event), and he wraps everything rather quickly (especially for the $150 ticket price) and says he has a minute for questions, and a young man, twenty-five or so, asks for tips on becoming the God King of Internet Trolls, and he, the popular provocateur, says, "Ah. The next generation is coming up from behind."
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 4:58 PM UTC
My work site is climate controlled,
No Pigeons threaten my peace.
Of all of my gigs, this one is the best,
no acid rain scours my cheeks.
Yes, it is boring at times;
stuck in the Louvre, night and day,
but, as I’m a creature of Marble,
I cannot run outside and play.
Instead I’ve become an observer
of the tourists who whisper and gawk.
That girl with nice ***** is from Paris,
that fat little guys’ from New Yawk.
I pose for their pictures for free
as they snap up some memories for home.
My maker, long dead, was the master
who painted those frescoes in Rome.
Its hard to believe that the heirs
of the Renaissance men of my time
have gotten so fat and complacent,
gorging on fast food and cheap wine.
pig like are their fat chubby faces.
They prate like some fatuous child.
They are, compared to their forebears,
like butterball turkeys to wild.
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 7:54 AM UTC
It's the silence that always gets you.
The laughter is a drug and there is no worse a addict than the comedian
Behind the laughter is the insecure person you never see .
It's the empty rooms the miles between gigs it always comes to that next fix.
Those few seconds when I can be everything I'm not the escape is the best release there has ever been.
And as you leave it behind the ego deflates and the isolation sets in were all children in tattered shells called adults .
So fragile the rock that seldom does embrace the sea .
Were all ****** up in are own separate ways.
Behind the laugh at times is the worst place you may ever realize you want to be.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 10:53 PM UTC
Would you smile
Would you speak
Would you look
Would you think twice if she wasn't there
Would you smile
Would you show me love
Would you have lifted your hand
Would you have thrown me
Would you love me
Would you care
Would you take a second thought
Would you want me
If she was gone
Would you come back
Could I forgive
The abuse
The hurt
The bruises
The memories
I watch you
Fight the hurt
Fight the heartache
Fight the depression
Yet you stayed
While she pushed us away
Now your a stranger
You won't even look
Won't even smile
I just want my dad
The man
I looked upto
The dad
I loved
Adored
Treasured
The memories
They won't fade even if I try
The gigs
The laughs
Should i forget
Will you ever come back
Or should I feel
Deserted
Alone
Jan 26, 2023
Jan 26, 2023 at 5:50 PM UTC
once upon one time I had finery
I had Pac Man and a Ps2
I had a computer fast as lightning
that downloaded all the latest games
played them without a pause
and a silk robe to lounge around in
a virtual girlfriend, an I phone that
all my friends drooled over ,
Fifty Gigs of internet Wifi connectivity
and no need for a job, then my wifi
and phone and Rent-a-Center sent me bills,
and even Fingerhut cut me off. Now I am working at Mc D's.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 10:32 PM UTC
there was a little rabbit and he just long to be
a super little rock star living wild and free
he bought a new guitar and some glitter suits
and to be complete some brightly colored boots
ready for the road he took his little van
getting gigs to play anywhere he can
he was getting known every where he played
his plans to be a rock star were really getting made
he made himself a song that he he wrote himself
put in the shops it cleared every shelf
now he was a star a busy little bee
touring round the world for everyone to see
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 9:47 AM UTC
Look, there goes the Alley cat
Hear her strangled meowing
It don't beguile, for it is vile
Much like a sewer flowing
Ladies of the evening
Women of the street
Would blush and be embarrassed
To hear such trick or treat!
I'm upset, cuz I don't get
How that foul mouth can EAT!
But there's a strange compulsion
Which comes like a deluge
Her smiles gay, but don't defray
The *Battle of the BULGE*
Like felines she vocalizes,
Is her life like that?
If she's raw, and long of claw,
Is she like a cat?
How far will she let you?
How far will she GO?
Perhaps she battles demons
No-one else can KNOW
Myself, I can't condemn her
She had substance abuse
But she's not free, cuz she can't see
That SCINO'S not the TRUTH!
And she's a Public Figure!
Little girls look up to her!
She doesn't seem to know this
Did it not occur?
She cusses like longshoremen
Refuses to see
That she's made a grave mistake
In Scientology.
Does she believe they're helping?
This Science of the Mind?
Lord above! If she does
Then she's completely BLIND!
You're responsible, my lady.
Do you know that you teach?
The modern young, and they *become
The little slaves you PREACH!*
Miscavige isn't awesome
Scientology's *NOT "COOL".*
It's wicked beyond belief!
You're being *played the FOOL!*
Whatcha gonna do, girl?
You're an ingenue no more.
Do you doubt? *Gigs DO RUN OUT*
Will you play the *****
"Ah, NO!" You may be thinking
From my stance I shant tumult!
A cow, I'll graze, I'll be unfazed!
There's always the CULT!
But, dear, a storm's a'brewin
A tsunami of *greatsize*
They pamper you and praise you
But it's a *web of LIES!*
What will you do when flooded?
Will you weep and cower?
David's boat won't stay afloat!
It ain't no IVORY TOWER!
Baby, don't you get it?
Or are you just that THICK?
You will die, and then you'll FRY
A moth unto a WICK.
God has a sense of humor
Yep. He surely DOES!
AND YOU WON'T BE PROTECTED.
He don't help folks "just because...
My advice? For what it's worth?
I'll put in my two cents.
Leave that God forsaken CULT!
GET HUMBLE AND REPENT!!!
Sugar, whatcha stay there for?
Their ratings goin' SOUTH
Just believe and you'll receive...
Then, *clean up your MOUTH!*
Catherine Jarvis
aka SoulSurvivor
(C) 3/20/2017
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 5:50 AM UTC
A sheer myst
Of belligerents
Pessimists
Confessionalists
And jobless degenerates
Perpetually in progress
Just kicking it
On the Internet
It's a little bit sick
I just cant shake it
This taste of *****
As I look upon it
Then it dawned on me
I'm also looking at me
In the reflection
Projecting what I see
Deducting
The white noise of irrelevance
And filtering out the elements
Fluxing
With eloquence
And moving into and on with it
The back lit intelligence
Telling me how to live
The plugs are deep
And I take more than I can give
And together we feed
On gigs of distractions
Impacting
The worlds tragedies
Unraveling
At our fractured seams
The web unto me
Unbeknownst to actual casualties
I seem to fiend for the wars
The deplorable horrors
Exploring the contours
Of the obscure
But not to be as it seems
Maybe just to blur the mundane away
Merely may have it be
The fewer the flames
The better the dream
Profane blasphemy
With ******* means
In ***** slavers
Raving in the papers
Of danker things
Printed on the label
In the stables of kings
Pacing the ring singing
From the knees happily
So please
Just disconnect me
Infect me with reality
Push my proprietary
Philosophies installed in me
Over the edge
Make the pledge to disconnect
But I won't
Form the wedge of discontent
But I don't
In this very post
I cast my vote
And hope
For what?
I don't know
Just always stronger than before
And longer in the troll
As the binary flows
Through what I think I know
Even though knowingly opposed
To its rope of coping
Moping from a beam
Seemingly unreal
Spangling from the
Tink ...
Straining to think
And heaving
To breathe
Smiling in defeat
I'll keep clicking
From the sheets
From when I wake
To when I sleep
It's a discatastrophy
Condensing
Collecting
Calculating
And presenting
An electronic me
Unto me
Without grief
And seeping
Through the screen
I'd scream
But not one would hear me
Help me?
Help yourself ..
The interconnected me
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
Sounds swarming
But quite alarming
College babes
Like___ Slimfast
Drink___ fast
Loves never last
Dorming ****
X box Assassin Creed
Video gifts Elfering
Twitter featuring
The Rattlesnake
*********
My sweet
surrender
Sangria
stuttering
Big mistake
The sangria
Clever mastering
The place was
bugged
That Drunk
No comedy act
Ben Stiller
All Gigs **** her
GIF ruff stuff
Gold digger bluff
Hangover cliff
Her bedroom eyes
Tonight the
Holy water
I phone Maria
Sangria suits him
Just the ring fighter
Ratfinks website
White being
creamed
Drink Kahlia
I won't
My dream drink
Sangria
Saint
My love, you ain't
He is singing
Maria
Strong hangover
with mudpack
Malaria
Drink playmate
All geared up
Generous Gina
Montezuma revenge
The Saint lounge
Competition
How she flaunts
her drinks inferior
Writing a poem
missing
some fonts
((His Tatoo))
the bomb drinker
Pineapple chunks
Bayou
water ripe ripples
Leftover drunks
Mon Cheri *******
Acting like a Saint
Terri spiritual Rumi
The drink scruples
relationship
sandstorm
Riders of
Morrisons
Heirs of beer
At the dorm
The ((Psychic Alarm))
Your drink woke
you up
****** humor
potential
Sangria
Someone was singing
I just met a girl
named Maria
((Harry Potter Hogwarts))
San Antonio
Met Maria
What a belly wash
Drinking up
Alcoholic Darts
Sanguine
Difficulty
pregnancy
Two lovers
liking Maria
Optimistic
Smoothing in
Sangria
He has
a Margarita____*
Mexican
Cancun
Margaret
upbeat
down to her
last drink
Sangria tank
Egyptian Army
buddy drinking
Like a
sandbank
Computer
Clickbank
Lions and coins
sandblasting
Morons
multitasking
Bermuda sounds
Sandpipers
And globetrotters
My Saint
of Sangria
Barcelona
Goddess
On her drenched
Sangria
mattress
She could
have done
his Bio
((That SanAntonio))
((Hostess)) Gia
Lollobrigida
Tony was singing
out to Maria
Her wings
of liquor
The Saint moves
quicker_______
Cabaret stripper
Natalie let me
entertain you
Surprise the
sanitarians
Flipping homes
Drinking up
Their Sangria
My Saint
Bella
Mama Mia
You arrived invite
your friends
No Maria______!!
Drinks on me
Schools out
But Sangria
Stays in we party
Way out
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 8:47 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
Give me your word
That I may push the world
Beyond the the sword.
Tbe silence is silent
And voice of silence
Breaking the iron gate of terror
Shakings coming with earthquake
In bangs and gigs and bloom
With roarings of silence
Then dead comes to death
And life lives to live
As the world awakes in silence!
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 5:17 AM UTC