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Andrew Rueter Mar 2018
You need to use vocals
To spread a message that is hopeful
You need to use vocals
To create a point that is focal
You need them
Like R.E.M.

A message from your heart
That goes through your brain
It can be called quality art
Once it reflects inner pain
That runs deep through your voice
And your lyrical choice

You don't need scientists with beakers
Or super loud speakers
You don't need to make a keynote speech
Or grab for things that are out of reach
You just need a lesson
Taught through confession

There are wonderful things done instrumentally
But I want to focus on someone instead of me
Because thinking through someone else's words
Seems more productive
Rather than repeating myself so nothing is stirred
Which feels somewhat reductive

If you have something to say
Speak up
If you can't find a way
Drink up
Music based on emotion instead of thought
But be careful to not get mindlessly caught
Until you're starving
From culturally carving
Out anything that is strange
Until you have a truncated range
Of empathetic understanding
That's one way of landing
On a lame existence
For plain persistence

Art will always reflect life
They share the same plight
The best way to communicate
Is not to ruminate
But to speak with your mouth
Before your mind goes south
End the depressing deflation
Through simple human relation

Your gift of pain
Becomes my drain
My rhythmic refrain
From ending this game
Please allow me to hear you
So I may no longer fear you
It doesn't matter if you're not local
I'll relate to you through your vocals
They come to see...
A fire burning
In your heart.

They want to
this love
from the start.

They hear you
when you cry...
This love is far
and wide.
When you smile
the stars align!

Flower, of the Universe.
Child of mine.

When you sleep, softly the
angels come.
Like diamonds,
like my love.
They want to
know it's true.
There's someone in the world,
lovely as you.

They hear you
when you cry.
This love is far
and wide

When you smile the stars align!
Flower, of the universe
Child of mine.
SadeWatch "Sade - Flower Of The Universe (From Disney´s A Wrinkle In Time) (Fan Made)" on YouTube
Carter Ginter Nov 2012
The vocals scream into my ears, you'd think my thoughts would bend in rage.
Instead a sudden peace crosses over, engulfing me wholly in a blanket of relief.
The lyrics take me to a place of calm. No chaos in the world I now reside.
It's as though everything reaches a halt. All feelings are vaporized.
The music slowly pulls them away with the wind. And I'm left with relief.
Then the music quiets, the song is now ending. And the feelings return to a solid form
They fall back into my head, crushing everything in their path.
Until the beat starts again,
And the process begins once more.
Poetic T Aug 2018
Visual delusions:

Scrutinizing the acuity of
            what is visualized.
But sight is only validated
by the morality glazed over.
Until narratives are edited
to mimic a reality of self delusion.

Oral formalization

Dictation versed within syllable
            delusions, never sounding
the reflection of thought to breath.
But sour exhalation collects on
vacant windows, spelling other
          than what is breathed outwards.

Auditory silence

Auditions drummed within,
echoing on shallow walls,
           nothing wrote within
A tirade of failures woven with
three perceptions. Collective ignorance
Nigdaw Jun 2019
Tattoo'd songstress,
Contralto vocals from a
Broken heart, Cohen's bird
On a wire, exalting freedom
All the while tied to intoxication,
Those who loved her
Wished her well, but she was
Pressgang'd, harassed
Until she finally flew away,
Leaving only that voice
Her Spirit trapped in a CD case.
Tribute to Amy Winehouse.
guy scutellaro Sep 2018
(Jack is taking Kate to her apartment after O'Malley's wedding reception)

Through the familiar, haunted streets Jack drives the old Mustang fast back. The car rattles by the unkempt houses and broken down cars. He makes a left to Dunlewy Street and pulls the car behind a station wagon. Tangled in the tree tops the rising moon hangs above the roofs of identical cape cod houses.

"Is this were you live?" Jack asks.

Kate looks at Jack. His face is a faint shadow on the other side of the car. "Yeah, I live in the upstairs apartment."

"When I was a kid the down stairs was one of those mom and pop stores. You could make a bet with the grocer and every day after school I'd come here and buy a MilkyWay bar."

Kathleen steps out of the car and breathes in the cold air deeply into her lungs. The air is fresh and sweet and the sickness in her stomach goes away.

Jack comes around the side of the car just as she knew he would. He takes her in his arms and kisses her.

"Do you want to come up?" Kathleen asks.

"I don't want to wake up your son."

"You won't Richie is staying at my girl's house. I'm going to pick him up tomorrow before church."

They walk beneath the old oak tree whose roots have raised and cracked the sidewalk. In the spring tiny blue flowers grow through the cracks. The flowers remind Jack of the columbines that bloom briefly in the meadows beneath the high mountains. The wooden steps to her apartment creak beneath their feet.

She sways slightly trying to fit the house key into the lock. The key finds the lock and the door swings open.  Jack follows her into the kitchen. There are pots of plants lining the kitchen counter, on top of the refrigerator, and on the table pushed against the wall opposite the sink.

Crossing the room Kathleen takes off her coat and lays it over the back of the kitchen chair. When she leans across the table to turn on the radio her mini skirt tugs tightly around her buttocks

The music plays softly.

Jack stands and as Kathleen straightens up he slips his arm around her waist. She turns toward him starring into his blue eyes like a cat into a fire. His body gently presses her against the table and when he lifts her onto the table her legs wrap around his waist.

Kathleen sighs.

Jack kisses her lips. Her lips are as cold as rain. Jack reaches. There is a faint click and the room slips into darkness. Eddie Money is on the radio with Ronnie Spectre singing the back up vocals. Eddie belts out, "Take me home tonight, I won't let you go till you see the light."

When he withdraws from the kiss, her eyes are shinning  like diamonds in the night.

Jack unfastens the buttons of her dress down to her waist and parts the garment cupping her ******* in his hands. Her arms circle his neck and pull him to her. Her lips move against his ear.

"Don't Jack, please. You mustn't. "Her voice is a roaring whisper in his ear. "*** always ruins everything. I just want a friend."

Jack drops his hands to her thighs and up past her garter belts and slide around to cup her ***. "I'll be your friend," Jack tells her.

Kathleen draws a deep breath and her arms gently tighten around his neck.

He pulls her to the edge of the table and on the radio Ronnie softly  sings," Oh darlin, my darlin , won't you be my be my little baby."
to be continued...
hong jowell Aug 2018
whisky breath, stone cold sober
coffee skin under plain white cotton
soft flesh glazed with callouses all over
but his soul steady, untainted

he was raised among wolves
with no taste for romance; he knows this as well as he knows his own name
his love, his methods
brutal, rough, and explicit
reeking of bad habits and good intentions

(do not) listen
when he bellows past midnight on a moonless night
he comes undone
like a wire, exposed
trembling sparks of his ruthlessness embeds into your skin

the blinds are drawn and the wind chime sways
faint street light seeps into the room
his fiery eyes and strong jaw betray no sign of vulnerability
yet he is longing, demanding
for you to tuck him softly in the crook of your neck

open up to the east and west
he feasts boldly on his willing prey, devouring
deeply in its absolute rawness
chills travel up and down your spine
unforgettable like vocals of a singer’s hypnotic raspy voice
you want to be his favourite hiding place

he was raised among wolves,
dreaming under the midnight sun with eyes wide open
golden rays enshrouding him in a world outlined in black
rewriting the definitions of love, and he
won’t let anyone steal who he is meant to be.
I wrote this for my boyfriend on his birthday during our first year together. I never got to know what he felt about it.
Benji James May 2017
Look who just escaped the madhouse
Back out on the street
On the late night creep
Yeah, baby, I'm a freak
On the midnight sneak
Some say that I'm a fiend
But I'm just me
No one can hold me down
When I'm strutting my stuff
Got a style of my own
The king, the air to my thrown
Your in my kingdom now kids
That's just the way it is
Think I'm gonna get a lot of hate for this one (****!)

Still chasing girls way out of my league
(Girls way out of your league?)
Yep but that's just me
And I'm not stopping for no one
Showing no emotion what so ever so
No one can shut me down
Now that I'm walking my line
Back in my groove,
That's just the way that I move

Look who's live from the loony bin
I think that I'm a rock star
I'm acting like that
Is he a mental case
Tick, check yes
I'm back on my grind
Ain't no straightjacket tight enough
To contain me
My vocals still aren't straining
From all of my screaming
****** I'm a dog off its chain
Nuts in my mind
Out of my brain
Yeah you mother sucker
I'm insane (what?)

You think you got me locked
behind these bars?
Hand me a megaphone,
I got something to say
You know nobody else rocks
These chains like me
I'm a fashion model baby
Better believe it
Can't you see I've got it in my head
That I am a superstar
Rocking every single bar
Baby, I'm a monster
A thief in the night
Cuz I just stole your heart
In the backseat of my car
(Wait, what?)

Still chasing girls way out of my league
(Girls way out of your league?)
Yep but that's just me
And I'm not stopping for no one
Showing no emotion what so ever so
No one can shut me down
Now that I'm walking my line
Back in my groove,
That's just the way that I move

Look who's live from the loony bin
I think that I'm a rock star
I'm acting like that
Is he a mental case
Tick, check yes
I'm back on my grind
Ain't no straightjacket tight enough
To contain me
My vocals still aren't straining
From all of my screaming
****** I'm a dog off its chain
Nuts in my mind
Out of my brain
Yeah you mother sucker
I'm insane (what?)

Oh look I'm rock royalty (believe it)
Believe me, rub your eyes
Can't believe what you are seeing
Get on your hands and knees
**** right, you gotta bow down to me
Oh I'm bound to start a war
Lucky I came prepared for what's in store
It's a shake up showdown
Planets will rearrange
Then they will realign
you got it, right baby
cuz this is my time
I know you wanted more
I'm prepared for gossip galore
Cuz I'm an attention seeking *****

Still chasing girls way out of my league
(Girls way out of your league?)
Yep but that's just me
And I'm not stopping for no one
Showing no emotion what so ever so
No one can shut me down
Now that I'm walking my line
Back in my groove,
That's just the way that I move

Look who's live from the loony bin
I think that I'm a rock star
I'm acting like that
Is he a mental case
Tick, check yes
I'm back on my grind
Ain't no straightjacket tight enough
To contain me
My vocals still aren't straining
From all of my screaming
****** I'm a dog off its chain
Nuts in my mind
Out of my brain
Yeah you mother sucker
I'm insane (what?)

©2017 Written By Benji James
Her crisp vocals paint paths, long poised by me.

Her beauty is a reality where my ecosystem drives.

Her omnidirectional audio reads every touch and feels every string.

Her heart-bytes pump voltage in my device(veins).

Her smartness is a safe place, where I shut down.

© Feelings Coated
Heart Byte=Heart Beat

From the book Feelings Coated
Indigo Morrison May 2019
today love looks like
closing out a chapter
and starting brand new.

love looks like dancing into happy
and taking the necessary
deep breaths to get there,
like leaving you beautiful,
but knowing there is more than that
waiting for me.
knowing that I am more than that and I am waiting for me.

love today looks like legs for days
gracing this earth.
vocals for miles hitting all the wrong notes in the worst way.

but nothing is more freeing than dancing in t-shirt and *******
singing songs with words both made for feeling high and simply feeling.

i’m singing through this chapter and i won’t come back to wait for you.
Matt Shaw May 2017
Oh! You've
stricken me so
seeped your songs and hot words
into my bones and blood.

And I do find it pretty odd how
Someone that I've never met
Can stir my stomach up like that.

But they do, and together we go
And together we grow
When I go to your shows
I feel like I belong, a little spoken for
My favorite songs...!

(Pomodoro for the lady,
Veal Marsala for the young man)

(I hate riding the bus
to meet my P.O. every ******* Monday.
2 years? $38,000 Really!?)

(I have yet to play a single show
and I'm 22!)

(I'm so nervous. I really hope this works out.
Sometimes I can be really good on guitar and

(I feel like I'm getting close. I'm
much more confident now!)

There's no devastation for me there,
And I need not compare,
Only be the one I am.

Beautiful music will leave my body,
Of that I am completely certain,
Circle drawn and close
The curtain.
Collins learns Jun 2018
I have all the reasons to believe,
All the evidence to give,
That Faith of all after Eve,
Came to my soul to live,
To hold my hand to the wedding eve.

A women from  another mother,
Assumes her class for this poor thing,
Whose several proposals have yielded nothing,
Perharps for poor presentation,
And presumably doubts of my being.

The pics you sent me the other time,
I find my eyes gazing at them more often,
Whenever you call or I do,
Learns soul and body gets alert,
******* not to forget.

How you start a conversation,
Always with a calm noncholant voice,
Makes my thalamus restructure its pitch,
Just to make my vocals present a fair draft,
All in a bid to impress my one in a million.

That birthday surprise,
Left me mouth agape,
The concern and commitment   in your voice,
Have made me harden my stand,
And declare a love sentence .

The later promise,
To me equals a nightmare ,
Like a Christian to rapture tale,
My being awaits affirmation,
Of your mouth watering promises.

I love it when you say,
"Omi chonjo"
Its a reassurance,
That liberates my heart ,
From fear of losing its queen.
Poetic T Aug 2018
What! the What!
               was that which I think
                              were syllables
perpetrating from the sewer
                 of their open commentary
on my life.

As though it was a live play.

                And they were the voice over
scrapping at my thoughts.
                                  Well if I were you!
When did I ask this magpie of gossip
to intrude on my daily reflections.
       But no you stain that window
               I want to stare outward too.

Mind your own business, I know yours
went bankrupt long ago..
           Never paying dues to what you paid out.
But never counting the cost of what
                          every word cost you.

Now its time to change that channel
                                      to white noise.
All the persistent vocals drowned out.
Now I can watch my life without commentary.
Others should watch themselves not others
             just because your is a repeat of a dull life.
Travis Green Dec 2018
Back when we used to record
sensual songs in the studio,
adrenaline beats rising in a ray
of waves, sweet rich sounds
filled with so much energy.
I could feel the rhythm of your
warm seas soaked in juicy
fluids spark my soul.  
The delicious chemistry
touching everywhere down
to the depths of my existence,
soft liquid syllables sifting
inside my milky bronze skin,
as your melanin hands harmonized
with my vivacious cheeks,
head spinning vocals reaching outer
midnight dimensions of high climaxes.
Jon Thenes Jul 2018
Hell shimmies when I am blunted ;
When I take a knock to the senses
When I am skinless,
singing stings
and misdirected by pain

If I had trained better
I'd be deep sea
Sussing distant messages
Operating with slight tremors, vocals and movement
and only when correct...
I'd be home
I'd be instrument

Not an act
Not a pet to society
No mood fool ;
and littered
Rapped at by experiences
Attack reacting
An embarrassment
Watching my own pattern spooling
the same sums
and spoiling with repetition
Rhutu Tank Mar 2019
She was like music,
And I longed to dance...
For that special one...who is like music to me
Jack L Martin Sep 2018
"Stop It!" shouted the man
who was dressed in a ***** pin stripe suit,
eye glasses half askew on his nose,
ski-***** haircut sported since his youth.

My face turned blank, shoulders shrugged
not fearing this man's belligerent outburst
because I was used to it;
it was the hundredth time I felt it's sting.

I stood there, patiently and quiet
caressing my double bass violin
my secret seventh grade lover;
she had **** curves and a deep, soothing voice.

I stood there, impatiently and quiet
waiting for Mr. Heidrich to finish the lesson
focused on the third seat violinist
whom played without feeling, again.

I stood there, overbearingly anxious
tapping on the shoulder of my wooden BFF
my rendition of the William Tell Overture
A performance worthy of a Grammy!

The man in the ***** pin stripe suit,
turned and looked at me, scornfully
his half-bald head turned beet red
body shook violently like an earthquake!

The energy released from his gullet
would have made Mount Vesuvius jealous
fiery vocals of curse and rage
would have made the evilest of demons run for cover!

My face turned blank, shoulders shrugged
not fearing this man's belligerent outburst
because I was used to it;
it was the 101st time I felt it's sting.
wichitarick Dec 2019

Simple sensations slipping across my mind gathering momentum as they come out to play

Restless reminders raking memories from hidden voids, timeless  twitching tales idly wait

Feeling the flow  coming over as it grows warmer,passion increases adding moments to the day

Unknown pathways forming trails to explore,marching on sounds towards some mystical gate

Fantastic freedoms forming  from futuristic notes,each sensation leaves more to  survey

Terrific  tones breaking into creative colors,ceiling moaning with feeling exposing itself into a new state

Bland to GRAND, monotone to mayhem, bubbles to blimps watching and listening as tomorrow blends back into today

Shape shifting, corners to curves, edges bending, squares rotating talking to the triangles  as they all begin to dance and gyrate

Notes softly lifting, voices raising through windows towards the moon,simple dances transforming into a brilliant ballet

Fluctuations feeling fine while melodies in sync approach divine,rock or blues take on new hues ,leaving lullaby's to levitate

Wonderful ways to let the mind play,harps to hallucinations,simple strings growing wings ,vocals now visual, soul taking on a new role as bellowing blooms into a bright new bouquet
Not exactly a holiday poem:) Although I have long term sobriety I guess the hard psych rock music I was hearing had the desired effect:) It definatly induced the right vibe to begin..I appreciate your reading all thoughts are helpful would even share the records I was hearing:) PEACE. Rick
King Tutankhamun Dec 2018
It's Yosef shining from the East north south and the west
Keep a tech next to my girls breast blessed
Ya heart rate increases then ceased
soon to be deceased
I just released ya soul back to the depths of hell
From the paths of a pistols travels as I unravel
Mysteries without a miniseries better yet an autopsy
Its hard for me to be moved in this industry
See what it does to heartless foes who envy
Breedin' jealousy cuz I spit it so wickedly
Game clutcher like Kobe or Horry feel the gory
Once my vocals touch the booth begins a horror story
Straight to the core I give ya that raw
Word to Amen raw son of an
My Pa was raw with his southpaw and in the South all they
Was grande killers guerilla
nocturnal beef made
If you gotta problem with the
And my chick be the colonel y'all get burned by the inferno
Pop more shells than
I thought you knew my heat
Made eternal so brace ya self for the halo
And the pendejos love to talk is soon to cough
Up a blood storm as I swarm intentions harm
For all critics talkin' **** ya soon to feel the backfires of  karm
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
.i never sought to see a vision of god, only his shadow, as i never seeked to hear his voice, but only the whisper, of his thought: and it thus expressed, morally convened: for i am by pentagram bound to say: it, all is, right before me - the world and all that deservers a master, and the one who is willing to reciprocate, whether doubt-ridden or doubtless, whether infuriated by prayer, or a militant denier.

better to exfoliate in one's vices,
than cherish one's virtues,
better to acknowledge one's ills
that champion one's graces -
to acknowledge one's burdens
is also to carry less gold
of the accomplished talents.

besides, i am thinking of the bigger picture,
am i part of something greater?
greater as in: the universal plan...
hell no!
               i'm part of a horde,
a horde that's been waiting for the next
tool album - 13 years and it's still
another 2 months till its release...
i'll make sure to buy it on vinyl,
         after all... all vinyl purchases
come with a code that lets you download
a digital copy...
            but i've been thristy for some
modern prog rock (metal, etc.) -
and it's not like i ever got into
muse - no twilight saga inspiration
to see here, sorry stephanie -
i just don't dig their ****,
   the screeching vocals...
     no, my uncle, a gen Xer,
and, as m.g.t.o.w. as you can be...
he once once said that simon gallup was
one of the best bass guitarists in music,
i'm not even going to mention
the red hot chilli man... pointless...
    but... for my generation,
the "dreaded millenials"... no other akin
to justin chancellor...
              bass is so important,
so so important: you need that space
in between the drums and the rhythm guitar...
******* solo all you want:
you don't have decent engineering
on the bass, so that it's prominent -
you have jackshit...

        on another point of interest...
i once heard a h'american voodoo satanist blah blah
treat the concept (not a theory) of solipsism
as a mental illness...
         well... tell that to a schizophrenic...
if the drugs don't work to hush out
the claustro-**** affair of not being
the only person (voice) inside his own head?
a bit... cluttered, wouldn't you say?
   but imagine, beside the drugs...
engaging a schizophrenic into meditating
           one tier above atheism from my
perspective, it's a binary schematic...

an atheist represents: 0,
  a schizophrenic represents: 1...
     why is that?
       the atheist is trying to plug a hole...
a schizophrenic is trying to salvage
his: self...
                 ideal representation...
i think: much more productive in ensuring
**** sticks together, finding your self (the reflective
form), to later express yourself (the reflexive
form) of it-self...
                 i always found atheism
to be so arrogant, boring,
     barely sniffing at the feet of a bow...
it almost makes me admire the way muslims
pray... i once cried at the beauty
of an adhan...
                  so... the right kind of islam is...
in a way: titillating me...

   ah... ****... it will never work...
          i like this quote:

some people live to eat,
     while others: eat, to live...
           i guess i'm of the latter persuasion...
a decent stew, nothing fancy,
even today i had the saliva for a parisian
pancake... so i made myself a parisian
pancake... with melted cheese and ham
and a tomato and chilli radish...

kiwi cider... i just love how some spirits
and the weaker stuff all have a story...
    **** me, they even enjoy dabbling
in phonetics (ohld-moot-sy-der) -
old mout (mawt) cider... get it right kiwis...
pineapple & **** rasberry...
   and it even has a name...
would you believe it?!
                         a trending topic...
nice... alongside when ms. amber jumps
into that ginger ale jacuzzi?
      a fine, fine evening is waiting for me
at the end of a day and into the night...

but, the kiwis did get one thing right...
unlike all the nanny propaganda
placed on most bottles in england...

    please drink responsibly
     2.0 units...
      but... there is no message from
the "chief": medical examiner...
   responsible adults should not exceed
a daily consumption of alcohol
  men 3 - 4 units daily
   women 2 -3 units daily...
          me? for the past few years?
roughly 40 units daily...
   but wow... look at all this poo'etry...
the kiwi cider company considers
only two acts as discrediting you from
drinking responsibly...
   there's a whittle picture of a pregnant
woman enclosed by red circle
    and a / in it... a big no no...
              a whittle picture of a car:
    and as already stated...
       i get bothered when people ask:
how much? how much?
                      it's even my brain,
or my liver...
                 if i can get a decent amount
of sleep each and every night,
my liver can **** itself;
    there's nothing worse than bouts
of chronic insomnia that lead you toward
staying awake for nearly 48 hours
   and still unable to feel tired,
     that's when the hallucinations start
creeping in,
  but at least in a more stable environment...
more in vitro than in vivo...
   no safer environment to hallucinate when
sleeping: hence calling it dreaming...
  it's like these hallucination are like gut
bacteria of the brain...
         they need to express themselves
     to the brain after a certain threshold
of staying awake is breached...
                                            not fun...
p.s. **** rhyming poetry,
              sure, it's cute, it was great when
Dante did it... but i don't see all the great
masters from Ovid through to Hesiod and past
Horace doing it...
   cute poetry doesn't satisfy the thirst
for something, on the lines of: epic.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
.i don't know any other music genre, where the bass is left alone, left exfoliating married to the drums, and the guitar? there's no such a thing as a rhythm guitar section in blues... the guitar is consrtantly married to solo... to a sense of orthography... best represented by ´ (the acute accent) without an o: to cream out a "hidden" u, i.e.: ó... or a cedilla (¸) bound to a c: ç to form the greek sigma (ς) - e.g. garçon... waiter, waiter: i'll just wait... that's how i see the blues guitar... the rhythm guitar isn't there, the bass is married to the drums... but the blues guitar keeps the rhythm in a "funny" way... pair up john lee ****** with lightnin' hopkins (on the piano)... and you... keep rhythm, by working solo accents into the rhythm set by the bass and drums... you rhythm by a continous sparring with the solo - you solo by ensuring your remain in the confines of chord, or something much -esque to a chord... milk, cream & alcohol... again and again: the blues... oh my dear the blues... where the rhythm of the guitar is kept with constant soloing... sometimes engaging with the bass and the drums for a reference check of rhythm... but mostly: solo the whole **** through... but it's not the sort of soloing associated with hair metal of the 1980s jerking-off for performance art piquance... sometimes the solos come in the form of chords... it's like i said already... layers:

         waiter -   garçon
                                 and garcon

blues guitar? the latter...
                                             solo accents...
rhythm of syllables: gar-çon
                              but mostly gar-con
                                                         ­  (¸)
since the bass and drums rhythm section
is so perfected in the blues,
the guitar is allowed to do what the hands
want owned by the devil...
        a thorough solo to keep the rhythm...
the one genre of music
where the solo works like a rhythm...
     instead of that in between section
of showing off
between verse chorus verse chorus solo chorus
standard of rock...

     another freedom given to the blues guitar?
the rhythm set by the vocals,
of repeating lyrics...
hell... if someone is going to sing
and play at the same time...
                  why explore lyrics as some sort
of narrative... ping-pong along
with the freedom of the itchy fingers...
by having no real verse,
and no real chorus...
                just a steadied momentum...
        and you really need to drink to appreciate
the blues...
                   just like all the hippies
will tell you that dropping acid enchances your
chances of enjoying the 13th floor elevators
or jefferson airplane...
              i don't know which is better these days:
jazz or blues?
sure as **** not rap...
                       and they say the slave trade
was all bad... sorry...
      without these west africans budding
in h'america... i'd still have a clarinet shoved
up my ***... or folk songs...
                  or mozart's woodwind imitating...
or vivaldi's *******' worth of spring...
yes, and we all know that Idi Amin was white...
wasn't he? who died peacefully while
under asylum in saudi arabia...
           Idi Amin was white! oh come on!
he was the last king of sctoland!
              on a side:
   they were picking cotton...
             well... at least they weren't working
the ******* coalmines... where they now?

ever watch that video
of milo
ilhan omar
david horowitz's west
coast retreat?

where is the old milo
gone to?
anyone pick
up on the heavy breathing?

there's the stag ***
of only 2 years prior?
he's not here...

         i was never into making
only because i just liked
those japanese godzilla
movies from the late 80s...

and i'm still a sucker
for modern pop,
           mabel - don't call me up...
huge, huge sucker
for the expected reaction
to pop music...
synch. vocals and
a very limited circumstance
of lyrical poverty...

sucker... might as well
don a dunce hat...
on the ibernian peninsula
it's also called
a *capirote
and **** gets freaky...

i agree...
the northern crusades,
the polacks became christened
in 962...
   the teutonic knights
were ready
to explore lithuania...
we were about to allign
ourselves with them,
ergo: defend them...

            the concept
of reconquista came after
the crusades...
         i'm pretty sure it came
           jihad is reconquista...
worded differently...
   is it? the crusades were one
     jihad = reconquista...
         the current form of jihad?
it's like crusading...
     to claim a jihad is to claim
reclaiming lost lands,
there must be some muslim genius
who could come up with
a counter term to jihad:
the jihad on the offensive...
rather than on the defensive...
we need some muslim genius
to come up with a conquering
ideology of islam...
   umayyad script...

i'm reading into the video
and i'm like:
is he angry...
       or is he simply scared?
all that heavy breathing...
maybe it's both?
   do i "think" about
throwing him from
a roof... are you sane?
as they say:
in a mad mad world,
the only sane people
                    are the madmen...

talk about memes finally
coming across "genetic"
                why are all the "liberals"
and "progressives"
so surprised by mutation
creeping into memes?
doesn't that usually happen
with genes?
so... what's with all the outrage...
if memes exist outside
of the biological reality
of genes,
then... surely,
any counter-thought
from the est. order is equivalent
to a mutation, isn't it?

               so... what's the outrage
    well if genes are going
to by hijacked by a mutation,
why would memes be immune
to a mutation,
akin to the o.k. hand sign?
you want a script?
i learned this at primary school,
but you need two hands
in tow:

   (right hand RH,
left hand LH,
   thumb TH
         index I
      ******* MF
        ring finger RF
pinky P)...

and now the motion

   RH (I + MF hand down) slap on the
the LH palm of the open hand...
   RH (I + MF hand up) slap
on the LH palm of the open hand...
RH (I + MF
               V shaped insertion
of the V shape into the LH's
      clenched fist of RH slammed
on the open palm of the LH...
clenched RH with an extended TH
poiting toward caesar's favour
in the coliseum (thumb's up)
moving away from the LH open

   why, don't, you, ****, off...
primary school,
some of the kid's parents
must have taught them this sequence
when their children told them
that some foreigner ******
was attending primary school
with them...

                   poor milo though...
notably in that video...
           he's either really angry...
or he's ******* himself...

i'm still left with this sign language...
i don't even know if it's correct...
a kevin spacey "conundrum"...
i'm not exactly going to, *******,
am i?
                knitting and picking
points of criticism...
   made easy:
   no niqab, no turban,
   no copper skin,
             no black skin...
no wonder my fellow countrymen
are leaving
with a massive F          and a U
from this island...
                    good for them...
if i was sane enough,
i'd also leave...
      but given that i'm also a dual-citizen...
         milk the ***** for
her last worth...
    this language...
                    the people are another story,
but my lover affair with
this language is exactly
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
.how did the political "debate" ever become surmount to include musicians? from what i've seen? of the KEXP radio session...  Ashish Vyas had the most fun from the session... i always admired the bass players more than those ****-offs running out of rhythm guitar sessions... bass, a tier above the drums... masturbator-grand-master-soloist... i guess this is one of those nights where i drink more than i write... elephant's ******* choking me to come... oh well... not even a Decalogue will save me... the political art is no art to begin with, curtains... all i'm seeing if curtains... and households filled with retired personel... and curtains... curtains but not blinds... it's abhorrent to have to listen to music with hushed bass guitar... notably metallica... apart from devil's dance and... where's the bass guitar? the rhythm guitar section overpowers the music... fine fine, have your solo *******, but don't silence the bass guitar with the rhythm guitar, i need to hear the drums translated via the bass guitar into the rhythm guitar... solo guitar and vocals all you want... it's like... the lessons to be learned from jazz, when all the fire prime instruments are allowed to solo... went, "missing"... i need the bass, man... frantic bass & drum genre type of music will not do lollipops for me... what was the alternative? dub-step? well... vex'd & distance... burial... who were the others? i don't remember... don't make me cite skrillex: white privelege man! yeah... at least with rabbit teeth missing, doing that well known party trick! i don't like bands that have a knack at an over-emphasis of the rhythm guitar, who neglect the bass guitar... it's so counter the jazz-inheritance... tool: grand bass, red hot chilli peppers, silverchair... i need that smoothing out layer of sound that manifests itself in a bass... a layer of sound just below the rhythm guitar and a tier above the base (not bass) of the african drum borrow... bāß... base (not bass)... yes, it's not supposed to look pretty: a phonetic antithesis... as most "things" in english...

             mind you... did i mention how heidegger
has a foot in the door?
       oh... i didn't? did i?
     the reflexive and the reflective quadratic...
the reflex of conscience "vs."
the reflectiveness of consciousness...
                  language - only if speech has acquired
the highest univocity of the word does it become
strong for the hidden play of its essential
   multivocity (as withdrawn from all "logic"),
of which poets and thinkers alone are capable,
in their own respective modes and their own
directions of sovereignty.

  of the few lyrics i've entertained these passing
             the black keys: lonely boy -
              i got a love that keeps me waiting...
borrowing from Kafka i guess:
      in that case, i’ll miss the thing by waiting for it.
   guess there's no "oops" where these words
come from...
    with the "passive" circumstance of the faculty
of memory...
                two tiers of memory:
the reflexive memory type,
the scholastic rubric type...
  1 x 4 = 4, a + b + a +c + u + s = instrument =
counting... etc.,
            that's the reflexive memory type...
a scholastic rubric...
but memory also occupies
the reflective parameters...
          which involve personality...
a sort of memory dissociated from schooling,
and more, associated with:
disinhibiting any chances of succumbing
to dementia's grinding machine
of the mortal circus...

  the reflexive memory storage bank is
the buffer...
the "placebo": nay... the safety mechanism...
but... too much education,
too much pointless education,
and the erosion of the reflective memory
storage bank: this is not a buffer,
this is not a something equipped with
a "safety mechanism"...
        given that a self is perpetuated
within the confines of
a constant conflict with the "self"...
   a and italics / the and "ambiguity commas"...

well, there's always a place to start...
i find of like philosophy as being
a rigour associated with a satisfactory
form of vocab.,
i can use the associated words bound
to a sentence with confidance...
unlike a ****** fiction writer,
sometimes dabbling into loan words
from a thesaurus, to, invoke:
an intelligence superiority...
  don't worry...
  when people lend themselves
to use a thesaurus, having exhausted
their adjective knowledge... it shows...

come on... a background in chemistry nouns?
3,5-methylhexane... you think?
that's the remains of a saxon past in english...
in chemistry...
germans spell like dr. faustus to begin with,
they, compound...
        the remains of a germanic past in
the current state of english shrapnel still
lives... in chemistry...
                  usually met with a hypen:
well, very german: what a waste of not employing
punctuation marks (', -) when it came
to the caterpillar 189, 819:

Me­thionylthreonylthreonylglutaminylarginyltyrosylglutamylserylleucy­lphenylalanylalanylglutaminylleucyllysylglutamylarginyllysylgluta­mylglycylalanylphenylalanylvalylprolylphenylalanylvalylthreonylle­ucylglycylaspartylprolylglycylisoleucylglutamylglutaminylserylleu­cyllysylisoleucylaspartylthreonylleucylisoleucylglutamylalanylgly­cylalanylaspartylalanylleucylglutamylleucylglycylisoleucylprolylp­henylalanylserylaspartylprolylleucylalanylaspartylglycylprolylthr­eonylisoleucylglutaminylasparaginylalanylthreonylleucyl arginylalanylphenylalanylalanylalanylglycylvalylthreonylprolylala­nylglutaminylcysteinylphenylalanylglutamylmethionylleucylalanylle­ucylisoleucylarginylglutaminyllysylhistidylprolylthreonylisoleucy­lprolylisoleucylglycylleucylleucylmethionyltyrosylalanylasparagin­ylleucylvalylphenylalanylasparaginyllysylglycylisoleucylaspartylg­lutamylphenylalanyltyrosylalanylglutaminylcysteinylglutamyllysylv­alylglycylvalylaspartylserylvalylleucylvalylalanylaspartylvalylpr­olylvalylglutaminylglutamylserylalanylprolylphenylalanylarg inylglutaminylalanylalanylleucylarginylhistidylasparaginylvalylal­anylprolylisoleucylphenylalanylisoleuc…

or just read the end of james joyce's ulysses
or jean-paul sarte's iron in the soul...
you do have to insert shrapenl punctuation
into this word...

but these are the last remains of the english language
being associated with a germanic origin:
compounding words...
             esp. in chemistry...

as any drunk would state,
to suffice...

    what was it that the luftwaffe
prescribed for the night raids
on London?

   and what did isis fighters
be prescribed?

   (minus the extended omega:
oooooo enough time
for a katy perry song,
an afternoon shower,
a slap in the face,
and then a few punches,
hey, jerking off became

   so the british,
and a few polacks doing their
r.a.f. bit beat the germans
   oh... **** no...
they were ingesting
an impediment factor,
durg, ****,
drunk, numb-skulled...

    we're talking counter
measure to the "enchanced"
    high on amphetamines...
insomniac, but still going...
i guess the loci of
the amphetamine adventure
had to relocate to the anti-ego
focus of the phallus
in the variation of viagara...

i care more for my giggles
and a friar tuck physiognomy...
   it's more important than mere
gymnastics of
a freudian "metaphor"...
  ha ha...
   i guess conversation is
also allowed...
   try keeping that up...
given that most men are
******* into a solipsism...

     date nights... m'ah ah ha ha ha...
i figured that i don't
need french intellectuals to
redefine absurdity,
or german philosophers
to "redefine" existentialism,
i just needed to leech
off an nativistic english

                      what the ruling
class spews:
   i reinterpret...
                  simple, 1 + 1 = 2...
crux, numbers,
   bounce back...
     compliment to the language...
as i stood in the shower thinking...
well isn't modern gaming
slightly "ingenious"...
money piggy...

or... reversed...
    provided the unlimited time
of experience...
no constraints,
just a game within a game,
like sims 3: making a sim
play a video game...
wormhole paradox
      and a brain shattering moment,
a jolt,

         these modern "free" games?
well... at least if you
do not invest in them,
are... games mostly associated with
time is the game...

   whoever gets ****** into
the money laundering schemes
of these games,
forgot to read the cheat walkthroughs
akin to final fantasy VII,
because of homework,
and... Saturday mornings.

   **** air guitar:
here's to air drumming to posit
a point...

          the allies drunk their pint
of whiskey, slightly debilitated,
without the circumstance of feeding
a feeling of superiority,
the germans over-inflated
their superiority complex with

    i'm either proper drunk, or just plain dumb,
or... it's related to listen, repeat,
listen, repeat: katy perry
  (sucker for POP!)....

      never mind...

games used to be fun,
games used to lead to a completion,
tenchu, that was fun,
final fantasy VII...
but this current,
money-sucker of an experience?
well... sure...
now games have reached
an anti checkmate conundrum
which it is...
because, the games are "free"...

           apparently time,
is perceived as a non-commodity...
tell that to someone stuck
in traffic...
      time: the "elder" flimsy
              construct of relativism...

try not giggling
while exchanging whislting to
either the british grenadier march song,
and the french la marseillaise...

   it's like eating pork liver with onions
fry funny...
    or at least a stew of chicken
hearts... tight tender little *******...

but modern gaming is just that...
ingenious counter measure
to the old school variation
of gaming,
    games... without fiction,
games, without script...
    continued perpetuation
of engagement "syndrome"...

     thank god,
i'm pretty sure that if i went beyond
owning a PS1,
i wouldn't have spotted this,
and have a narrative subsequently,
for the worth any sort
of compromise...

ergo? i drink...
   eh... i need to dumb down...
it wouldn't be fair otherwise...
it's not so easy,
to acquire a culture,
a psychology,
a mentality,
   and then...
     to ****... (grimmace, burp,
         snigger) it all away...

**** me, the flute always
gets me...
          i mean...
every time i hear that flute...
my feet at rambling,
itching to tap along...

   well of course it wasn't
the ******* jazzy clarinet,
was it?!
  tell that to the broad
who perfect a *******...
see if she comes back
as smart,
as smart to comply with
the intricacies
of playing, the ******* clarinet.

aud lang syne: the only song,
of all time...
shakespeare seems
pale by comparison,

          broad vs. brode,
******* giggles in the afternoon.
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