"ramones" poems
She wears t-shirts of the Beatles
And she loves the Rolling Stones
She wakes up to David Bowie
And she dreams of the Ramones
She goes out to dance clubs nightly
Till her ear drums both get blown
But, she has a deep dark secret
That her friends will never know
At night when she is by herself
When the room is nice and dark
She slips beneath the covers
With Johann Sebastian Bach
She's a closet classic ******
And her name is Amber Clark
She just loves orchestral music
The rock and roll is just a lark
Her friends think something classical
Is something for your folks
They cannot play an instrument
They cannot read the notes
They think that chamber music is
What people play on boats
But she has a deep dark secret
She loves the stuff that Chopin wrote
At night when she is by herself
And her friends have gotten ******
She slips beneath the covers
And she listens to some Liszt
She listens to it many times
In case there's things she's missed
She's a closet classic ******
She has "Baroque" upon her wrist
She listens to the music
That her friends like to be cool
If she told them what she listens to
They'd laugh her out of school
So, when they go out clubbing
She will join them as a rule
But...ah that deep dark secret
This girl is no ones fool
She listens to Beethoven
And she knows each piece by heart
She knows where one bar ends
And another one will start
She can play most every instrument
And she knows most every part
She's a classic closet ******
But she still knows Boyce and Hart
She has cds in her library
And most sit there untouched
When her friends are gone they don't get played
She doesn't like them much
She would rather hear a symphony
By a composter who was Dutch
But there's that deep dark secret
And she won't use it a crutch
At night when she is warm in bed
She listens to Mozart
She needs a little Nacht Musique
To open up her heart
It's a piece that sets her mind a blaze
It hits her like a dart
She's a closet classic ******
And she keeps her worlds apart
By day she sings Bruce Springsteen
At night she listens to
Composers that her friends don't know
They're so old they're new
So she keeps her world a secret
For she knows what they would do
If they found she didn't know
Where were you in sixty two
But at night she is a ******
And she listens to Mozart
She needs that piece of music
To shoot an arrow through her heart
Eine Kleine Nachmusic
She conducts every part
She's our Closet Classic ******
shhh.....the song's about to start...
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 11:35 AM UTC
JEFF the Brotherhood, Metric, and Phantogram
FIDLAR, The Broken Social Scene, The Zac Brown Band
King Khan and the Barbeque Show,
Matt and Kim, Vampire Weekend, Creedence Clearwater Revival.
Jimi Hendrix, The Flaming Lips, Artic Monkeys
Florence + the Machine
Death Cab for Cutie, Bon Iver, Band of Horses, Parlovr
Kings of Leon, The Strokes, Yellow Ostrich, Cage the Elephant
*** Pistols, The Ramones, Red Hot Chili Peppers,
Bob Dylan
Young the Giant, The ** Ugly Casanova,
Modest Mouse, The Doors
Coldplay, the Beatles, Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones
Nirvana, Foo Fighters, Smashing Pumpkins
Titus Andronicus, Bob Marley
Queens of the Stone Age, Mana, The White Stripes:
all gnarly
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 5:56 PM UTC
*he had that kind of smile that
could make flowers grow faster
and sun shine brighter, and even though
i only saw him at night times and
he always wore black and it suited him best,
he was the light of my life,
but he had someone,
someone important in his life
and i couldn't do anything about it,
except watch from a distance,
singing ramones songs to her,
although he said he hated romance.*
i guess he lied.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
Bare naked ladies and Lenin following an age of Aquarius idiosyncrasy
shitshow
I don't want to know no white album
I'm working my way towards the black album
Cause Alicia Keys can resonate in many keys ...
... Says Dylan in his Chonicles
--> my authenticity lies in the between
620 nm or is it 770 nm
Whatever, it's a sliding scale, a slippery slope, is what I use to shed my skin
Follow the pheromones, or the Ramones, says Bono and the Edge
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
As I wait, I see on an uncomfortably high stool
the grandmother perching opposite
the comfortably bored teenager
replete in his distressed Ramones tee shirt
and ripped white jeans.
She holds her black coffee with both hands, while he plays
with the long spoon in his tall glass of hot chocolate,
her eyes focused on the top of his head,
his engrossed in the puddle of brown milk around his saucer.
Below the music, she pleads for a friendship that he
shows no interest in until she reaches into her bag
and emerges with perhaps something that he’s been waiting for –
And beyond the counter, shielded by formica, the percolators and stacked cups, the apprentice barista drops his tray and from the back two men in ill-fitting suits give a half-hearted cheer, while his boss withholds her anger in front of the paying customers, but judging by her face she would gladly take her protégé by his stained apron and string him up – I think this isn’t the first time she’s taken the cost of breakages out of his salary.
And I’ve missed what it is grandma has presented to her grandson
– all I can see is a suggestion of his fingers playing with silver,
a ring perhaps? The hot chocolate is pushed aside and his shoulders straighten.
She still looks uncertain, and the seconds drag until his face seems to soften.
He looks up and mouths what might be a thank you.
And he doesn’t withdraw his hand when she covers it with her own.
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 3:33 PM UTC
She was a friend of Amber Clark
You know, you've met her before
She's the girl who listens secretly
To Bach behind the door
The Closet Classic ******
Who wears shirts of the Ramones
But listens to Rachmaninov
whenever she's alone
Jennifer McSweeney
known by all upon the street
She had kind words for everyone
She liked everyone she'd meet
She ate meals at Giannis
Knew the Pawnbroker, Old Cy
She listened to the bluesman
Whenever she came by
Like all the folks upon the street
Jennifer was dark
Not gothic, but you could say grey
She was set to make her mark
She was going to be famous
Her face upon the Silver Screen
She was going to be a movie star
Like The Truck Stop Beauty Queen
Jennifer loved movies
Not the ones that can be found
At the local dvd store
She liked the movies without sound
Her little quirk was that she
Liked the movies from the start
They told tales in black and white
These were strong in Jenni's heart
Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd
Fatty Arbuckle, and more
Zasu Pitts, Charlie Chase
They struck her to her core
L and H, The Keystone Kops
She loved to see them grapplin'
But none of these compared to her
deep love for Charlie Chaplin
The Cineplex would show a film
They would host a special week
When silent movies were the shows
When nobody did speak
Jennifer would take the time
To watch each film they showed
She was so happy when the week came round
She positively glowed
The kids she knew, all thought her odd
Because of what she liked
But, when the silent week was here
Jennifer was psyched
One year she went to the next town
To get a small tattoo
It was all done up in black and grey
It was what she had to do
Like other girls who have been inked
It was in the same place
But, it was little, very non descript
Of her favorite actors face
She told few friends about it
And though she never did get violent
If you laughed at her tattoo
Like Chaplin, she'd be silent
She kept it to herself most times
Her little bit of ink
As she aged she'd show it more
For the cost of just one drink
She would take them to her bedroom
And by the light of her small lamp
She would show her tattoo proudly
Chaplin....her little ***** stamp
It's the thing that she is known for
She's the girls with Charlie's face
Where others all have Chinese Words
She has Chaplin in this place
She is known for loving movies
In black and white, and though it's camp
She gives a whole new meaning to
Having a ***** stamp.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
*We lose so much talent to addiction
Some of you may not care, but I do
This is my tribute to them*
**Alan Wilson
Canned Heat
Jimi Hendrix
The Jimi Hendrix Experience
Janis Joplin
Jim Morrison
The Doors
Brian Cole
The Association
Billy Murcia
New York Dolls
Danny Whitten
Crazy Horse
Gram Parsons
The Stooges
Gary Thain
Uriah Heep
Elvis Presley
Gregory Herbert
Blood, Sweat & Tears
Keith Moon
The Who
Sid Vicious
*** Pistols
Lowell George
Little Feat
Jimmy McCulloch
Wings
John Bonham
Led Zeppelin
Darby Crash
Germs
James Honeyman-Scott
Pretenders
Pete Farndon
Pretenders
Paul Gardiner
Tubeway Army
Gary Holton
Heavy Metal Kids
Phil Lynott
Thin Lizzy
Andrew Wood
Mother Love Bone
Brent Mydland
Grateful Dead
Steve Clark
Def Leppard
Johnny Thunders
New York Dolls
David Ruffin
The Temptations
Kristen Pfaff
Hole
Shannon Hoon
Blind Melon
Bradley Nowell
Sublime
John Kahn
Jerry Garcia Band
Jonathan Melvoin
The Smashing Pumpkins
Billy Mackenzie
Associates
West Arkeen
The Outpatience
Nick Traina
Link 80
John Baker Saunders
Mad Season
Bobby Sheehan
Blues Traveler
Wes Berggren
Tripping Daisy
Allen Woody
The Allman Brothers Band
Carl Crack
Atari Teenage Riot
Layne Staley
Alice in Chains/Mad Seasons
Kurt Cobain
Nirvana
Dee Dee
Ramones
Robbin Crosby
Ratt
John Entwistle
The Who
Howie Epstein
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
Jeremy Michael Ward
De Facto
Tim Hemensley
GOD
Dave Schulthise
The Dead Milkmen
Rick James
Kevin DuBrow
Quiet Riot
Ike Turner
Gidget Gein
Marilyn Manson
Jay Bennett
Wilco
Michael Jackson
The Rev
Avenged Sevenfold
Paul Gray
Slipknot
Mike Starr
Alice in Chains
Amy Winehouse**
*We are not bad people, we just have bad ways
Yet, not many understand*
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
this ain't no art, man,
this is just a careless whisper
this is just George Michael
singing in your stereo
this is just your bourgeois-blues
this is merely a bewilderment
this is not the art, you know it,
you ******
you ****
you chronic masturbator
you who dare to write on the internet
dancing with yo papa' shoes
and in yo mama' lingerie
ah, look at yourself, a human miracle
Angel of a foreign Harlem,
you who wasted all away,
speaking in foreign tongues
inside the thighs of a british stripper,
you idiot
you *****
and when i'm done i'll come for you,
like a ****
like a dog
sniffin' and slidin' in your park
in your ***** trailer park
there with your fat-fuck-husband
stalkin' yo every move
you *****
you ****
and when i'm done i'll look for you,
simple as that
simple as an Einstein formula
served to you on exotic dishes
by Norma from Twin Peaks,
cars for the missus and furs for the mistress
and when you'll die you'll ****
between all your champagne wishes
and it'll be ******* ridiculous.
But that's life, babe.
Get down on thursday,
drains you in May.
You *****
so be-my-babe
i say be-my-babe
in black and white
like the Ramones
or the Ronettes or
the Rolling Stone
- i still want to know
how your insides look like,
- i still want to save
your capitalist nature
in my mother's fridge,
- i still want to fly
high on a jet plane with you,
alone,
with or without needs,
crashing on our bridge.
I love you-
love me!
I put my gun in your hands.
I push it. I shovel it.
My bones are broken
bound by all the words
i never dared to say
- and here, my love, right here,
i put IT in my mouth,
i feel the cold steel in my tongue,
-- how much blood from
such a tiny hole, Lizaveta!--
and this, and so much more.
but please, i say please,
would you feed me?
would you need me?
i'm a little angel drowning in candies
who's eating his heart out and ******** his candy
ah, would you say this? Would you?
Just because it ain't cool?
Well if i'm not cool i'll drive my kite all night
and take my lunchbox and
shoot Panama down and
shoot Mexico down and
shoot a *** smoker down
and shoot a crack dealer down
and shoot a beer dealer down and
shoot Mexico down
shoot Osaka down
Kabrula kaysay Brula Amal
amala senda Kumahn Brendhaa!
Kabrula kaysay Brula Amal
amala senda Kumahn Brendhaa!
my love will gun down all your school
Look at me - i say, look at me!
*Kabrula kaysay Brula Amal
amala senda Kumahn Brendhaa!
Kabrula kaysay Brula Amal
amala senda Kumahn Brendhaa!*
and don't you forget to say my name,
as i'll
****
YOUR
SKULL
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC
Hey, Superstar!
Yeah, you - Indie Kid! Sure you are. You strut around as though all
it takes
is
a few too many Wombats Badges,
Converse, Ripped Jeans (Add one addiction to New York, and, of course, the necessary)
Stupid f#cking Nose Rings and a Drop-Dead-FAG exterior. Name three songs the Ramones wrote and I might not rip that shirt right off your back.
You pretend to love festivals but really, you’re just Keeping Up Appearances; we all know that - like you’re some bad reality show. (Even MTV wouldn’t touch you. There. I said it.)
And then
There is her: a carbon copy eyeliner addict in her
Stupid stupid stupid! boyfriend’s
F#CKING C-H-E-C-K-E-R-E-D SHIRT
(And the tunnel she stole from the girl that started this.)
Don’t even chat to me about red-head and dip-dye.
And when did AC/DC become your social suicide?
You harp on about individual, rap on about original, well excuse-me-SIR-ever-so-sorry-MISS-but-dress-yourself-in-sheepskin-because MY GOD IT SUITS YOU BETTER THAN ANY PAIR OF VANS.
Haha. Baaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Baa baa, Indie Sheep, have you lost your mind?
‘Cause your personality at least seems to have gone for a wander.
And come back, in a FASHION -
Tarred in fake love for Nirvana and feathered with the only fatefellshortthistimeblink-182yoursmilefadesinthesummer song you know.
Feathers? Really? I just told you that you ought to be woolly!
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 11:23 AM UTC
The Night hosts her socials for the monsters inside and out
In the moonlight we come dancing, clinking bottles, wandering about
We are goblins, ghouls, mummies, witches, zombies and misfits alike
Dressed up in our finest tuxedos, pearls, lace, bloodstains and the like
The Daylight wont have us, but the Night plays hostess to our monster bones
She slips into her midnight blue party dress and she puts on the Ramones
And we dance
we dance
we dance
O, we are the dark psychopaths, the feared, the soulless creatures
We companions by the moonlight are shaking, stammering vultures
We are friends in wayward trudges, we are spitting, foaming vermin
We are in love We are the World's rejected kin
The ghouls and the witches and our old zombie friends,
The World's most dark and repulsive in clear-cut diamonds,
We monsters aren't alone in the night, drunken, broke and hideous,
Charming and disgusting, we are the Night's beloved insidious
In the night, we are happy, giddy, wasted children
We are the Fiend Club, we are the monster brethren
Until we are caught, disfigured, drunk and red-handed by the Daylight
And we make our way home, to crawl under the floorboards and sleep until twilight
Until the Night's long fingers slip an invitation under the door
And we will put our party dresses and our tuxedos on once more
*O, the moon is out and the Fiend Club has woken
The Night is young and we are broken*
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 4:53 AM UTC
For gory guys and glamour ghouls
The Night hosts her socials for the monsters inside and out
In the moonlight we come dancing, clinking bottles, wandering about
We are goblins, ghouls, mummies, witches, zombies and misfits alike
Dressed up in our finest tuxedos, pearls, lace, bloodstains and the like
The Daylight wont have us, but the Night plays hostess to our monster bones
She slips into her midnight blue party dress and she puts on the Ramones
And we dance
we dance
we dance
O, we are the dark psychopaths, the feared, the soulless creatures
We companions by the moonlight are shaking, stammering vultures
We are friends in wayward trudges, we are spitting, foaming vermin
We are in love We are the World's rejected kin
The ghouls and the witches and our old zombie friends,
The World's most dark and repulsive in clear-cut diamonds,
We monsters aren't alone in the night, drunken, broke and hideous,
Charming and disgusting, we are the Night's beloved insidious
In the night, we are happy, giddy, wasted children
We are the Fiend Club, we are the monster brethren
Until we are caught, disfigured, drunken, red-handed by the Daylight
And we make our way home, to crawl under the floorboards and sleep until twilight
Until the Night's long fingers slip an invitation under the door
And we will put our party dresses and our tuxedos on once more
*O, the moon is out and the Fiend Club has woken
The Night is young and we are broken*
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 1:15 AM UTC
somebody told him there was a silent drug dealer
who would get you hooked on the stars
that you didn't need a business suit to learn about the city lights
the ticket to the world may have been on a boat
or just a tab on your tongue
The trend setter before the trend
the punk before the tattoos
the one to say "The Ramones never made it big"
but they will always be blasting in his ears
he lived in the prime, 1980's Japan
with all neon lights that could melt your face
exploring is the temptation of Tokyo
agoraphobia being the only sin of the city
the man. the myth. the legend.
the sunglasses being the only thing catching shade
as he is the illumination
a light on a Harley that blinds the night time
and with more stories than confetti in the New York City sewers
there's no such thing of getting old
when you're only good at being young
Dec 25, 2020
Dec 25, 2020 at 9:58 PM UTC
*pyramid, is that short of pencil-sharpener, an unmovable object, a Nevada experiment... (prolonged pause, also intended for a humidity of the questioning affect). quiet frankly you're making us look quiet silly give the mammalian status of sapiens; fuck's sake, Pythagoras spent a whole eternity contemplating a hypotenuse looking at the chiselled mountains of Giza - reputation wise you give monkeys a bad slogan - i.e. we evolved, evolved to build a temple of perpetual death: each slab housed the body of a labourer, and inside we just found a lot of poisonous powder ruminating to find the only basis for encrypting the whole affair, metaphysical borders, metaphysical by which i mean, due to Egyptology we have the museum-state that's Egypt, and the real life assertions without mint-condition comic book cults of mausoleum-states, known as Libya, Sudan and Israel; on that basis, a chicken and egg question, within etymological parameters, what came first, museum or mausoleum? see, history can be a Tchaikovsky affair, given etymology a dense shortening - a solid, rather than a **** when it comes to nationhood and patriotism and adherence to.*
a U.F.O. could have landed and we'd still
be printing dollars bills and admiring
that **** montem*, seriously, bring out
a pencil sharpener, we need to revise Mont Blanc,
more like Mont Bonkers - a white kite hey hey **
**** retardo* and a *** and
a singalong that Napoleon never spotted:
the Ramones with pet cemetary - that's how it's
in Englanf (no speel or spelling mistake,
impromptu arcadia, banishing the surds stemming
from Hay, or a needle in the stack),
a tombstone for each house what would have been,
the riddle of life with the priority of death
having seconds - the nørden of Newcastle will know,
that the soofern fairies are all Arab or Tsar pawnbrokers
or transvestites (as they respected Kenneth Rexroth,
but Proust incubated in only two volumes
just ain't for me).
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
packing my bag for the beach
all my clothes slung into the big suit case
with Mom's and Dad's and Ethan's
nothing left to do
but to pack my leisure luxury items.
In my threadbare Ramones bag
with the *** Pistols and Gogol Bordello pins
the Arvo Part patches
(he is a lovely composer)
I pack all of my real essentials:
Three writing journals
one sketch book
a comic I'm writing
the Grapes of Wrath
some Japanese homework
and pens.
I can't just have them ***** nilly
so I open up the secret pouch
the one for wonderful secret things
like the MP3 players I used to hide from my mom
because she'd break them when she was mad at me
it was so black,
no one ever knew what was in there
but me.
I pushed my fingers in
and I pulled back something red
slit on my fingers
from a razor blade I had hidden
so, so long ago.
It is heavy in my hand.
Funny, I haven't used one for a year
and the glinting silver teases me
even on the verge of joy.
I will hide it
for another day
that I hope isn't going to come.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 8:37 PM UTC
my favorite teacher in high school
told me that once you step in a
river, you and that river w i l l
never be the same. and i
wonder if we are l i k e that
with each o t h e r. do we
stamp our thumbprints on
people's chests, do w e
never f o r g e t the
omnipresent memory
ofthethings thatwere?
your t h i n g s are
swimming in t h e
gulf of mexico by
n o w, i assume-
that pathetic
letter a b o u t
h o w y o u
d r e a m e d
you would
losethelove
of your life
( m e )
forever
(you did)
is soaked
and bleeding
out of its creases-
but i will probably
always remember the
curve of your mouth and
the sharpness of your laugh.
i do not remember you fondly,
no never fondly, and i only ever
want to drink another virgil's
rootbeer if i can spit i t in your
face afterward, but i'm hoping
someday i will bleed like your
words and god i will fly, i can
promise you that. you did not
break me, you only taught me
t h a t hearts, t h e y need
styrofoam fencing- s o m e
padding but nothing like your
cement b l o c k s- and that i
deservebetter. ideserveorchids
a n d sunflowers, homemade
jam in the middle of the night
because us sleeping is out o f
the question and jesus *******
c h r i s t i deserve a heart that
has nobarriers. i want to bethe
r i v e r, stampeding i n t o
someone's life like the scariest
thing they've ever seen until i
have taught them everything
they could want t o know
a b o u t the ramones a n d
fleetwood m a c and painting
with your eyes closed. i just
want t o b e t h e river.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 2:40 AM UTC
our parents were starting to worry
about what the future had in store
for the kids like us-
with after midnight blue Manic Panic
streaked through our hair and
our after midnight curfew.
we look at our friends, and
follow their lead, even though we
think we are anti-conformity.
pierce your nose, rip your jeans,
just buy a ramones shirt,
don't say please.
our parents says it's just a phase
oh, we will see.
-e.k. fm
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 8:14 PM UTC
I'm here
In my house
By myself
I'm planning
Planning my escape
As I sit here
Listening to the Ramones
Drinking the night away
Im planning my escape
My escape from this town
My escape from my past
My escape from you
My escape from me
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 9:44 PM UTC
it’s like that the beatles v. stones
or the *** pistols v. the ramones question,
i know that hendrix was pure at 27
(joining the haloed crowd fronted by
the quasi back in black femme fatale),
but he was simply a virtuoso,
what i got was melody from kravitz:
the piano and the drums,
got me tapping, air pianist that i am
for the drums on my collar bone,
and it was all pristine blue one sunday afternoon,
i stopped dreaming, ushered into a pauper artist definition,
and felt more love than i could have wishbone’d,
or fortune cookie’d for that matter,
because i knew, there and then:
the world can end with someone crucified
forcing the atom bomb explosion on a postcard from 34 a.d.,
but only because there’s ******* and worship involved,
the last man to bend the knees of others readied himself for torture
admiring the pyramids hoping for a revival,
and he got it, the near extinction of ourselves,
tortured and crucified, instigator of celebrity culture,
the posing duck-faced messiah with hands spreading
and soaring across the entire diameter we call the equator.
you can surely end the world, listening
to the dirges of the egyptians with sympathy
about how a thousand miles of living love built a monument of death,
and then invert in the vortex of ***** love
love that’s tortured the additive of missing jealousy -
three thousand phalluses entered and one more -
but still the greengrocer felt no metal on the finger readied;
because who would be jealous of a ****** love
when so many noble women debased themselves to *******
and false prophesying of men?
let’s end it with: lenny’s my love
stands shoulders above in height above any hendrix output,
it is above whatever lottery wish in tremor
of finger aching crossed could ever burn to with
a guitarist doing crescendos in a#, or toothing the horse’s mane;
‘cos kravitz is a lyricist and not a virtuoso -
as his piano signatures prove - genteel;
hendrix give me your best signature rhythmic rubric!
oh wait, you can’t, ‘cos so so much solo!
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 10:20 AM UTC
Well, the kids are all hopped up and ready to go, they're ready to go now
They got their surfboards and they're going to the discotheque A-Go-Go
But she just couldn't stay, she had to break away
Well New York City really has it all, oh yeah, oh yeah
Sheena is a Punk rocker, Sheena is a Punk rocker
Sheena is a Punk rocker now
Sheena is a Punk rocker, Sheena is a Punk rocker
Sheena is a Punk rocker now
Well she's a Punk-Punk, a Punk rocker
Punk-Punk, a Punk rocker, Punk-Punk, a Punk rocker
Punk-Punk, a Punk rocker
Well, the kids are all hopped up and ready to go, they're ready to go now
They got their surfboards and they're going to the discotheque A-Go-Go
But she just couldn't stay, she had to break away
Well, New York City really has it all, oh yeah, oh yeah
Sheena is a Punk rocker, Sheena is a Punk rocker
Sheena is a Punk rocker now
Sheena is a Punk rocker, Sheena is a Punk rocker
Sheena is a Punk rocker now
Well, she's a Punk-Punk, a Punk rocker
Punk-Punk, a Punk rocker, Punk-Punk, a Punk rocker
Punk-Punk, a Punk rocker
Sheena is a Punk rocker, Sheena is a Punk rocker, Sheena is a Punk rocker now
Sheena is a Punk rocker, Sheena is a Punk rocker, Sheena is a Punk rocker now
Sheena is a Punk rocker, Sheena is a Punk rocker, Sheena is a Punk rocker now
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 10:33 PM UTC
Downtown Long Beach....Fender's ballroom...what a bash...every weekend burn and crash. Angry Samoans, The Germs, Ramones, Descendants, FEAR, UK Subs, Exploited, the ****** Vandals, DRI, Dead Kennedys....the Circle Jerks....I saw all these bands and many many more before i was 16. Sporting a white mohawk or black liberty pulls pushing pulling shoving slamming....those were the days.
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 11:22 PM UTC
2/11/2015
*"Never though, my mortal summers to
such length of years should come
As the many wintered crow that leads
the clanging rookery home.
... I remember one that perished
sweetly she did move, such a one I do remember
whom to look at was love.
Comfort? Comfort scorned of devils!
this is a truth that the poet sings,
that a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things."*
- Alfred Tennyson, "Locksley Hall"
Something about the florid, languid grass that
cooed in place on the turfs and greens,
stagnant in their newfound summer discovery.
The malleability of the universe seems incredulous to me certain days
the days before future people, sanguine
nights in the weaver fields wherein blocks away or a mile
they slept, before prior meetings.
So with this i am curious as i write
what lies in the field of frozen prospect garden?
where agrimonias will soon sprout jaundiced hairs
and I will sit around alone as i do in town
maybe, publicly intoxicated, slurring
along to a Ramones song with my friends
as empty as campus after a year
**** it. **** it?
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC