Elements synthesize



Establishing brilliance



Mosaic





Sound elevates



Electric symphonies



Frequency





Vocals ascend



Ricocheting amour



Phoenix





Speech perishes



Shock scarves



Mastery




© 2012 (All rights reserved)

Knowing you has been a song,
familiar silence,
as we become aware of existence,
but no form of friendship,
complete empty instrumentals,
the start of us.
beautiful vocals set in,
in anticipation of what's to come,
as I fell for your smile,
only then do lyrics form,
as our story unfolds,
our song isn't finished,
but it's so distorted,
so empty now.

Under prickled probably-a-berry-bush
overhead the scented magistrate and the muffled cough
of one emberassed to be viral
she's somewhere on the a-scale, but she is so very divine
zero public humility, whopee cushion existentialism
'I didn't do it, you did it.'

Oh right, thanks for putting your hands up
now turn around and lay your chest on the front of my squad car
sleep again and I'll wake you like Royalty once woke the jester.

jam your front toe on the archway
so you can be the vocals in my band
we'll be jamming next week, if you care to join us?

I understand.

It's not as much effort as sudoku
if you ask me.

I stepped into the house and removed
my rain-soaked shoes on the grizzled entrance mat.

No one in the kitchen.
Though the aroma lingered, the coffee *** had turned itself off.
I touched the glass -- cool.
No one in the living room.
Half a pair of sequined flats were in the dog's mouth,
half a lady's pantsuit -- the black legs -- lied on the floor.
A soap opera on the screen, the volume low, the gold-tipped ceiling fan oscillating,
and Serge Gainsbourg's Histore de Melody Nelson played down the hall.

I followed the breathy vocals and wandering baseline to my room,
and there she sat.

The blinds open, veiny rain running along the pane,
on the beige carpeted floor, next to my unmade bed,
criss-crossed Jessica.

"Hey, sweetheart," I said.

Jessica smiled.
When she smiles, her cheeks go flush,
she lowers her head slowly, embarrassed,
but yet when she laughs,
she laughs loudly, boldly.
I've never understood that.

Jessica was wearing a white, spaghetti-strap undershirt
and blue cotton *******.
Her brunette curls -- down, reaching past her shoulders.
Her toenails -- painted purple and chipped.
Newspapers lied strewn about her,
with puddles of acrylic paint atop them.
In her lap,
a white canvas stapled to a wooden backing frame.
She sang,
"Princesse des ténèbres, archange maudit,
Amazone modern' style que le sculpteur,
En anglais, surnomma Spirit of Ecstasy."

as she painted two lovers growing together
like curious oak trees.

I sat behind her on my bed. Pushed aside the tangled sheets.
She craned her neck to kiss my cheek sweetly.

"How was your day?" I asked.

"Oh, who cares," she responded.
Her eyebrows lifted, her fingertips traced my thigh,
"Tell me something beautiful."

"What?"

She dipped her paintbrush in red, in white and applied them
to the lovers' lips.

"Tell me something beautiful."

"I can't think of anything," I said.

"Try."

I found you half-dead.
In your eyes,
pupils were still giving away the scent of love
Breaking the harsh silence and the dark shapes of ****** footprints
Painted on your face.
The line of your body, turned into a mosaic bloomed scars,
Awakened a yearning inside of me, chopped my heart
In the timid kisses and gave away the color of your veins
Scattered on the fabric of our first awakenings.
In the depths of your flesh I'm trying to find the deafened sobs
I've listened to the dreamy nights
Under the veil of your skin,
Hidden from all sadness hungry of my tears.
I'm leaning your bloodless fingers on my lips
Listening to your presence.
By kissing your ******* I'm diving my touch in your naked
Lungs, spread out like a butterfly
Imprisoned inside your glass body.
With my tongue I'm discovering the taste of your neck,
Decorated with a red line
Of my love.
I'm biting your vocals,
Remembering of your laughter that still echoes
In the spaces of my thoughts.
You're still beautiful, safe in my arms.
You give away your happiness with a smile on your torn face.
Your love reaches me through a mild rushes of wind.
I'm leaning my cheek on your ankles,
The softness of your flesh overtakes me by passion.
And you are giving me your last stirrings of life
That you don't need with the tenderness that my breath is giving you.
I lie down next to you on the bed soaked in red,
I'm overtaken by the smell of rotting roses and smooth juices
In which we sink together.
I'm putting the remains of your waxy face on my shoulder,
I'm choked by soft closeness of your tangled hair
Packed on the pillow.
And I feel your gratitude,
While the sweet sounds of loving
Float through our world,
Safe and bloomed.

Elements synthesize



Establishing brilliance



Mosaic





Sound elevates



Electric symphonies



Frequency





Vocals ascend



Ricocheting amour



Phoenix





Speech perishes



Shock scarves



Mastery

You hear the vocals of my pores
Calling out for your ecstasy
Baby, will you answer me?
Annihilate my suspire
I'm craving for you to sojourn your lips unto my dermis
Floating in passion, your love takes me higher
With annimalism
Your death grip on my waistline severely quenches my skin*
I feel your thunder storming on my frame
Being pounded by my waves
Of this flash flood you made
I NEED YOU
To come and swim deeply into my ocean
Contain my legs from this uncontrollable wavely motion
Surf my waves at each convulsion
Your breath trickles down my spine
You haven't even reached your peak yet
And I have came here
And
Came
4
Times
This visit, I do not regret
I WANT YOU
To make love to me
Like there is a war outdoors
With nature and valley
A war between temptation and flesh
But wait
Not just yet
Because your cinnamon skin
***** my tongue passionately
Constantly
I melt, into a puddle
Full weight on the floor
That you lick up until  no more
I travel my lips up and down your masculine build
You feel my exhaustion
Invading your spine
Interrupting your concentration
At this hour, in this moment
You are mine
And I am yours
Finally tasting those lips I've always adored
My succulent tongues takes a moment and travel down your chest
Leaving my mist dwelling on your buff
Down to the strong man hood you possess...
You grab my neck
As you explore the soft walls
Of my saturating portal
Your head inclines back in full relieve
As I continually, savagely feast
You then explode in great fury
We collapse as if an earthquake violated our terrain
And then we lay....
But,
This is not the end
Welcome, to foreplay
With gratitude, your excitements hardens
And your eyes paint me, you feel extremely lucky
You begin to fill your lips with thanks
But  NO
Baby don't thank me
Just **** me...




                            Copy Right 2013
                                   ©Patty Ann

We stand in twilight hues...
Fingers consciously entwined in a clasp.
We speak without vocals
that crescendo between sighs and gasps.

We anticipate...
But we do not look forward...
Not to the promise of freedom and salvation.
More so the uncertainty
that resonate with the *****
of feathered morning birds.

The unknown scares us so.
We know not of what lurks,
in the impending light of day.
We simply bide the ticking seconds...
As we scramble for the right words to say.

When there needn't be such uncomfortable silence.
No need for an awkward stance.
For we've embraced the melody,
memorised the lyrics
and rehearsed the dance.

Yet...
We hesitate...
Even though we've decided that we must.
For what shadow that looms agape below us,
hurling threats of swallowing us whole,
will soon be warded off...
As quick as the errant gust.

The darkness...
Will soon be cast behind our backs.
And all would be committed to memory
as surely as it had begun.
It would dissipate as it would stretch far...
But only if we turn to face the dawning sun.

Here between these walls
The world is intoxicated
And you and I are the only ones sane
As we negotiate each others pain
And compensate it with blissful pleasure
Only we can fix all that is wrong
Beyond steamed windows
Outside where the world drowns in rain
Bit by bit
We discover the secret of happiness
And peace
As we fulfill the hunger within us
I swear we are half way there to ending poverty
We are overcome within ourselves
We are not you and I
But one
I'm wearing your old sweater
And we snuggle propped up against the wall
Or each other
Our arms wound around and palms pressed close, fingers knitted together
Your fingers stroke my hair
As we listen to the different heartbeats
And voice our own dreams
With words we build separate versions of an ideal world
Cora you say
How come we're here like this
We're both so different
And I reply that it doesn't matter
We both have too much respect to let differences matter
Respect for the right of others
To reach for achieving a utopia without harming another being
The secret is to never see yourself as superior
And balance it with never seeing yourself as inferior
It doesn't matter what the colour of your envelope is
Or what factory you were made in
Your brand is not the name of your religion or the soil you were born on
The essence and material are the same
I can feel your smile tickling against my forehead as you whisper
I think I know what you mean
Let me show you
And a foreign sound reaches my ears
It's a slow rhythmic tune
With soft vocals
I have no idea what the words mean
And at that moment
Not for the first time
It crosses my mind
That if everyone spoke the same language would we still be like this
But it doesn't matter
As I listen like a blind man with no sense of time
I understand the song is about love
And there's a touch of longing
I can feel the melancholy in her voice
And the nostalgic homesickness in his
As the song plays on
I imagine the two lovers were reunited
I can feel the gratitude
And relief
I can see their future
And its everything I've always dreamed of
My kind of utopia

Your voice is my lullaby
Your  words make me weak
That tender voice of your caresses my ear, though it's on the radio,
your voice lingers on my atmosphere
as if you were really here.
love and tenderness in your voice seems to supply
your vocals for are my lullaby.

He yells!!
1-2-3-4
Oh! Hell 
 5-6-7-8

Who do we appreciate
Hormones Ah Vey!
Pray

So pick up the
Italian horn phone*
Leave me alone!!!
Harmony and hormones
Are like song

Losing beat
whiskers
I am the Queen and your
the Dutch masters
Fit 2-B Flustered
Like rabbit hares
Jumps *****

Hey Bills
Tramping
Playbill

Ridiculous -Pompous
Jumping- Delicious

Playgirl
No sweat
Her vocals
are a threat

The trampolines
the trend he's Jaws
Did you see
her nasty
50 shades of flaws
green pupils

Meter lady and the *****
Wonka tickets
Humbug grouchy
Hands off but way
to touche-y
picking pockets

Barista coffee jitters
*****
The birds and the
Bees like ***
with Monkey's

All dried up
Nothing to sting
Madhatter of honey
lover ding ****
((Hong Kong))

******* hormones
fishy mermaid tails
sardines
ladies eating pork
and beans
At the mezzanine

Fish eggs "Zar" of caviar
By far is the best love
I ever had
Tangerine your
the one for me
If you ever have
half a brain

I will find you
It will take a whole
*****-like City
My speed of Sin city
Someone out there to
feed me
Those up and downs

Hormones crown me
Town $$
country
Central Park jogging
and stomach wiggling

Highs and lows of work
hustling
Even when I am
desperately
Housewife NJ
enthusiastic

I rather knock on wood
You better be home
Smiling guilty good
This world changed
to plastic
Divine from killer drastic
Those hormones
Disney ****** dunes
Wed me I dare you ((June))
Insane asylum ward
When my hormones
are working

My moods sweet candy
hard demanding
I am the one holding the
Award trophy *God
Having
hormones
are tricky
Jumping jelly beans
handy
Trampolines and
Hormones
Mrs. Jones
She has a thing
going on

New monopoly_
Holy Molly
Oversexed Jolly
Mr and Mrs
Robinson
She's older
and wiser
Took her Lover's ransom

Her ****** I phones ring
hormones
Something has to give
Chinese Din sum
He's jumping off the wall
trampolines whats up
with his *****?
Scratchy felines
Egyptian Nile nine lives
Cats  Meow smile

Love affair Prudence
come
out to play
The Beatles
Love the Abby lane
And she
walked
out insane__

The rain pelts the window,
The Boyfriend who tries to get my attention,
Throwing its rocks at the window,
But I ignore and continue on with my work.

Mrs. Livingston wants a paper written
A 5 page paper
And Things like annoying rain mustn’t distract me.

Though the rain is easy to ignore
There is one thing that I can’t ignore.
Him.
He is there in the back of my mind
Occupying the space where numbers from math class should be,
Where my History homework on Napoleon should be,
Where He shouldn’t be.

Golden eyes flash before me once the room goes white,
A scent seduces my nose though it’s in my mind
Just a memory brought back to life
A ghost intruding when it need not.

Why? Why can’t he leave me alone?
Yet I know it’s not him that’s in the wrong
It’s me
And My gay ways.

Latching onto him
Clasping his words in its hands
Soaking up every syllable
Every word
Everything about him
Like a sponge soaking up the bubbles , suds, water, and germs.

The paper! I must get back to the paper!
He can’t be in my mind when I have much writing to do.
But
I like him.
More than like him.

I remember when at first I dug my heels into the ground
Refusing to fall
Then as time went on
The heels got eroded
The ground beneath me got eroded
My determination was eroded.
And
I
Fell.

An object forced to the ground not because of gravity
But because he had something about him
Something that made my body sing,
With bulking, twisting, and jittering.

Was it his smile?
That one little curve.
That one little curve with such shine
And such sweetness
It could melt ice
And have more sugar than a pack of Hershey Kisses.

Maybe his hair?
The constant loops
Of Wheat
Of sand
Of soft wool.
Taking me on a ride that never seem to end.

Or perhaps his Words and Speech?
The constant dragging out words
The sweet tune of the Hillbilly in his vocals.
Lost in his words that never made sense
Until I thought more of it.

Or maybe his demeanor?
The laid back student who dreams of going cross country in a van.
The one who seems to have everything figured when he can’t figure if he is up or down.
The one who attracts the negative and it turns to problems
The one who surprises me with his out of the blueness.
And takes me on such a high that it shatters by heart when he drops me.

I have to stop.
He is taken from me
That is a thought I mustn’t forget.
Why spend this time
Thinking
Wanting
Loving
Liking
Wishing
Hoping
When he has been taken from me.
I must finish the paper.
I don’t have much time.

when people ask me 'what type of poetry do you like?'
i tell them that i like real poetry
not fake meaningless poetry with technical words that i don't even know.
i tell them poetry has to have EMOTION
and it doesn't have to make sense.
it doesn't have to rhyme, either.
poetry should be raw. it should be written when you don't think you have anything to write about
like that time you were lying in bed and thought of a single word planted onto paper to create a whole stanza, and then five stanzas.
find poetry in music. in the low guitar riffs and the drum beat. find it in the lyrics and the vocals. find words in trees. in lights. in a bottle of nail polish. in your first love and your last laugh.
find poetry when you fall and a stranger helps you up. find it in a busker at the train station. find it when you give that busker some money and find it when you see that the busker appreciates you. find poetry in poetry.

So much to do, my mind is buzzing. My fingers are dancing with perverted excitement as my lips form words with more syllables than letters. I feel as though I were a more capable Atlas. May the world rely on me, I shall hold it higher than an aeroplane as it soars through the sky. Our skies.

A testament to the ingenuity of man the turrets, ******* the weak, and credit God; the asexual ****** he is.

This is no song for the hipsters to play as their ringtones as they feel for each other through their LCD screens. They search for other brazen articles of humanity trapped within their social networks, a web of faces, **** smiles, faces and words with us wherever we we go. An inextricable mass that haunts like schizophrenic vocals droning out the real life. But there is no real life. We are all just like Him.

*****. Not natural. Filthy. Unclean.

Today, I grabbed a handful of sand just to see if I could feel it. Ten years ago, I would have felt every grain as it passed through my fingers; crisp, sharp, invigorating. Now, it’s dull. Blunt, rounded, indistinguishable. *****. Not natural. Filthy. Unclean. Nothing for our worshipped deviant to see.

My life is pornographic; an infographic of my exquisite taste in infectious lies, in the slaughter of old days, in the times immemorial. A map of things that don’t relate to me. A chart of things I don’t care about. I have too much to do, so much to write about! To write about...me.

*****. Not natural. Filthy. Unclean.

My mind is buzzing.

Until the next day, when my bones fall sluggish and my mind thinks plainly of its singular desire: Sleep…*****, sleep...filthy, sleep. But I can’t.

So now...I work. I am alive, alive, alive a lively beat of my heart as blood runs like an inmate from the bars of confinement. From my body: a testament to the ingenuity of *******. My body. Where my heart is beaten.

Beat, beat.

Sleep, sleep.

Fly high.

The beat, the snare, the drum
Starting in at the floor and flying to my brain
**** all the people who say I’m numb
I’m sane, oh so sane!

My thinking, once a cloudy, congested, coagulate of incoherent thoughts,
Now flows free from its once catastrophically, closed chasm,
Bringing fourth meaningless, mindless motions and movements,
Showing all, that you are who you are, don’t be afraid to fall.

As the smoke clears, the crystallized casts of crushing vocals
Radiate to my ears; all we hear is the hate, the hassle, the hustle
The bustle.  Look beyond what has spawned to see what you find fond.
Blinded we remain; we fight, frightened and furious against this foe.

Conformity hinders our ability to show individuality.  They attack us
With ambidexterity to keep us statues of our own subconscious design,
Yet we continue to follow these wrongly deified prodigies.  They’re using
Us as antibodies to cleanse what are others conformities.

Enlightened I will stay to ensure Elysium for my fellow enthusiasts.
Free from these prodigies, my persistence will not fade
To grey, black, white, withered, wretched wasted thoughts.
My mind is free, my soul deep, this music is the up-beat.

those are very sharp apples. bobbing for catheters and chasms have their own parabolas  
or might you think your urchin skin; the pinnacle of passive violence
in the **** kingdom of your vibration
in the valley of our entropy.
the Either Nor'easter
of our zero degrees
West.

Due South of Sound Reason.

the locals call  " the sound "
where the heads pool the dark waters of our consciousness
and eddies abide beneath the radiant dirge
of sweet sweet life, and  singing blue whale pods in the dodgy brush-fires
of our Marianas Trench-coat Lining
the vocals explode the random and un-cloaked , it disappears as phenomenal
and all men seize the kelp beds of our delirium
with bashful wisdom.

I press my lips against your wet yes! and all this is January-nettles for jam.

for all seasons.

As the Nightingale sings...
His sweet song of happiness
Driven by bountiful liberation
Relieved from timeless crappiness
Fluttering, making a joyful noise
Trials to deprive him of craftiness
Surely fails at inflicting such harm
He sings gleefully, free of nastiness.


As the Nightingale sings...
His wrenching song of fear
Realizing his time can easily fall
At any moment danger may appear
Songs of melodic screechy whistles
Alerting of predators lurking clear
He's hurt, used to frequent viewing
His kin die, for each he sheds a tear.


As the Nightingale sings...
His sensual song of passion
Strong vocals of desired courtship
Refusing to share his ration
With many rivals upon his branch
Alluring females with his attraction
Mating rituals commencing in love
His plumage thrives in new fashion.


As the Nightingale sings...
His saddened song of sorrow
Wishing for better times to come
Hoping to make it to the morrow
Living below a abundant food chain
With a short lifespan to borrow
Singing til his last breath is breathed
Eloped to heaven, a angel he follows.

© Michael P. Smith

-
     ****, turns out i'm good at
                                              fanboy lit.

or what i should rather say,
                           the beast
that constitutes
            the sound technicians
at music feeds studio,
even with a cheap
                   SoundMAGIC
headphones
           inserted into a samsung
device...
        nirvana...
      notably with the following
track                ghost's
rendition of their song ritual...
otherwise the burned
       version by 22valkryia's
channel...
           yet there's a more subtle
point,
             i never really appreciated
metallica...
            because the rhythm
guitar section almost always
overshadowed
        the cushion underpinning
of employing a bass guitar
    to make a drummer
      less pots and pans
        and actual drums...
so...
   i could never pick up the bass
notes in their music...
      well, apart from devil's dance,
but... that's hardly an
argument...
                    if i can't pick up
on the bass guitar presence,
       i don't know why the music
has to lean so much on rhythm guitar,
rhythm guitarist's megalomania
i suppose...
               it's still amazing
to appreciate the golden ratio
   element of how to synchronise
   all the instruments, with the vocals,
condensed into a bite
              rather than just overblown
concernt hall orchestral suites...
          golden ratio interpretation?
   the following schematic:

                                d:v
                                  =

              with instruments in between
    the extremes grinding teeth,
  i.e. synchronised flow,
                   d? drums
                             v? vocals...

              if drums are in synch. ratio
to the vocals,
         authentic melody can
                                    "rummage"
between them...
                          
             always the missing bass line
in metallica,
      overbearing with rhythm guitar...

i'm not surprised why
              9,260,609 people have
listened to this track
             at 01:47 sunday march 4th...

and to think that
something like https://oeis.org/A060707
    (the online encyclopedia
             of integer sequences)
                        exists...

and here's me,
                      a pauper with a poem.

             i have absolutely no idea
what motivates me to write these
                        bites into a blank canvas,

just today i "discovered" 4chan.
                      little help did it do me,  
                         arthur scherbius
   and his antithesis
                              alan turing,
and now this:
                          users,
                                     content creators...
   if i were to make my bets:
         i'm collateral (in the adjective form)
         but hey,
in the meantime there's the remaining
whiskey,
           and this track
   of music
                 that's infuriatingly good
in the capacity to cause
                                              a shiver.

                       in the memory of: martyrs.

I see you,
You see me.
Eighteenth floor
Across the street.
Sometimes you dance.
Sometimes you read,
TV dinners, fall asleep.

Strangers in a dark room, laughing at jokes they didn't quite hear;
Frosted windowpanes and cheap champagne a face appears.
And anything could happen in these cathedrals we roam,
Where shadow people dance
and trade their glance and walk home alone,
In a lonely city.

Welcome to your life.
There's no turning back.
Even while we sleep
We will find you,
Acting on your best behavior,
Turning your back on mother nature.

We're talking away,
I don't know what
I'm to say, I'll say it anyway:
“Today's another day to find you
Shying away.
I'll be coming for your love, okay?”

So please, take me out tonight
Where there's music and there are people
And they're young and alive.

Driving in your car
I never, never want to go home.
It’s good times for a change.
See, the luck I've had
Can make a good man
Turn bad.

Still don't know what I was looking for
And my time was running wild,
A million dead-end streets.
Every time I thought I'd got it made
It seemed the taste was not so sweet.

She's staring out the window of the Roosevelt Hotel,
Shy kid, knees always bruised.
you pulled me close
Kissed my lips, it tasted like home.
Flashes of crosswords and chamomile,
The years pass like a Ferris Wheel.

They say we come from nothing and to nothing we'll return
And in between is gravity and bridges left to burn.

Oh, there is thunder in our hearts.
Is there so much hate for the ones we love?
Well tell me, we both matter, don't we?

Standing on a skyline, watching all the cars go.
Sleeping in the daylight, I was losing all control.

You bet I think I’m pretty dangerous,
Burning down the walls, breaking all the laws.

So needless to say
I'm odds and ends,
I'll be stumbling away
Slowly learning that life is OK.
Say after me
It's no better to be safe than sorry.

Oh, I Haven't had a dream in a long time.
See, the life I've had
Can make a good man bad.

It's my own design,
It's my own remorse.
Help me to decide,
Help me make the
Most of freedom and of choice.

Oh, the things that you say,
Is it love or
Just to play my worries away.
You're all the things I've got to remember.
You're shying away,
I'll be coming for you anyway.

You,
It's you and me,
It's you and me, you won't be unhappy.

We got a little place near the beach,
We watch the sailboats out at sea
And we ride along the Palisades.
Love is just a summer day,
Love is a four-letter word
That hurts.

What a hell of a feeling,
It is dark all day
But there is something in the sky that glows.
What a hell of a feeling
With such a brilliant light,
Can you feel your soul’s vocals in the air tonight?

What a hell of a day to embrace disorder
And there is something in your eyes that burns,
Light up, drag the river,
Can you see my soul’s vocals in the air tonight?

And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us,
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die.
And if a ten-ton truck
Kills the both of us,
To die by your side
Well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine.

We know, we grow, we fall, we crawl
to change proclaim,
for this we miss to breathe, deceive,
from fate to fate, exist, insist, we push, we lust.

There is a light that never goes out.
And there's a room where the light won't find you.
Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down.
When they do, I'll be right behind you.

I tried to laugh about it,
Cover it all up with lies.
I tried to laugh about it,
Hiding the tears in my eyes.
'Cause boys don't cry,
Boys don't cry.

Oh, come on baby,
Come on, darling.
Let me steal this moment from you now.
Come on, angel,
Come on, come on, darling.
Let's exchange the experience.

So sad, we almost made it.
So sad they had to fade it.

So, if I only could
I'd make a deal with God
And I'd get him to swap our places.
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill,
With no problems (For the ones we love).

Who said that every wish
Would be heard and answered.
When wished on the morning star?
Somebody thought of that
And someone believed it,
Look what it's done so far.
What's so amazing that keeps us stargazing
And what do we think we might see?

Time may change me
But I can't trace time.
I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream,
Form impermanence.
So the days float through my eyes
But still, the days seem the same.

Should have known at the end of summer
The innocence fades and the weak become stronger.
Should have known at the end of the summer
I'd be lost without you.

Please hold me 'til I'm not lonely anymore.
Is it only the crashing of the ocean to the shore?

We were the rebels, lone survivors.
We were the cult of deep-sea divers.
We were young once then we grew old,
We were shining, we were fool's gold.

I was a lost boy when I met you.

It’s good times for a change.
See, the luck I've had
Can make a good man
Turn bad.

So for once in my life
Let me get what I want.
Lord knows it would be the first time.
Lord knows it would be the first time.

There is a voice at the bottom of the stairs.
It's a male voice.
I don't care.
There are no males here at the moment.
No-one I need to fear anyway.
My son lives here, but he's at work.
Just a couple of deep throated groans.
Where do they come from?
Keep hearing these moans.
I don't mind if he stays.
I moan more than he does, because I can.
My noisy invisible partner, only a man.
(c)Livvi MMCV

how over pretentious of me...
islamophobia and russophobia...
odd bedfellows...

Mатвей Дракон: profile name...
but it's in russian and no one is willing
to stretch a darkening of humour...
to the extent of monty python...
because there's no canned laughter...

and there will never be...
not since i realised...
those four bottles of cider get me
more drunk than half a liter of
ms. amber... because the drinking
is measured and can reveal itself
in the process - rather than wait,
concentrated... and only expand
into more hours of sleep than
i could ever wish for...

but at least the russians speak of
russophobia as a reality -
the evil genius mantra...
which they are...
but there's no sense of: via irrational
arguments we will counter this
irrational fear...

so... the scuttling spiders announce!
and we will have ourselves
an orchestra!

even i thought this was too much,
too pretentious...
it's not a study... it's teasing...

a study in greek, hebrew, cyrillic and possibly sanskrit... because i'm not a monolingual hyper-inflation that will solve a crossword puzzle... when めば (eye-spot) is already... available? In a name there's a name in oh so many other languages... should i rely on relapsing into "gender-neutral" pronouns i'll cite... the noun-status extensions of letters, akin to a' into alpha... o' into omega... etc.

めば (eye-spot): that much is true...
sudoku...
i have made the following circumstance
plain...
there is no chance of me rising above
this already apparent crab-bucket intellectualism...
perhaps...
burden of rhyme...
it's only a "poem" if it rhymes...
rhyme is somehow identifiable with poo'etics...
ask an anne sexton... or perhaps:
no, don't bother...

she to burdens herself with rhymes -
and maybe she doesn't...
but this endless expectation to rhymes...
yes: plural was indicative of
the irony...
sometimes it's not even available...
to look back at this tool we have been given,
perhaps perfected better -
or not - since most of the time i find
myself: without an inch of belief
in catching some oratory / rhetorical
tsunami to... be the crow that croaks
the most and the loudest in this wake...

at least the russians acknowledge russophobia...
oh they're pay privy diligence to it...
they know they're the evil geniuses of this world...
they allow this irrational fear to sink in...
and then they rationalise it...

too bad for islamophobia...
it's not an irrational fear to begin with...
it's... more or less... a rational fear...
i think russophobia is an irrational fear...
after all: Kiev was founded by Vikings...
and apart from crown russia that's still
pretty much in Europe...
the asiatic branch of russia is too far away
to matter for either st. petersburg
of paris...

it's not convincing to be "reassured" while
the "enemy" persists to look bewildered
as if: no event is ever to happen
in the world - or also include him...
muslims? oh no... oh no at almost every turn
it seems...
sacred cows walk the streets of new delhi
while the people starve...

no dire warning: tiresome from the perspective
of a wormhole -
the count and the next count
the measures and what's to be left
dwindling... which is never a spectacle worth
reserving...
like putting on a vinyl and watching
the vinyl on a gramaphone...
or lighting a candle with a sulphur-sparked
match and sitting and "waiting"
watching while the candle burns...
and feeds a schtick of "anorexia"
absorbs all the shadows and stands at
midnight noon: with no wax to burn...

that feeling of having just ****** off
and then... prostate cancer pains
of having to make it absolutely necessary
to take a ****... to clean the ducts...
i still don't know why this "event"
is so precious for the quasi-cenobites...
it's no big deal...
just another genocide done into
the tissue later flushed...
perhaps if i were... shooting eggs
without the yoke it would somehow
matter...
perhaps i am...

but there's no zeitgeist to be had
concerning something that i make synonym
with wiping my *** asking
for nutella... and a skippy crunchy...
because: that's going to be the decade
defining EVENT!

funny... you ******* for no real reason...
nothing procreative...
gym-bro bollocking and that's not even
as much fun as going to a turkish barber
for a shave...
by then: everything concerning your
being - that is not going to be a moral
tool to raise children...
limbo in ego or the ego in limbo -
and that's never self or i...
but after an *******...
the most desperate need to take a ****...
to flush and make the ducts pristine... wiped
with ***** disinfectant...

about as odd as the bass guitar rising above
the drums - the oddity bass "rhyme"
and please... no guitar solos...
no metallica death to the bass
all that i hear is solo and rhythm guitar
and the drums...
they never got over the death of cliff burton...
or: how the rock band killed
the jazz band... focused on the rhythm guitar
and drums... but no trumpets just the vocals...
but still... no better use for bass?

it's always either: all that's music and...
it was always going to be not enough ***...
enough *** or just ***...
i went down the route of playing the brothel
roulette to catch up with the girls...
who i expect will later play bingo...
and we will probably try to age...
and be all romance...
and the man idiotic will still preserve
himself as unable to lie...
and she will... m'eh ah and all that litany
of sighs find the purse and the penguin
dancing the foxtrot from out
of the antarctica of his own ***...

russophobia: yes, an irrational fear -
even the evil geniuses of moscow acknowledge
this burden...
islamophobia... and... what?
milk and honey and yeast
and comatose black gold of ms. saudi of
the dinosaur arabia plucked...
a leaf... a laurel... from the pages of history
of: who's the good dog willing
to aport on call of command?!
into iraq and iran?

i can't hear a counter...
when it comes to it being anything rationalised
equal to the russian monologue...
claustrophobia and... it's irrational to me...
esp. when long winding...
when the cube talked to a field about...
abstract thinking -
at least claustrophobia is a metaphor
for abstract thinking - the lesser -

islamophobia is a ***** word...
esp. the -phobia suffix...
it's a perfectly rational fear...
given the mouse-and-leans have the gears
the fuel and the poker and backgammon "rules"...
as someone who might appreciate
a well sung adhan more than
an operatic aria...
well...
what's not to love?

at least for some it's known:
a drowning man will attempt to grip
a razor's edge without hope that it might be
an edge of a floating raft...
and they will always purse their mouth...
and waggle their tongue for
the pennies like sand shrapnel from
the payers for the goods...
an emirat sheikh and... the bore of the world...
if only the lottery of oil...
somehow... landed... in mongolia...

this world is a tiresome place...
given that arabs have the money...
and the chinese have: g.i. joe factories...
it's such a drab place...
such a clone furnace of the numbers
of mandarins...
and oh that niqab cinema...
even if you sell me something swedish
in black & white drab...
or some proto-turkic propaganda movie
to convert the "al-qaq" kurds (qa-eee-d'ah?)

welcome to europe... ghetto west of berlin...
back east there are needles...
walking about on the mountains
of camel humps...
notably in west warsaw coach station...
but the ukranians are always rather:
rowing the boat and the boat is always
heading into the furnace...

crab-bucket intellectualism...
these words are words that should be printed
and left on the northern line tube carriages...
like some free journalism paper wipe-my-***-with-i-wish,
why of course!
the highest i.q. renovations bottom-up to the top
always spreschen rhapsodies in wrap...
wrapping akin to:
i imagine the rappers chasing those...
john moschitta jr. is not a wrapper... rapper...
he's the add guy... and no rap on radio
adverts... when the T&S clauses are stressed...
and the muzak is dead and the lift is... falling...
like a ice-pick on the one dancing foot
of a burning burning with epitome given
the name... malchik trotting trotsky...

otherwise: blah - and endeavours into the bland...
some call it a guillotine...
i call it manglonia in england -
tiresome safe -
i almost pray to feel dangerous having
to acquire a straitjacket -
straitjacket bungee jump into conversation
like a rabid hive of the persona non grata:
of the commentary left-overs a priori
to the: walking onto the stage -
and talking with a gag in the mouth...
to speak a language for moths.

-Because I lost count of how many times I’ve seen “Romeo Must Die”
if only to bring you back to life for the film’s entire running time-

You were a shooting star baby girl, yet to arrive at destination
in a world were too many broken dolls die by their own hand
one whose last name coincides with the city of a space station
the universe added a constellation for every year of your life.

Every string of hair breathed air, with both feet firmly on earth
leaving air itself without air to breathe; while we were heirs
to the despair of knowing you were no longer there, relieved
while wistfully wishing whispering the talent we received.

Like a beautiful gift wrapped in your chocolate-coated skin
like an ingenious plant growing from the asphalt we could see
like a butterfly’s open wings shaped in the color of your lips
like all of the music, slowly dying no longer playing on MTV.

Since you passed your name’s the most popular among girls
quite fitting for the lofty, sublime, exalted nature of you voice
breathy vocals while holding a python and rocking the curls
the only “resolution” needed was on my TV to feel you close.

So these verses are dedicated to the soil blessed by your steps
to your lashes, one in a million laughter, the stem of your neck
the plethora of kisses never given, your soul engulfed by love
from here to eternity, no sense in mourning a gift from God.

My companion pounces on dust,
Pounding the ground ahead of me,
Tracking our path.
This is euphoria,
And today I own it.
I grin at strangers,
passing through my land.
They think me strange.
The valley reclines, lazy in the sun.
I am these paths, these hills.
My friend leads the others from me,
My bodyguard. I am not threatened.
I keep on striding, vocals powering
Through me. I stray from my kingdom.
Too cocky, too confident I
Stray to the forbidden.
They no longer look to me. Now they swarm,
I cannot work out their source.
They stare and hate me.
You stand by my side,
Exhausted and loyal.
I am safe still.

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.

I like all different kinds of music. As cliche as it sounds, it's true. I could never understand how people say that their favorite genre of music is just "rock" or plain "rap". Single syllables, especially when applied to musical preference, tend to make my muscles tighten up. It's just too constrictive for me. I like words/genres like "Alternative Jazz" or "Riot Grrrl". "******* Electro" and "Psychedelic/Soul". The words themselves just sound more appealing. Seriously, when will you ever hear the words "psychedelic" and "soul" in the same breath? Let alone the same connected phrase with a slash between them?

By far though, my favorite genre of music has to be "Dream Pop". I love the music. With all it's soothing, relaxing, hazy beats and lovely, distorted vocals but that isn't the real reason I call it my favorite. The reason I do is the words "Dream" and "Pop". The two words together bring about such vibrant imagery for me. Dreams, to me, mean a lot. I'll have a really exciting one and won't be able to shake the atmosphere of them for the entire day afterward. After a particularly scary one, I usually won't be able to get rid of that sense of doom and danger that always comes along with a horrifying nightmare. It's a bless and a curse but there's nothing like it. Especially for me.

And then there's the word "pop". Also a very image-inspiring word. You can pop a pimple. You can pop a bubble. You can eat an ice pop(sicle). You can say hello to your Pops. Pop, pop, pop. It's a very entertaining word. Short but sweet.

Put the two words together and you have one highly interesting phrase. "Dream Pop". It's so soothing and lovely. I really can't imagine a better combination of words.

You know when you get
Drunk and squeeze a bottle neck
Super tight so as not to forget
This bottle of courage makes me
And I spit loud and casually
To all that listen perplexed
Wondering what's next
This guy can't be real
This guy got ***** appeal
Sounds kinda funny, we'll keep him
Pet monkey
Hahaha
O please, o please, o please. This ***** playing you with ease cause even in my drunken moment I spit words well let me spell it out for you the way I grip this bottle neck heck might as well be a tech the bullets are my vocals leave you hopeful then you hear my joke and you just realized this ****** well spoke

there's a different way to play
when you yell at the top of your lungs
release your emotions through music
and you're gonna be alright
every thing bothering you will go away
and you will get to know who you are
just open up your mouth
and sing

I lost her.  
Where did she go?
I hear her voice.  
It's coming from the studio.
Against my better judgement.  
I follow.  
I don't dance.
I don't have a dancer's body.  
Music.  
My heart races.  I hate this.
The mirrors surround me.
Where is she?  
I can't do this without her.  
I'm short.
Fat.
Mirrors.  
Suddenly, I can't breathe.
I close my eyes.  
Open them.  
Eyes front.  
Ready to fight alone.    
Then I saw HER.  
As the music played, she let the rhythm pulsate through her body.  
The vocals moved her spirit.  
The percussion moved her feet.
She had enough curves to move with each instrument.    
And so she danced.  
She was bursting with sensuality.    
Aware of the power of her swaying hips.  
Her smile hypnotized me.  
The fluidity of her body seduced me.  
No.
I must not give in.    
I feel weak.
One sway consumes me.    
I am defeated.    
And so I let her dance
Back into my soul.

She'll be digging her toes in the California sands
Only Being catered to by the loveliest of hands.
Her heavenly vocals will take her to the top of the charts
Mangling and delighting a billion hearts
She'll be the next Beyonce or Lana Del Ray
But probably something better, many would say.
She'll get everything she wants, all and more
I just hope she remembers me when I see her on tour

Blanket of diva fireflies… celebration of Summer Dusk… silently

dancing… their flashy dance… syncopated rhythm… six inches

above… the bobbing heads… of too tall grass… twinkling… twirling...

ebbing… flowing… ‘til Mr. Moon shows up… and tries to wreck this party...

but it ain’t over… cuz the crickets… always in the mood to

jam… bust out with that sweet percussion… while... cicadas come in

softly… then crest... then moan... those serious background

vocals… the alley cats howl a funky refrain… and the night owls

work the chorus…

seducing me to join…

but…

since I’m…

not flashy… not rhythmic… can’t howl… and don’t moan…


I just bring some sweet tea… lie in the too tall grass…

and enjoy the show...



Come Too Far To Turn Back Now
Carla Marie 2012