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Jeff Gaines Mar 2018
Hello everyone,

  I'm so very sorry … I feel horrible doing this, but I have no choice. You see, I have published my first book on Amazon/Kindle! This piece (and many others) had to be taken down because they do not allow published material to be available online for free. (Go figure) I wanted to leave the shell of the posts because I felt compelled to leave all your helpful and loving comments. (Silly sentimental, I know), but I also didn't want to just have the pieces disappear without an explanation. I feel bad enough as it is!

  I owe ALL of you so, SO much for all of your reads, love, and support. It was YOU that gave me the gumption to FINALLY get off my **** and publish! Thank you all for the warm comments, camaraderie, and encouragement! I will still be here, reading, uploading and just being the Rascal that I am. How could I EVER leave you guys?

  The book is called “The Way I See It – FictionPhilosophySoul Food” and it will be FREE for the first few days on Kindle Select, so watch for it, if you are interested. I hope that you go and grab it. If you do, I would also hope that you find it worthy, you would leave me a good review. That will help me get in the public eye! Soon afterward (2-3 days or so), it will be available in paperback.

Find the book(s) here: www.amazon.com/author/jeff.gaines

Or find the book(s), and all about me, here: www.JeffGaines.world

  Soon after, I also hope to have my first novel (a supernatural thriller), called “Wanderer” available as well!

  Wish me luck!
Big, Biggest Love,
        Jeff Gaines
A rather silly little ditty. It's pretty self-explanatory. It may be a draft. Not sure yet. So, if you come back and find some bit changed, then it was ... if not ... then it wasn't!

And please, PLEASE don't come at me in defense of Hip-Hop. My opinions about that current state of affairs are absolute. I have toured with SNAP!, Wu Tang Clan, **** and Red, Onyx, Bone-Thugs & Harmony and have worked with EVERY Hip Hop artist you could EVER name as a Lighting Director.

As for Street cred, I LIVED at Park and Broadway Brooklyn for almost 8 years, right across Park Ave. from The Sumner Houses projects in Bed-Stuy.

So, don't DREAM of challenging me about "what I know" about Hip Hop or having street cred. To polish all that, I was a nightclub DJ for 20 years. Chances are, I was spinning "White Lines" in a late night bottle club or roller skating to "Rappers Delight" BEFORE your parents even MET!

I DO love much of the current stuff ...

BUT ...

SO, SO much of it is complete and utter GARBAGE. The violence and misogyny that it glorifies is so far beyond belligerent, ignorant AND pathetic.

Your words will fall on Def Ears ...
(PUN INTENDED)
Lizzy Jul 2016
I'm getting weaker by the hour
And the passage of time
Speeds faster and faster.

I built walls in my mind
To keep my worries
And sorrows confined.

Now they're falling down,
My fear is overflowing,
And I can't find solid ground.

Stop telling me what helped you,
Stop telling me what I should do,
Because you don't know the depth of this flood.

Stop telling me it's easy to find land
Because you can make your own sand.
I can't and I don't think I ever will.

For just one second
Please listen to me when I say
That I can't ******* breathe.

Telling me there's air all around
Will not force it into my lungs
And bring me back from the brink of death.

And when I say
I'm terrified,
It's not an invitation
For a lesson in bravery.

When I say I'm scared
It's not because I don't understand
Everything that's going on.

I understand just fine.
But understanding that the sun shines
Is not what makes it rise.

Stop telling me things
That I already know.
Stop telling me things
That are of no use.
And stop making my pain
About you.

I'm not as stupid
As you might think.
But being filled with knowledge
Doesn't mean I won't sink.

I'm not as blind
As you may believe.
You keep telling me to open my eyes
But I already see just fine
And clarity of vision
Is the last thing I need.

I'm on the edge,
And I know you know
What that means.
So for the love of all that is holy
Stop pushing me.

You might think I can fly
But I already know I can't.
You might say
That you'll catch me.
But the arms of another
Are not what I need.

So next time you see tears in my eyes,
And it won't be far off,
Don't speak.
Don't preach.
Just listen
And hold me.

You don't know me
Like you think you do.
And I'm sure if you did,
You wouldn't want to.

I'm fragile and dark
Like a tree that's been burned.
I'm not the blooming flower
That I pretend to be.

And you would know that by now
If you were silent
And let me speak.

I've been quiet my whole life
And maybe that's part of the reason
I'm constantly overwhelmed.

I have so much to say
And no one to listen.
No one to open their ears
And hear me scream.

My screams have always been inward,
Echoing inside me.
If I could just let them out
Maybe they would stop killing me.

It's so loud inside my head
That most of the time
I wish I was dead.

But if I could take that volume
And let it disolve into the air,
Maybe I could sleep soundly
And stop running in my dreams.

So if you really want to help
And if you really care,
Please stop rambling about things
That won't bring my empty lungs air.
UUUUUGHHHHHHH
Carter Ginter Jan 2018
Glowing screens in the
Dark dark dark
White smoke against a
Spark spark spark
I'm consumed by this ****** up
Heart heart heart
And I need an escape from all its
Parts parts parts

I feel so broken and lost

My mind is a skipping record
Repeating everything until it's
Dead dead dead
I'm on the couch
And my love is in my
Bed bed bed
And I feel so trapped
Stuck in my
Head head head

I can't break this cycle alone
But I'm losing my cool
This is fear
This is panic
This is irrational
It's useless

And I need it to stop
Stop
Stop
Before it rips me
Apart
Jack Jenkins Feb 27
I see all these blank pages of my future and I tear them to shreds//
I only want to live in the pages of my past//
I only wanted it to last//
For her to last//
I don't wish it was different just that I had done things differently//
Maybe it'd end the same, but not knowing hurts//
Not trying hurts//
Somewhere I stopped trying to grow and only tried to control//
I was just a boy in a man's frame//
Yet I knew how to love her//
I still love her//
But she's gone like the ashes of a wildfire//
Alone I still sing of her//
Empty, echoing, loneliness//
It is my new peace//
//On her//
Hurt is a wonderful teacher in the school of hindsight. God I miss her.
Xallan Feb 2
This is the end of a long rope
Frayed and worn from my traversing it
Always reminiscing
A lot of whispers
A lot of pixels
A lot of good memories in between
But also some hazy, hazy regrets
Of time-ropes ripped through my head
Blistering like it was dragged through my hands
Time-burn
Fatigued cells with no implosion
No mind-growth, no life-growth
Only heart-growth-
Which always seems to occur
Only at the expense of breathing this oxygen
Better to create it, then,
Than consume it-
Instead of living, become life.
Instead of breathing, become breath.
Let my body ferment and fallow
Instead of existing, let my soul become energy
And let time leave my record
Along its rope.
I want to die, but I don't want to end my life. Oh, the irony!
Chloe Hunt Feb 2018
Just for the record I really loved you
Darling
Just for the record I really loved
You
island poet May 2018
“Moby ****,”  Herman Melville

<•>

~for the lost at sea~

after a year of saltwater absence and abstinence,
return to the island caught between two land forks
surrounded by river-heading flows
bound for the ocean great joining

the Atlantic welcomes the fresh water fools,
bringing with them hopefully, but hopeless gifts of obeisances,
peace-offerings endeavoring to keep their infinite souls

sea accepts them then drowns the
warm newcomers in the unaccustomed
deep cold salinity, which
sometimes erodes
sometimes preserving
their former freshwater cold originality

I’m called to depart my beach shoreline  unarmed,
no kayak, sunfish or glass bottomed boat needed,
walk on water and my toes, ten eyes to see the bottom,
no depth perception limitation,
reading the floor’s topography,
millions of minion’s stories infinite,
many Munch screaming

god’s foot, heavy upon my shoulders,
a daytime travel guide, hired for me,
not a friendly travel companion,  nope,
God a pusher showing off a drug called deep water salvation,
designated for the masses, can handle large parties

my in-camera brain  eyes,
record everything for playback -
the lost and unburied, bone crossword puzzles

walk shore to ship, on soles to souls,
is this my new-summer nature welcome back greeting?

puzzled at the awesomeness of vastness,
conclude this clarification for me of the occluded-deep,
is a stern reminder of my insignificant existence,
my requirement to walk humbly, spare my sin of vanity, and
forgive my trespasses upon the lives of others

perhaps then the infinite of my soul perchance restored,
older visions clarified and future poems
will write themselves
and sea to it my predecessors
be better remembered

Memorial Day 2018
Purcy Flaherty Jan 2018
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and 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 common 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 a form of audio immortality ~ life mood emotion captured and bottled for all eternity.
(this applies to earlier storytellers architects and artists too)

A recording was a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible; a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a real point of view”; a legacy, a blast from the past.
Few people expected art to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged covered and played over and over again by artists in the form of "cover music" or become secularized, ****** and constrained by an elite clique or a commercial genre.
Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry.
This multi-billion pound industry has made commercial success through the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound & synthetic culture to sell a product!
So what was originally intended as self expression, a historical record, an archive, a personal message, is now sold as a product containing noise, a vehicle for advertising, perpetuating a genre of nonsense, labelling and re-marketing, so much so that there is now more nonsense immortalised "more white noise" than anything else.
To re-cap ~ I Think that art & songs are a form of expressionism, and like story telling they convey moods and messages from the present and past!
If artists and musicians create more than they copy then they are saying more whilst not devaluing the work of their predecessors!
From Alan Lomax to the commercial music machine.
A culture of cover singers, blinkered snobbery and the hermetic music industry !
Ashley Chapman Sep 2017
Sandwiched in layers of liquid crystal display,
Encased in vats of plastic,
                          
                            we
Voyaging in data-spheres, plumes of digital play.

Mindless,
         In the soup of silicone,
                            
                            all
Myt­h-makers,
         Pouring over electro-spawned
         networks,
                            
                            fall
Workers,
          In the buzz of bits and bytes, of
          megabytes and terabytes,
                            
                            down
Everyone
          Far from the wood, the brine, the
          mud that caked us,
          In tighter and tighter
          digitised  projections,
                            
                            click!
‘Like me’,
‘Share me’,
‘Leave your comments.’

Messages smoothed out in polymers,
Beyond reproductions of ourselves,

                           enter:

Deeper, delving in the mire of dream-conscious,

Now a waking voice,
          Hardened, digitised, recorded in
          bubbles, in drives, in clouds:
                        
Numb numbers of numbers numb,
                          mirror.

          A platform slotted home:
The motherboard!
          To record the echo in the hollow
          of our Being.
Wrote this a while back. It was published in The Tunnel Magazine, which was great. Anyway, hope it gets a wider audience.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
a  flawless poem
if such there were,
will always be,
the next one

my poor soul,
my rag tag heart
has no censor,
so careless, reckless,
as if words were but
frivolous treasures,
easy spent, easy get

if only, how I wish I
could harvest my best,
with golden cutlery excise
the single flawless poem,
that I know in my possess

lay down this hand so weary
from cupping tears,
be satisfied at long last,
so much so,
that my casket lowered,
hands in repose companioned,
clutching his best, easing the rest,
a paper record to join his ash,
his flawless poem,
at long last
Written in ten minutes when Frivolous Treasure, Ingrid, and SE Reimer
excised it from with me, a triage performed and a poem delivered, fluid and tear wet,  while Mozart's Serenade No. 13 for Strings harmonized what ever music the man has left.

flawless? Perhaps one slightly less flawed.

give us all your names and I will write someday
what my heart knows exists

Words are hopeless, poor substitutes for what they in vain,and we too, we call the heart's decay but this poem give unto me a deeper satisfaction than most...
nja Feb 12
She gets high
to forget
feeling low.
In that instance the hair on her legs and her blood pressure spike, saluting the broken record chips rhythmically spinning above her dimmed wits.
Up, down,
with nothing to break down.
Deeply depressed,
she's high but low.
**** addiction getting out of control.
DivineDao Jun 2016
Taipei
Cannot be found
In the map of my mind

Teepee
Would be a nice
Holiday resort for the record

Tea in a ***
Cannot get triangular
In porcelain, iron or ***.
Dennis Willis Oct 2018
For you
Just realized
how much you are in my mind
when I'm writing

I am
writing to you

Or is it for you?

Catching myself
Displaying

you are my muse
I hope the ****

You are paying
attention

*******
call me


[email protected] Dennis Willis
She called me. Then got sleepy talking to me. FML lol.
violetbaby Feb 13
it was raining heavily that day.
we met at an old record store.
the sky turned a peaceful grey,
bells tinkled as i opened the door
and i was hit with the smell
of dusty vinyls that were waiting
to be gently touched and held
by dreamers, lovers of messy
thoughts and burning secrets.
our fates were entwined at the start,
and i do not think i had any regrets
when the music took our hearts.
matthew wuz here
Jordan Rowan Dec 2015
It's like a diamond stake pushed through the silence of my brain
It's like a thunder of voices coming down like a hurricane
It's like a forest of gunfire blowing past my bedroom door
It's like the force of a god pushing down on my floor

Whip smart, by all accounts, but lost beneath the sheets
Forced out of a comfort zone and pushed out to the streets
Spastic changing voices like a record out of line
Just speak like you always do and don't **** with my mind

I'm like a tidal wave that only gets halfway there
No shore to erode with no Taiwan to even care
I'm like a promise left on the kitchen table after dawn
Someone will find it but it will be thrown out on the lawn

Born without a spoon but there is silver in my teeth
I'm made out of as much spirit as a plastic, clearance wreath
Dust beneath the stars cancels out the dawning sun
Shine on the bums, the prophets, everyone
Salto Angel dances an Aqua-Skirt
Such Fashion pleased the Tourists below
How else can the Latin earn your Fervour
But surpass your Record of height and snow?
Funny, how her Majesty can suppress
Even more when viewing up from this Point
Like a Crone who often tries to oppress
A Revolt which a Priest failed to Anoint
And lowering my Camera, I see
The many Prizes I did Hit-and-Miss
But she roared with showers raining gently
And, enough! They saw Rainbows turn to bliss.
So I sat on a Rock to watch and live
Hoping my Partner would rise to forgive.
L B Mar 2017
Freezing a glance
Wind cuffs down-white heliums
Sweeps contrails
Separates cirrus across the moon

Cresting wave tormented
wind against steel
movement in movement
sprays of hair

Blizzard of petals from the apple
Furious snow
drifts off—  garage roof  
Fog that haunts the river on the coldest nights
___

The walk across the alley
took—
so long—
A lifetime from the doorway
of someone else’s impatience
Prints of motion
record the loss
a single set in snow

But there!
on the icy, shoveled surface of night
lies the snowflake of a bird
impossibly molted
Song of a feather
caught—
Flailing! Helpless!

More than lovely for its lying there!
Lying there!
Repost for the cold nights
For Beauty's Maiden Name he can Compose
And hope that your Legacy will ever Live
This Shimmering Petal which he dares Un-Fold
Will by Clock's End endear with your Harmony.
Why in the Fifth Summer Month we Praise the Womb
Responsible for the Songs we hear Today
Whilst the Toll's Hand turns from Cradle to Tomb
Your Best Song can chant the Goblins away
And perhaps if I try to Improve my Lot
Then avoid the ****** Record of Defeat
He is your Story; This I almost Forgot
And the Name once-spoken will again Repeat.
With this I Commit, Beauty's Maiden Name
Your Feathers un-changing; Your Spirit Remain.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
King Panda Jan 2018
—helium
along the tracks
squished and turned copper
sounding space scratch—
a record when listened
through some great machine where
James Taylor always hits the
high notes and matter explodes
forming the heaviest gold—us always
singing pennies.
us, remnants
kissing the core
of aging stars.
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2015
Time: 7:30 pm
Temp.: 68F

~~~
overlooking the runways,
festooned by
accidental heavenly whimsy,
or humanistic whimsical inten-sity,
all the the planes and trucks are flashing
electrifying speckles, of eclectically synced
red and green

it is not my holiday,
but no matter,
like every New Yorker this day,
I am happily celebrating its
double U,
unique, unusual

"record breaking warmth"

yes, the Fahrenheit is outtasight, and by the dawn of
early eve~night,
the Centigrade is spiraling in reverse retrograde,
as the temp eases on down, just below seventy degrees,
on this dewinterized twenty fourth day of
December, two nought and fifteen

traffic is light, the terminal, an unbusy, slim shadow of itself,
the maddening crowds gone, now all are among
the dearly departed and either/or, the newly arrived

so composition of the observational, brings cheer and smiles to my faith,
(I mean my face),
the crowning quietude of clear skies, the absence of street smart
city  bustle and hustle,
the languid atmosphere at the gates,
(where seldom is heard an encouraging word)#
makes me reconsider the true meaning of
the au courant phraseology of this day

"record breaking warmth"

for there is indeed
a calm invisible warmth suffusing all tonite,
chests glowing from fireplaces within,
contentment chamber containers in both hearth and heart,
and I am thinking
miracle,
about all the human warmth
on this celebrated evening,
holy night

indeed,
it is breaking records of
recorded human fusion,
the united commonality of millions warming
his and her stories world-over,
that your personal poet is
warming to record
# but not tonight, as I am
unbelievably,
upgraded!
Jordan Rowan Dec 2015
White water dreaming
Behind pale velvet curtains
I sing the same song to you
Sweet summer steaming
As the wind was swirling
Your hair and your tune

Songs from the masters
Of love and laughter
Sung as the record spins 'round
I get lost in the chatter
Of what really matters
It's that I have you around

The types not romantic
Are the types that I meet
Like a lost wanderer in a storm
Before I get frantic
And cry in the street
I've got you to keep me warm

Cool, comfortable breathing
Beside the fire
Silent and perfect and still
I'm barely believing
Of you I will tire
If you want me to, I will
So ends the Drama locked into your Bronze
Nike kisses you and shows you her Womb
Who, despite Angry Lads, live Life's Beyond
Now Married are you to Testimony
I guess you will survive the Afterthought
Of Promos and Parcels you will not Resist
The Wheel turns again; And in your Forenaught
Honest Advices refuse to make a Fist
You have this Resume of Deaf-Record,
Partial to Characters you do not Like
Even if they ask Penance for your Accord
Your Self-Righteousness slaps them in-spite.
What's the use? Your Friends will come to your Defense
Even if an Ant like me Stings to make Sense.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
How long must you stay a Snail in your House
And thinking this Starter bellows out Air
Chance yourself a Door and try to get out
Then see such Fields breed Good Germs everywhere
This only true if Bland Pasta constricts
Yet flipping a Mirror for Crystal View
Mind the Artist. He's just facially fit
But chip the bones a Soft Marrow does spew
Never by Saint's Good Deed I took to Theft
To force your own Arrows and fumigate
A Candid Word which I thought was a Pest
And strained such Friendship to confusticate.
Let's start again. And adjust the Vinyl
Put the Record on-hold; And I Mingle.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
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