"tonk" poems
IT'S a jazz affair, drum crashes and cornet razzes
The trombone pony neighs and the tuba ******* snorts.
The banjo tickles and titters too awful.
The chippies talk about the funnies in the papers.
The cartoonists weep in their beer.
Ship riveters talk with their feet
To the feet of floozies under the tables.
A quartet of white hopes mourn with interspersed snickers:
"I got the blues.
I got the blues.
I got the blues."
And ... as we said earlier:
The cartoonists weep in their beer.
6.3k
You’ve got your ragtime, got the blues
Got country, rock, dubstep, each a different hue
Hip-hop, rap, Americana, funk
Disco, electronica, they all go bump
Indie, groove, folk and heavy metal
Screamo, emo, punk, they’re for the rebels
Pop, classical, tribal, thrash
Dark wave, bluegrass, techno, acid
Garage, roots, acoustic, dance
Alternative, jazz, ******** trance
Afrobeat, christian, reggae, jam
Honkey-tonk, surf, ska, big-band
Ambient, industrial, club, tin pan alley
But who’s ever heard of plow music?
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 10:51 PM UTC
an average human creature should such a mythical exist
in a lifetime will celebrate about 2,200,000,000 heartbeats,
billions of heartbeats per minute (I prefer moment)
but like everything so essence human there are
those very few heartbeat moments,
the ten or twenty maybe forty total in a lifetime
that you total truly remember,
recalling the cream and sauce,
swell and the hell,
of the pounding so slow so hard,
each one a volcano of
a moment until that day
you don't remember-anything
when she said yes and you're shaking and beating in a
honky-tonk rhythm cause you were heart undressed unsure
and truly afraid of a rejection that makes a heart stoppage
disallowing visions, to be exponentially happy future imagined
you're feeling your heartbeat
in your knees going weak,
when the doctor says:
congratulations healthy swell
and/or
some years later,
I'm so so truly sorry, hell
when they hand you a long handle shovel no instructions needed and that scoop of earth weighs two tons and the sound of slow reverb in your head hurts like hell and you lack the strength to move and they move you aside quiet gentle like
but inside the temple of the two headed hydra-heart,
it's the rock and roll of slo mo, the violin crying, the drumming of
heavy metal chords plucked so slowly, it's you froze screaming
a billionaire of heartbeats you are,
but only ten or twenty maybe forty total in a lifetime
you total truly remember with the perfect clarity and
forever renders into your own unique orchestral symphony,
your true net worth, the stripes you wear
upon your shoulders skin,
the tune when you hear it and melts you into rigidity
you fall to your knees wherever you are,
that is where you will find me,
just listen for the cars horns blaring
cursing the man lying in the street, re-listening to
ten or twenty maybe forty heartbeats total in a lifetime
you alone total truly that concert set recall and
the win-loss record inherent, inhiment,
in both of them, tears and the rents, all there in the tunes,
of forty beatings you took,
somehow it feels like here is, there was,
the answers to
where is shelter for the heart,
the answers that have gone and come and gone and someone says,
I don't feel a pulse
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 2:55 PM UTC
every man for himself--am i a man or a self?
wearing long suspenders and
smoking my tonsils raw
a handful of questionable virtue
and inexpensive self confidence
i am no longer your folk hero,
but rather a jolly youth that hates degenerates
i'll fall out of my chair to keep
my ear to the ground
i must listen for change
yes, and between the mattress, shrieking
and the myterious column of faces
appears the fog in twilight, swallowing
***** tonk doors and vagabonds whole
i am a strange left handed moon man,
i'm high
i have that paralyzing lonesome feeling
i have nothing new to add, that feeling
i am an ambassador without *****
almost pornographic
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 12:40 PM UTC
Jonathan Anderson's collections walk a confounding tightrope between naïveté and decadence. Much of his new menswear looked like clothes for a futuristic, spiritual retreat (Anderson himself said he wanted something "laid-back, Zen-like"), but the buckled patent shoes were purest dancehall honky-tonk. The fitted leather jackets were pretty flashy, too, especially when contrasted with multi-pleated pants in plainest calico or denim.
"He took himself seriously," said the voice-over that launched Michel Gaubert's stirring soundtrack (a journey all in itself), but that felt like Anderson poking a little fun at his own expense—or at least anticipating reactions to his quirky rationale. He insisted his collection was actually like an imaginary world that a child might create for himself, akin to the tree houses he and his brother used to build. The preciousness that such a boy would bestow on things that are essentially valueless was reflected in the ordinary objects—keys, tools—that were transmuted into jewelry, the board game that mutated into a constructivist jacquard, and the calico or denim artfully constructed into the pants that made up the foundation of the collection. Some of the models were carrying a small metal frame on which curious little things were suspended, almost like charms to ward off who knows what.
That subtly occult tinge has become something of an Anderson signature, the way he disturbs the refined with the raw, for instance—a thin strand of bamboo or a bandage of calico nipping the waist, or a crude smear of paint across a tulle top so fine it is barely there, or even a white feather stuck to a shoulder. Such touches feel last-minute spontaneous, but also off-kilter, which is exactly where Anderson wants to keep us. But his work is now so consistent that off-kilter is proving a rather pleasant place to be.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 2:01 AM UTC
You play the Cool Piper every Concert Noon
Change your Clothes; And the Tempo changes you
Why couldn't have I heard you Guys that soon
So I could strangle the Technocrat blue?
HA! I jest. Rarely do Gum-Humours speak
But when they do they leave a Mark aside
I guess this is no time to act so meek
When Spain's Wild Brother calls us for a Ride
And what a Ride! Many Blokes hitch a tug
Collecting Hot Dames they only knew for yonks
It's a Crazy Menu; But quite a hug
Some choose a Bellow; Others a Honky-Tonk.
Long Sonnet Short, your Music is the Boom
Clean your Pipe well and hope to see you soon.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
I’m on my way to San Antone
Gonna cowboy up
There’s a filly there I need to see
Sure enough, we’ll build a fire
Take in the Alamo
Then we’ll dance at The Wagon Wheel
The best honky-tonk I know
I’ll be on my best behave
The whole weekend through
I met her through Cowboy Date
The internet is cool
This solo buckaroo
Don’t intend to be single for long
This is our fourth rendezvous
I’m not usually wrong
I got a new Stetson hat
Took my spurs off
There’s a spring in my gait
I look like George Strait
In my fresh-pressed cowboy shirt
I even got some cologne on
Now, that’s a first
I could go on and on
I told my Mom she’s the one
I’ll tell my gal tonight
We’ll ride off into the sunset together
Assuming everything goes all right
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 12:17 PM UTC
Deck of Cards.
The deck of cards tumbled,
The wind cruelly snatched them from the gamblers hand,
Twisted his hand,
In an evil twist of fate,
Stolen from the gambling man,
Ripped the Waster off,
All he ever had,
All worldly possessions gone,
His wife has given up,
For he loves the queen of hearts instead,
She teased him,
Stole all his goods and chattels,
In total disrespect,
He has nothing left,
Stole all his money all extracted with satin strings,
Satisfied casino owners greed,
It’s a racket,
Greed is fed,
While he feeds his money out,
He’s always lusting more,
Casino owner’s provocation bleeding those he caught in his deceitful web of promises,
Down at the ***** tonk bar,
Money does not go very far,
Tragic victim goes off to the bank to score another score,
For another jinxed fix,
Lady luck never loves him back,
Can’t look him in the eye,
A soul of sorrow,
Caught in a land of underground lies,
Insulting his name,
Crushing his honour,
As he kisses his money goodbye,
Yet again!
Copyright Olivia Kent 2013
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 2:49 AM UTC
Play your cards right
Put on a mask to hide
Stacked deck
I speak lies
Fluently addictive
I’m infected with the soul
***** tonk hip
Broken record stuck on repeat
Hit me.
21 bust
Dealer’s choice. Counting cards.
Gambling addiction
One last chance to win at this lifestyle.
House always wins.
All in.
Out of control.
Runnin the table for brief seconds.
It’s gone.
Laid down everything on black.
This is how I live.
Just an honest man in a gambling world.
Juggling priorities.
Impulsive. Instinctive.
Alive.
Pop the bottles,
Full throttle.
Pedal to the metal.
This ride doesn’t stop.
Commit to it.
Makin money, spending money.
Just hoping to break even.
Break the bank, crack the casino.
We learned on the streets.
How to play this game.
Betting on games we know we can’t win.
These lines will end you in bread lines.
Doing it on the soul purpose of chance.
Will you ever know this lifestyle?
Seemingly scheming.
Flipping cards to the end
Royal flush.
Trapped in casino bright lights.
Just trying to find out what its all about.
For better or worse, I’ve been changed.
Lets **** this world up,
Before it repays the favor.
You’ve gone past gone to far
In deep.
I see possibility in failure.
The best of both worlds.
Collision course.
Make a bet.
Throwin’ down the table.
Snakeeyes.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 1:25 PM UTC
This head on a spike
Well it's turning blue
Talking 'bout why I'd like
The splendor of his view
"From up on high"
he says to me
"All thing under the sky are mine to see"
And long and hard I sat and thought
of things for me my body got
and then I stood with my decree
and hoped he'd make good company
May 14, 2010
May 14, 2010 at 4:46 PM UTC
The most bitter tears fall to the earth forgotten.
Seep
Drip
Fall
Splat.
Drip drop,
Puddle puddle,
Tink tonk tap.
The most bitter tears fall to the earth forgotten.
Leak
Lunge
Fall
Splat.
Pitter patter
Seep sop
Tink tonk tap.
#16_3/19/14
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 10:41 AM UTC
So you did the ***** tonk
and I did the shoulder shuffle
driving down boulevards
laughing and singing
and trying to find our place
in each others heads
Little did we know
that our words would slice
your face always susceptible
to the tone of my voice
storming out of restaurants
and smashing paintings
of your lovers who were charming
your clothes on the floor
my boxers round your waist
we'd find a common ground
in our anger at the world
and of each other
It was and is
a despicable love
and I wouldn't trade it
for the insincerity of comfort
that so many others have
We shall watch them all rot
at their very cores
passions drilled out of them
as they seep into their settees
while we wear rotten skin
and shine from the core.
That is the equity of love.
and I will adore you
for a very long time
or until my mind dilapidates.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
It is now four in morning as I wind down.
On this salty night in vagas you can see for miles.
The trees smell imported, the stripes of feet walking everywhere are visible in the floor carpets, the whole joint was colored tequila, and every face was that of an american.
Hotel hallways had grown small with the years.
There was this crane down the street, building the next casino over, again.
It stood amongst fifty-thousand billboards and american faces, all the same created, all the same.
The tension now builds and I can only feel time.
The image of an illuminated nobody swiming in a mist pool, next to a hotel on the outskirts of town, the knowing of his distain for others, the sheer embrace of his mystic-all-knowing insignificance watching the crooked sunrise kept me going.
You once told me to pick and choose.
You once told me I should taste the air more, like a dog would, if he could sink his teeth in just right.
I took that as you wanted a mutt in your brain, maybe even a mutt in me, but I couldn't.
Not on this holiday and not at four in the morning.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 5:00 AM UTC
A red streak highlighted her crooked nose
as she caressed her head on the window
outside a honky-tonk called ***** Crows.
One hand in her pistol bag,
the other crumpled up the ends
to her black velvet skirt.
Then she licked her upper lip
while pushing her shoulders
forward.
Did her eyes have color?
I don't remember,
'cause my world took a trip
with the wind out of L.A.
When I asked for her name,
she uttered with the letter, K.
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 7:58 PM UTC
Leathery skin
furling by
the hides
of ideas,
to impart
the coyest
We are searching for dismantled cameras
with the flashy leitmotif disabled
in a disbanded cinema
And in the dark you ovulated, murdered
under the thickness of rough tree bark
Haul trunks of
a honky-tonk
dismembering
remembrances
rows of seating
Squalling, beautiful voices
throaty, tonefully sinking
in tune with imaginary keys
located in grey, clinking
between stained ivory tiers
and scuffed ebony branches
rending the reddest of heart-drawls
then plucking each riveted contour
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
i'm thinking about that old chapel in the valley attended so long ago .where sunday church bells would ring and my teenage baritone would sing sweet songs that memory used to know.left that little chapel in the valley for the city to be wild and free spent so much time in many dark ***** tonk bars and fast shinny cars like a fake movie star than a slow wicked change took over me.now i'm older and a little bit wiser seem to be running out of time like the prodical son no longer find the the world much fun down on my knees crying out lord help this man please welcome me back home.
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 4:51 PM UTC
I keep digging
But whatever I'm seeking
Seems to elude the sharp edge of my groping shovel
All I need is that "tonk" that I have hit something,
I eye the mountain of dug-up dirt
My sweat-kissed brow
The hot unpleasant air on my cheeks
Out alone in the sterile field
Only the sun sinking in the horizon
I bend again with both tired arms
I dig, dig, dig, dig
What do I seek?
The trust you shattered
When you began to please another at my detriment
The fragments are sharp and dangerous
They hurt now while in pieces
I had to bury them
Dig, dig, dig
"Tonk" finally!
All I can exhume
Is its carcass
It's dead
Unable to be revived.
I give up
I toss the shovel away
I turn and I take the goodbye walk.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 8:50 AM UTC
Crank the truck
Radios up loud
David Allen Coe
Sings out proud
Put it in gear
Head down the road
Willie sings
And lightens my load
If that ain't country
And whiskey river Take my mind
Send me down the road
New places I can find
Clint blacks next
At the stop sign
I sing along
Just killing time
Commercials now
Never stop I think
Then merle screams
Think I'll just stay here and drink
Country music gold
Radio clear and true
Hank Williams wails
***** tonk blues
Miles go bye
Thoughts of love inspire
Big john cash tells me
About a ring of fire
My ride is long
Where too?
The oaks chime in
With Bobbie sue
Singing and riding
Let the music ring
Waylon tells me
Bob wills is still the king
That may be true
But not what I say
Now George straits
Marina del rey
Circling back to home
And the end of my ride
Kiss an angel good morning
With Mr.. Charlie Pride
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 12:00 AM UTC
-Lyrix
-Rock 'a Billy
Country Rock 'n Roll
I wanna' real fast woman
and a beautiful horse to ride
I wanna' real fast woman
and a beautiful horse to ride
I wanna' real fast woman
who always makes it home
ahead of time
The Texas summer simmers
but the cold long winters
hotter still
The Texas summer simmers
but the cold long winters
hotter still
Those long winter nights
give those fast women
time to chase a thrill
Big D and Cowtown's brimmin'
with those fast
hard-hearted
women
Big D and Cowtown's brimmin'
with those fast
hard-hearted
women
It's disaster that their after
It's just heartache on
the wild side of liven'
I wanna' real fast woman
and a beautiful horse to ride
I wanna' real fast woman
and a beautiful horse to ride
I wanna' real fast woman
who always makes it
home ahead of time
She's driven'
90 miles an hour
lookin' for another
honky-tonk
She's driven'
90 miles an hour
tryin' to make another
honky-tonk
She's gonna'
find her a cowboy
and She's gonna' show him
what it's all about
I wanna' real fast woman
I wanna' real fast woman
I wanna' real fast woman
who rides her pony home
......in overdrive.
-R.
(96)
-D
*Big D and Cowtown---Dallas and Fort Worth (D/FW)
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 10:24 PM UTC
I know that I am happy
On this great high way of life
But I took a detour
That coulda caused some kind of strife
I stopped on off at a ***** tonk
Not my sorta world
And I found myself a flirtin
With a dancin girl
A woman not my wife
She was lookin kinda pretty
As she twirled that fancy skirt
And I knew it could be dangerous
For both me and her
So I sped off in my Chevy
And left her standin there
Back on home
To the safety zone
And my old easy chair
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 3:42 PM UTC
your skin
is not my skin
and it never will be
but your skin
stretched tight,
under creased jeans
and half-eaten seams
breaking to the beat
of the honky-tonk music
is enough to give me faith
there is some good
in this world,
we took our boats out
onto the shore,
beached them
in seconds after the lake
decided she didn't
agree with the politics behind
every love like ours,
you drowned
and i stayed afloat
but how will you swim
to me,
when the sky
is filled with
nothing but
planets,
when everything
is unapologetically
black?
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 8:34 PM UTC
*women are like that... the chair isn’t there, no one will ever sit on it... but she still plans for the chair to be there. men are like that... the chair isn’t there, no one will ever mind the chair should it be there... and he still doesn’t consider the chair to relate to the possibility of impregnation with his *********** of the ideas she will have to eat as the prime protein... unless of course he’s forced to go against his freedom and enter her will and make god prove himself freely kinned to her will and the chair.*
i love the fact that i can
drink,
write, watch the internet,
then watch the t.v.,
think about the bones of imaginary ******
of my hand,
switch off the t.v.
write,
remember the internet is static unless there’s an imput,
forget that too...
think of something...
that’s like a surgeon’s last sight of life
that’s more than a funeral mantlepiece...
well that’s me... it’s un-rhymed and less classical
that you might feel it might be...
i want to ********** to be honest...
but what’s that, sex’s a handshake?!
well... with so many sorry and soapy faces
i would look uncaring and clean faced to say hello
un-inhibited again... again... again:
i can say say it with a life... or sway saying it
with a profession as an actor; your choice... ha:
he who laughs last laughs true, and all interpretation comes last
as first to define wages in consideration of historians -
i might have said something like iodine matched up the
creases.... although the creases never scented iodine...
and the creases where never a wedding-dress... but skin’s leather
care for aged 80 in homeric blindness:
i might have... should have i doubt unless i was schooled
to be the envious of a circus played...
it doesn’t really matter... like poetry of
girls desiring a contract and newspaper snippets of likes...
for that biography of sylvia plath ending with:
#fucktartbollockshitbiographywaytoolong!
of course... then my ironing playlist changes
and i hear xednomorph’s satan’s presence...
then ooo la dip d’e doo d’ah becomes a *******
that just wanted to **** on santa’s beard to
hear the sunshine song of lapdancing reindeer
turning lapdancing into a shave / sheering:
***** tonk thomas engineer said: plot the blues
in plural for a patched up sacrifice of itchy thumbs up
for the sacrament: icon for a scarce testimony - icon for a scare -
pears i can juggle walking up the stairs...
juggling crucifixes walking up golgotha... i can’t:
if i did... i’d be a pope or a jew!
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 11:18 PM UTC