"kubrick" poems
the motherships are
hovering overhead
& to the east,
apollo breathes fire
past the ****** off incisors, like
'try &
catch me now'
now,
or never.
to my west I felt nothing
but the most
uncomfortable comfort.
it's just.
too.
much.
becoming barefooted
clouds of dust I run
to the godlight
& in time I find I
also become
disenchanted.
& I'm just freeezing
& my feet are filthy & bleeding
but
anything for that rush
tell me somethin brother
do ya cluster with the others?
are you some
undiscovered color
in the monochrome gutter?
are you sixsixsix seven
aren't you *** & heaven
dost thou seek
the foul
or the feather'ds;
brother of blood
& sweat,
is thou the sheep
or the shepherd?
wolfman.
we want the teeth.
to the tooth, troopers.
how rude;
I can see right thru
that wool suit
all too true to the stupor,
stupid.
don't you know I know you,
don't you.
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 8:52 AM UTC
~
*Black as coal.
Moth or myth?
It helps with the lights out.
And travels by thought.
Cleopatra enters Rome,
Dropping names,
Reciting pagan poetry,
Knocking on forbidden doors.
Nicole sees shadows
Of her former self
Staring back at her,
Rock paper scissors,
The color of three.
Give and take after take
On the burning soil
Of a blurred crusade.
Typewriters
And other assorted weapons
Form white lies and alibis,
Calibrating the dusted variations
Of a caught-on-camera obscura,
It is a dark waltz,
Some small hope still,
Yet there's a comma after still.*
~
Jul 27, 2022
Jul 27, 2022 at 9:57 PM UTC
I broke it off with the love of my life
Two weeks after I started a second full time job
Which would have given me enough money
To rescue him.
When I had told him,
His eyes fluttered away from mine
Like a parent's would
And being twelve years older than me,
I guess he had room to look at me like that.
What do you do when the one person who you care about
More than Kubrick or living
Decides he does not want to
Put you in a position where
You have to take care of him
Even though you've always been the adult in the situation
And you've grown quite fond of it?
What do you do when not even a week after the parting
You find yourself
Growing attached to another walking disaster
Who's body may quake when you touch him
But who's skin crawls with the ghosts
Of lost admiration
Under your fingertips?
In a world where I was made out to be a goddess
I am now just another cog in the bougeouise high-earning machine.
I let love make me it's victim and now
I am the Greek goddess of regret
And I am fascinated by the way men ruin themselves.
He told me he didn't want me to have to be
The person who is constantly drowning in work
Just to keep our heads above water
But I would have walked to hell and back
Barefoot
If it had meant helping him and staying with him.
Today I woke up in the same bed as my new love
And when my fingers grazed his bronzed
And toned back,
I looked for your scar
And it wasn't there
And I panicked.
Tomorrow I will wake up in bed alone
And I will look for my own scars
And I will find them
Stretching across all the skin you caressed
And the heart you left in shambles
And I will rejoice in being home.
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC
It was the rain against the windows
And the moonlight sonata playing
That accompanied my transition
Into melancholy insomnia
In the mid-morning deluge of the overcast sky
The reading of books and Freudian dreams
The watching of movies, Kubrick stare and all
Where emotions are captured and paraphrased
Amidst fight clubs and Fantasia
The Klimt surrealism outreaching from the walls
A lone piano listens, glistens; ripples of time
All dissimilar reinventions
Swirling in the incense smoke rings
Dancing in the flowing spirit air
Free and marvelous among vacant living room eyes
Memories recall the rain of Pasadena
Over rustic-themed modernism for
Eager tourists and the nonchalant few
Whispering words to descend the stairs
From the surface to below where thrusting cocktails reside
Years ago in the same position
But younger than I am now
At another desk with a bleeding pen
Pouring over the torn fickleness and skin I saw
Matchstick men smoking flesh roaches in alleyway shadows
Something hidden underneath the seen frailty
Single mothers courting hairless young men
Cracked anchor teens moving to a beat not of their own
Act of demon from the hand of God
Itching skin and slimy **** for sexes of all;
the men can take a turn in bearing the small.
Tales written from reflection and soul
Those wanderers and solicitors passing over the sick
The dead that laugh and the living that cry
Cold flesh injections stock markets for cattle to imbibe
Like so many humans do
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 7:19 AM UTC
odd. i see two chairs.
one room and one room
keeping the herd
while the nether
keeps the
paired.
a brute union of tough love and apathy
and middle-class *******
chafing on the sun drenched schema
of our dispossession.
like clever lads with epilepsy
only
the lights change
when
the frequency of
your questions
overclock the
enchilada.
the whole thing. baked in alaska.
striking a match
with a land
slide.
but absolutely, "no slide rules ".
every thing
to scale.
so the truth expands as you extend humility.
like an olive branch
in your boulevard
of baroque
naps.
life, is how sleep gets up in the morning. to yawn at the dream.
and
never quite
seem to remember
to tell
but recalls
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 10:21 AM UTC
I'm only interesting
To men who want to discuss Kubrick
And **** after.
In a world where we expect our lovers
To pull themselves under the influence
And sodomized freely,
I expected mine to rise above
And he did.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 3:23 AM UTC
The Burden of Creativity
is that somethings I do
somethings I say or think
won't make sense to anybody but me
let's use for example Mr. Kubrick, first name Stanley
who took 178 takes of one scene grandly,
I'm sure everybody was tired and worn into the ground
but The Shining was one of the greatest movies around
so though this may sound self serving to a point
painting pictures with verbs and drawing landscapes with words isn't an easy way to make coin
but that's the curse of Creativity,
a lot of things Don't make sense, even to me
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
Michelangelo from marble made man,
Beyond Perfection.
An Ultimate image,
as Apollo's Earthrise on Luna,
or Showcase #4.
Germany has it's Beatles,
Just as Liverpool does too,
And I've seen pictures of a wall that stretches the length of China.
Pyramids rise out of the Deserts of Egypt,
The Jungles of the Aztecs,
and the Mountains of the Mayans.
A Colosseum still stands in Rome,
And every temple envy's the ones in Angkor Wot
For every age a legend.
For every actor a role.
For every writer a story,
and painter a painting,
and general a battle,
and architect a structure.
Wright and Wolfe and
Orwell and Wells and
Kafka and Kubrick and
Lenin and Lennon and McCartney
and MacArthur and Patton
and Plato and Dvořák.
There is a perfect apple pie in every mother's mind.
A perfect game in every pitcher's eye.
A work of art around every corner,
Stuck to refrigerators,
And tucked away underneath children sized beds.
Hanging in every high-school hallway,
Spray painted on every highway overpass.
A Planet-wide gallery
as simple as a finger-painting,
As grand as that canyon out in Arizona.
A world full of masterpieces...
But for me...
Only you...
Only you.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
Like outposts of Empire
with synchronised obedience,
instincts are embedded
every command unseen, unheard, but done.
People flee toward and from them
in blind eyed hope,
but they are mere reflections
of remote entangled entities,
engaged and yet repellant.
Giant men shake hands
tectonic plates shift, foundations shake.
Little people reach for each other
and fractures knit together.
Like Kubrick’s femur tossed by apes
our existence evolves and spins,
In time will it fall to dust from where it came?
to lie extinct between two poles.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 8:09 AM UTC
A noite chega, soturna, calada. Os remédios parecem não fazer efeito. Sozinho novamente com meus pensamentos, embalado pelo som do ventilador e das batidas do meu coração.
Nao sei porque ele insiste em bater, parece um esforço inútil.
As horas passam lentamente, como nos movimentos de uma duna. A areia do tempo descendo vagarosamente pela ampulheta. Se ao menos pudesse ver. Me sinto cego, queria eu estar cego?
Minha decepção só não é maior que a decepção que causei.
Não há lugar aqui senão neste papel para a dor, uma fraqueza que todos tentam esconder - por questão de sobrevivência provavelmente. Os amigos poucos que me restam seguem suas vidas enquanto tento ser feliz, ao menos por eles.
Saudade aqui toma outras formas, como uma tortura ao melhor estilo Stanley
Kubrick em “Laranja Mecânica”, em que as imagens passam repetidamente por minha cabeça sem que eu possa fazer absolutamente nada.
Família, amigos, amores, à distância de uma chamada, uma chamada. Para quem ligar, como?
O cárcere em sua pior faceta, o isolamento social. Conto nos dedos de uma mão as pessoas com quem consigo manter uma conversa. Mesmo assim nao consigo conversar, a cabeça e o coracao nao estao aqui, eles fugiram, estão lá fora, espero que a minha espera.
Outro cigarro, mais um café. Quantos mais, quantas mais palavras? A caneta e o papel são meus melhores amigos, às vezes até me entendem. Monólogos em horas, diálogos em outras.
Me pergunto qual seria o limite entre a sanidade e a demência aqui. Se é que existe um, estou eu ficando são ou louco?
Nao era quando cheguei, provavelmente foi o que me trouxe aqui, agora só me resta um caminho a seguir e tenho que achá-lo sozinho.
Não tenho arrependimentos, aqui não há lugar para eles, há agora um só caminho a seguir, em frente! Adiante!
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
As uncompromising and unfaltering as Kubrick
he shook and hung his head
he sighed a question
'what do you know about the temperature change'
even the sparrow wants a taste of dark
in that coalblack shadow.
filter the moonbeams and put a check on your heart
you know where you must start.
in the mirror, through the mirror
through the Looking Glass, Alice,
yes to nourishing carrots
no to drugs and stay in school.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC
Some years ago, on a Monday, I met Joyce at Whitlows.
I bonded with her over bourbon and cokes.
She wore a black dress; sloping V, open back
It clung to her thigh, as though her skin
Was coated in sweets: sugar, honey, syrup.
Her face shined under the light overhead:
Denim eyes, velvet lips, an upturned nose.
She went to G.W.; read Junot; rode thoroughbreds;
Spoke Arabic; ate okra; watched Kubrick.
At the foosball table, I touched her wrist. She touched my arm.
The next day, after coitus and coffee,
I went to my car and found a ticket.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
long
ago
in
another
expired
lifetime
i
diligently
chipped
flint
popping
shards
flaking
away
tiny
bits
using
tools
fashioning
uneven
discreet
blades
to
manufacture
once
off
Clovis
points
to
skin
now
sadly
extinct
enormous
woolly
mammoths
it
was
a
point
well
made
Music Selection:
Opening Scene
Stanley Kubrick's
2001 Space Odyssey
Richard Strauss
Thus Spoke Zarathustra
jbm
Oakland
6/1/12
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 12:17 PM UTC
One day Dostoyevsk talked to me in dreams.
In my early teens, way before the time of my life.
A stripling adolescent,
misspent juvenile youth.
I sat on the roof of the bakery,
reading The Devils.
Over and over again,
until it started to make sense.
Before Kierkegaard,
I found life hard,
no meaning, no dreams came true.
Quantified in my mind,
applied to doctrinal differences I found within,
authenticating the delusions and disorientation of this absurd world we live in.
It all Sartre(d) with being and nothingness.
A cultural movement brought to public providence.
Ominously before I was born,
but I was still torn between being,
and nothingness,
like everyone else.
Distinguishing secular humanism,
rejecting pseudoscience,
apparently.
Now the Blade run’s across my skin.
Married to the cause,
with the force like Harrison,
can you appreciate the retort of
my existential crisis.
We could get lost in the Matrix,
in the “necessary absurdity of the human condition and the horror war”
Like Kubrick.
There’s beautiful new tricks I use to wake up each morning and go about my personal piece of silver screen.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 4:46 AM UTC
99 cents for an iced tea
At the corner liquor store
But when the men in suits came and shut it down
We couldn't go there anymore
The man at the register never could add
Or maybe he short-changed us all
It wasn't the quarters he took from the kids
But the product in back made him fall
The stuff was the kind like none you'd ingest
Just go in for the coffee because that'd be best
Avoid all the product he put in the back
Because not only will you have a heart attack
But your mind and your eyes would be decieved
And the things you would see would be believed
Like Dave in the last five minutes of Stanley Kubrick's depiction
Of a Space Odyssey, but you would mistake reality for what he wrote as fiction
Up would be down and down would be blue
And your poor little brain wouldn't know what to do
All those misfiring connections made right by gunpowder
Your neural responses as sensible as chowder
Like Less Than Jake said, "I don't think I can yell any louder!"
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 2:09 AM UTC
Kettle drum *** *** *** *** *** ***
There is the moment of the sun breaking over the edge of the moon
In that Stanley Kubrick’s movie what was it called?
In 2001 the towers fell and we still don’t have a colony on the moon
It turns out the monkey’s bashing each other’s brains in with bones was as far as we got
The bones got bigger
But didn’t transform into “the greatest cut in the history of film”
But who cares right? I got my iPhone
And make sure you capitalize that P
Because if you don’t you’ll get a red underline
Because even Microsoft knows that apple is a big deal
So lets have a little fun while the reigns loose in our fingers
“look mom no hands”
But I really don’t want to get all like that
I want to watch the candle burn down to the wick
And light a joint using the last bit of flame
Or heat a spoon whichever is your fancy
The beauty is in our solecisms
The comedy in the autocorrect
Corrected by our own machines recursively
We are in a never-ending project
Of retrofitting meanings to decisions made at whim
Out of necessity
Because the decision must be made
And explained afterwards
God I must sound preachy
I try not to be
Because it’s easier not to care
But harder in practice
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
I really ****** myself up this time-
blood dripping into the palms of my hands
I started laughing through my tears
couldn't wipe them away
too busy trying to stop the bleeding
this broken heart has made scars again Mom-
but everyone around me is too busy to notice
or maybe I've just gotten better at hiding them-
hiding them behind this smile I like to paint
but see I never thought I was a good enough artist
the silence and the solitude like to tell a different story.
I turn the page,
watch as the silhouette of the last
makes it hard to read in between the lines-
too many pages of me have been unturned
too many chapters that go unread
there's a lot more to me than just a synopsis of this facade.
I click my tongue-
I make touch each one of my fingernails
Seems I am here, cognitive.
But from the view out of my retinas
all I see is blurred vision
a skewed understanding no glasses could fix
my far-sightedness in people has made me blind
there is no side to this story that can be unseen
expose of me, decompose with me.
I would like to waste away with you
but my views are too backwards
and it seems I am lost once again.
Reality makes me feel less real than dreaming nowadays
everything feels like such a dream
but most of the time it's just a nightmare.
I sit back and wish to drink this ***
the kind that's red and has little danny speaking tongues-
this lightbulb burnt out,
the hallways are lined with red
and nothing is shinning anymore
it's no longer a diamond
it's just all Kubrick zirconium.
watch me like your favorite novel
read me like your favorite movie-
never let me disappoint
but someday soon you'll get tired
and you'll pick something else
to fill the void of convincing yourself you like change
but nothing feels as good-
and the cycle repeats.
I would like someone to never tire of me
but these eyes have made way for more tragedy
and the bags under them make way for travel.
I will paint a smile upon my face,
tie a t-shirt around the open wound
so I can maybe stop the bleeding
and I'll pick up this part of me
place it upon my shoulder right where there's a chip-
because that's where it fits
that's where my heart is.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
You were a girl and I won the privilege of watching you grow.
So darling, the porcelain; how trite a description for you.
But it made you smile, always. Even when I didn't put
any inflection in my tone.
It was enough for you that I said it, and only sometimes meant it.
It was Summer, if I remember of any proper, when we met;
or, rather, spoke, for the first time.
Then the Spring where I lost the last line of your beautiful mind.
And that willful fruit bloom from your high hanging branches.
You used to joke, "Don't steal my sap, but lick my wounds."
Arrowheads fletched from your leaves and flew unsoundly,
toward the open eyes of glimmer for those of whom you
allowed near. I caught each one and bled, and with my
oily fingers I drew wilderness and art on your bark.
Spring was meant for you to bloom, my darling.
Maybe you didn't hear, or know. You forgot things sometimes,
like to stretch your arms toward the sun and siphon goodness.
A gentle axe tap to remind you. To make you familiar with,
the pain of the care. The stone was heavy and often deflected.
It's Autumn now. Our favourite time of year. We never got to
make bouquets with your hair.
Winter is coming. You would hate that reference in a poem to you.
Novels are always better, "Except Kubrick!" we would say in unison,
and how you, this time, would always remind me of the night I said
something wittier than the rest of all my life. You cheered up a suicide
because you feared the same loss twice, as all old wounds heal sharply.
How did you do it? Give me laugh lines.
So deep they soak in water and are vibrant.
I don't blame you, all things in nature must wilt.
The markings of calendar, and I know when the rains
wash away the snow and leave blades of grass heavy
you will be there in support, lifting the tiny sprouts with a fingertip.
That they never felt before.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 5:00 AM UTC
Wake up, pop the do-rag
Run a bubble bath, wipe the crack
Rock bottom bound
Strict and slang from dusk till dawn
Twist and turn, sit and burn
We don't learn
But this fella will
Get money and Uma Thurman
And don't try back the boss up
But for now she makes the vein blossom
Don't even misinterpret, I am clean
I never trip, other people do
Still and silent from dawn till dusk
I recognize and you nod
Flip the rubix, binging Kubrick
Pray I can make it better for them
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 12:59 PM UTC
These days have been have felt like I am stuck in a Stanley Kubrick film
Just normalizing the traumatic events
I am looking for someone who is heaven sent
Who would let me vent
And sit in my tent of emotions
Dealing with all this commotion
Of the world falling
I need something calming
Jul 14, 2020
Jul 14, 2020 at 5:19 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
“Anglo-Saxon Students Would Not Like to Be Taught by a Jew”
cited in
-Stanley Kunitz Lyrics, Songs, and Albums | Genius
To the Privileged Youth of Columbia University:
As a child of situational poverty
I am so grateful for all my Jewish teachers
Including
Moses
Joshua
Jeremiah
Samuel
David
Solomon
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph
Saint Peter and the others in The Twelve
Saint Paul
Elie Weisel
Chaim Potok
Herman Wouk
Leon Uris
Franz Kafka
Leonard Cohen
Anne Frank
Bernard Malamud
Isaac Bashevis Singer
Philip Roth
Osip Mandelstam
Saul Bellow
Isaac Asimov
Woody Allen
Mel Brooks
Edna Ferber
Yip Harburg
George Cukor
Mel Brooks
Oscar Hammerstein
Alan Lerner
Carl Reiner
Rod Serling
Franz Werfel
Alan Arkin
Claire Bloom
Leonard Nimoy
Chaim Topol
Ed Asner
Mel Brooks
Peter Falk
Werner Klemperer
Jack Klugman
Walter Matthau
Tony Randall
Mel Torme
John Banner
Kirk Douglas
Lorne Greene
Eli Wallach
Sam Wanamaker
Morey Amsterdam
Leo Genn
Otto Preminger
Jack Benny
Leslie Howard
Ernst Lubitsch
Cecil B. DeMille
Mortimer Adler
Allen Bloom
Harold Bloom
Irving Berlin
Boris Pasternak
Emil Ludwig
Eric Wolfgang Korngold
Elmer Bernstein
Max Steiner
George Gershwin
Dimitri Tiomkin
Samuel Fuller
Alexander Korda
Zoltan Korda
Emeric Pressburger
Erich von Stroheim
Billy Wilder
William Wyler
Fred Zinnemann
J. J. Abrams
Peter Bogdanovich
Michael Curtiz
Stanley Donen
Stanley Kramer
Howard Caine
Leon Askin
Robert Clary
Dinah Shore
Stephen Sondheim
Volodymyr Zelinsky
Simon Schama
Louise Gluck
Siegfried Sassoon
Isaac Rosenberg
Joseph Brodsky
Rob Morrow
Vasily Grossman
Stanley Kubrick
Viktor Frankl
And more, so many more, a cloud of witnesses
Whose names are written in gold on a scroll in Heaven
But somehow, in this world of beauty and truth
And humanity’s aspirations to the good
All you have found are bullhorns, trash fires, chants
Clinched fists, obscenities, lies, and shrieking hate
Apr 19, 2024
Apr 19, 2024 at 12:12 PM UTC
*
*i don't know my favourite
colour or the greatest film
i've seen
i know very little about
this world
i know even less about
everything
everyday i wake up and
write some of it down
and i watch the same
people do the same things
over and over
that's all they
know
and when they ask me
what my favourite colour
is
i lie and i tell them that i
enjoy all colours
that my favourite film
is a Clockwork Orange by
Stanley Kubrick
that i read books and
how politicians are ruining
the society
i want them to say
you're so great avi you
know so much about the
world
i want them to see
more of me so i see
less of them
and more they
see of me the less i
care
for i know they have
a favourite colour
i know they know
lyrics to their favourite
songs
and they've seen a
movie ten times and
remember all of it
how bored i am
of their constant
knowing
their constant
listening
there's no scarcity
of men and women who
think they know things
but have so little
to say
it's better to not
know than be bright
and boring
better to be
miserable and not laugh
than to be so mechanical
and submissive
most people are
not free
because they know
too much
at some point knowing
becomes a permanent
burden
too heavy for any
evolution to repair
that's when you
stop to live and start
to die
and i don't want
to die just yet
and i don't want to
be mundane
i don't want the
answers or want to know
my favourite colour
i simply don't want to
be boring.*
.
Dec 10, 2022
Dec 10, 2022 at 11:22 PM UTC
I haven’t stayed up this late since college or maybe it was sooner
I just wasn’t paying attention.
It’s 6:15 am on a Sunday morning and I saw the sunrise
covered in a white shawl
like my love life in mourning
but where people dress all in white, not in black
to celebrate.
Like how I will wear a rainbow dress or a colorful suit on my wedding day
to truly reflect
who I am
inside.
Caps Lock and Auto Correct are both a curse and a blessing; so is pulling an all-nighter.
It’s just me and the silent world, ghost birds and distant early traffic.
It’s just me and my lonely heart
empty of all the the racket.
I have given away my favorite college leather jacket
the one with the red yarn
woven on its sleeves,
but it was time
to say goodbye.
Hello adulthood
captured in lockdown
hidden under blue medical masks and KN95 and hand sanitizer and face shields and endless new cycles on TV.
It’s funny how chill the universe seems
under the guise of no sleep.
I forget how this will affect me, maybe it will tear me apart, maybe it will bring me together?
I am weak from the journey my body’s taking me on, a head spin from 1960s, 1970s and 1980s rock to late 90s and 00s emo and strange music that has no genre yet.
I found out that Tool music videos are mini horror films and I cannot stand it or sit through it.
Stanley Kubrick was my fascination last night, as was QAnon and Incel and conspiracy theories and Kdramas and Korean manga and fantasy comics including witches with their hair chopped off. That’s a wrap!
What is “emo” anyways? Emotional?
Yes, I’ve always been emotional and hyper-sensitive and an empathy and a simpatico person. Who will be my match now, after the tables have turned? After the fire has gone out? Who will light my Olympic flames once again and burn me bright?
I have no idea, but I’m ready to find out…
Feb 10, 2021
Feb 10, 2021 at 9:33 PM UTC
The piano towers before me like a black monolith
its keys are the bones I'm learning to swing
teaching technology tediously
until I can explore space
between man and self.
I put myself in stasis
while I battle my machine.
The piano assumes autonomy over my command center
cutting off my air supply
until I'm completely disconnected
floating in space.
The piano requires my focus and dedication
so I go to boot camp
to pay my dues.
I see everyone marching in the same direction
I want to put soap in a sock
and make them stop.
But they willingly wash out one by one
the commitment too demanding
they **** themselves in the process
but I'm able to survive
because I view myself as a joker
allowing me to accept abuse.
Applying the skills we've learned
becomes war
everybody's trying to shoot me down
and firebomb me.
How am I supposed to compete
when they'll **** the audience's **** for five dollars
or snipe at me from inside their homes?
I'm safe behind the cover of my piano
but they've got me pinned down
and I can't move.
I need a nightingale to nuzzle up to my ear
and chirp the secret chord or lyric
that will allow me to enter the gates of Beverly Hills
with one simple word. Fidelio.
I want to be so successful
I'm able to get into Illuminati ******
and walk around looking like a witch doctor
saying, "Yo, they're really ******* on the coffee table, nice."
until I'm ordered to get back to playing piano
and start wondering
if at my highest aspirations
I'm just a rich man's *****
Jan 1, 2020
Jan 1, 2020 at 1:29 AM UTC