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At Sea

As night hath stars, more rare than ships

In ocean, faint from pole to pole,

So all the wonder of her lips

Hints her innavigable soul.

Such lights she gives as guide my bark;

But I am swallowed in the swell

Of her heart's ocean, sagely dark,

That holds my heaven and holds my hell.

In her I live, a mote minute

Dancing a moment in the sun:

In her I die, a sterile shoot

Of nightshade in oblivion.

In her my elf dissolves, a grain

Of salt cast careless in the sea;

My passion purifies my pain

To peace past personality.

Love of my life, God grant the years

Confirm the chrism - rose to rood!

Anointing loves, asperging tears

In sanctifying solitude!

Man is so infinitely small

In all these stars, determinate.

Maker and moulder of them all,

Man is so infinitely great!

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If you've a cold inside your nose

find a place where Garlic grows

With onions, simmered in a pot

Drink it while it's nice and hot

If you partake of this fine soup

You will no longer feel like poop

Believe me for I know quite well

There's more to Garlic then the smell

~ Unknown

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And the trees about me,

Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks

Groan with continual surges; and behind me

Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches!

Paint me a cavernous waste shore

Cast in the unstilted Cyclades,

Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks

Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.

Display me Aeolus above

Reviewing the insurgent gales

Which tangle Ariadne's hair

And swell with haste the perjured sails.

Morning stirs the feet and hands

(Nausicaa and Polypheme),

Gesture of orang-outang

Rises from the sheets in steam.

This withered root of knots of hair

Slitted below and gashed with eyes,

This oval O cropped out with teeth:

The sickle motion from the thighs

Jackknifes upward at the knees

Then straightens out from heel to hip

Pushing the framework of the bed

And clawing at the pillow slip.

Sweeney addressed full length to shave

Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base,

Knows the female temperament

And wipes the suds around his face.

(The lengthened shadow of a man

Is history, said Emerson

Who had not seen the silhouette

Of Sweeney straddled in the sun.)

Tests the razor on his leg

Waiting until the shriek subsides.

The epileptic on the bed

Curves backward, clutching at her sides.

The ladies of the corridor

Find themselves involved, disgraced,

Call witness to their principles

And deprecate the lack of taste

Observing that hysteria

Might easily be misunderstood;

Mrs. Turner intimates

It does the house no sort of good.

But Doris, towelled from the bath,

Enters padding on broad feet,

Bringing sal volatile

And a glass of brandy neat.

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"Black Corridor" by Michael Moorcock

Space is infinite.

It is dark.

Space is neutral.

It is cold.

Stars occupy minute areas of space. They are clustered a few billion here. A few billion there. As if seeking consolation in numbers.

Space does not care.

Space does not threaten.

Space does not comfort.

It does not sleep; it does not wake; it does not dream; it does not hope; it does not fear; it does not love; it does not hate; it does not encourage any of these qualities.

Space cannot be measured. It cannot be angered, it cannot be placated. It cannot be summed up. Space is there.

Space is not large and it is not small. It does not live and it does not die. It does not offer truth and neither does it lie.

Space is a remorseless, senseless, impersonal fact.

Space is the absence of time and of matter

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An aural assault.

An entity that is visceral,jagged,diamond hard,palpable and

primitive while soft as a whisper and gentle as down.

They were inventing new forms and directions that set the template for

generations of musicians to come.

Creating legends while recreating and singing the old tales.

They captured and enraptured us in gossamer echoes and devised new

paradigms and solid life forms from molten sweat and intelligence.

Led Zeppelin has mass while remaining mysterious and oblique and


It is fulfilling as deep sleep and dirty as a broken bottle in the


It is raunchy and direct, sly and timeless,erotic and exotic...density

and intensity.

The songs seems to be taken from the Unknown (yet familiar) Universal

Ether…or as Robert Plant once said “ The Cosmic Energy “

These songs seem to have always existed somehow and somewhere and it

was the massed assemblage and innate talents of these 4 men to pluck

them down from the essential ether,then present them to us in a new

treasure box.

The thing about the band is they seemed to make it all seem so natural

and casually executed.

Something is right about all they accomplished. It just had to be


It all was presented in confidence and clarity while maintaining a

certain mystique.

The sound was of a stuttering step of knowing and communication for

the world to acknowledge.

An icon of the human condition of wanting,

traveling,power,reverence,glory and the seeking of wisdom..

The clarity and mustiness of times and things past remembered with

revelry and celebration.

It is familiar and strange at the same time. a central nervous system

that flexes to life in spite of the time or the location or


A leap across the synapses of the ancient mind’s eye to the

present...like the laughter that blurts out when you recognize

something familiar or beautiful.

The reverberations,maneuverings and machinations of Love like lava

flowing together,leaping loads of life writhing down a volcano from


Sweating and seeking something secret and seething.

Capturing plain truth and enraptured in myth.

You can almost smell the burning elements...the cosmic residue like

spent oxygen transforming in to ozone after a thunderstorm.. coming

from the overlapping layers of communication,instinct and


Friendship..worship on a warship .

The Demon dreaming his thoughts weaving and steaming.

An amalgam of spirits set in dynamic azimuths and interlocking time.

The spectrum of colors that come to mind when hearing their music is

the orange and green of spring ,the red of blood and lust,the white

of truth.

The sound and glory of World War 2 bombers diving towards the ground

piloted by caped misanthropes..

Vandals, scandals and candles.

The unique dedication and honor of a dog smiling ,captured with the

lively bounce of song..

Pagans freewheeling across the lands with abandon.

Far away lands to explore . .Dragons .. Lightning captured in a


Furious and glorious...


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I've always thought Jack Henry Abbott's life was an interesting story.

Behavioral problems before he reached the age of 10 resulted in being shipped off to various juvenile facilities for no other reason than for simply failing to adjust to numerous foster homes.

He eventually spent most of his youth and young adulthood in prison, where he educated himself by reading incessantly.

He wrote the book In the Belly of the Beast about his life in prison, which so impressed author Norman Mailer that he (Mailer) intervened in order to help Abbott get released from prison, only for him to eventually stab and kill a waiter in an argument outside a restaurant.

This poem from his book, while not exactly a typical, pleasant verse, nonetheless displays a passion and intensity which is somewhat unique and gives an unusual insight into the mind of an individual who perhaps might have turned out differently had life not dealt him such a difficult hand to play.

The Eyes Have It

Jack Henry Abbott, from the book In the Belly of the Beast.

It does not matter what is said and done -

the eyes have it.

The mind's legislative faculty

Is unconcerned with appearances and words.

Nothing is over and done with.


Not even your malice.

Especially your malice.

So do not apologize to me.

I have walked stooped beneath your heart,

that cold-blooded crown

that holds the glinting jewel

of contradiction in your eyes.

I think that I shall gouge them

from your skull

and crush them in my fist

Give you a dog to see with.

Give you eyes that pant and salivate,

Eyes that creep on all fours -

Eyes that cringe at the sound of my voice;

Lie to me then.

Tell me life is good to you

when all your memories are distilled

into the transformed image, the Idea

of a mechanical hand reaching

to dig out your eyes.

Lie to me then.

Lie to me then, Dog-eyes.

Lie to me then.

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Ever Since I Saw Raveen

I can't believe the time I've lost

Where do I go , where have I been

I cluck like a chicken when someone claps

Ever since I saw Raveen

I don't remember my name anymore

I've a penchant for lime green

Dresses feel good against my skin

Ever since I saw Raveen

I'm afraid I've lost my identity

But still keep my nails clean

I cry myself to sleep at night

Ever since I saw Raveen

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One of my favorite poets, Edgar Allen Poe


Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!

My spirit not awakening, till the beam

Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.

Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,

'Twere better than the cold reality

Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,

And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,

A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.

But should it be- that dream eternally

Continuing- as dreams have been to me

In my young boyhood- should it thus be given,

'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.

For I have revell'd, when the sun was bright

I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light

And loveliness,- have left my very heart

In climes of my imagining, apart

From mine own home, with beings that have been

Of mine own thought- what more could I have seen?

'Twas once- and only once- and the wild hour

From my remembrance shall not pass- some power

Or spell had bound me- 'twas the chilly wind

Came o'er me in the night, and left behind

Its image on my spirit- or the moon

Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon

Too coldly- or the stars- howe'er it was

That dream was as that night-wind- let it pass.

I have been happy, tho' in a dream.

I have been happy- and I love the theme:

Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life,

As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife

Of semblance with reality, which brings

To the delirious eye, more lovely things

Of Paradise and Love- and all our own!

Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.

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She was bread in Old Kentucky,

But she's only a crumb up here,

She's knock-kneed and double jointed,

with a cauliflower ear,

Some day we shall be married,

and if vegetables get too dear,

I'll cut myself a nice, big slice,

of her cauliflower ear,

Cuz that ain't rationed...

~ Curly Howard

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I am the green fairy (by Marie Corelli)

"I am the green Fairy

My robe is the color of despair

I have nothing in common with the fairies of the past

What I need is blood, red and hot,

The palpitating flesh of my victims

Alone, I will kill France, the present is dead,

Vive the future...

But me, I kill the future and in family I destroy

The love of country, courage, honor,

I am the purveyor of hell, penitentiaries, hospitals.

Who am I finally?

I am the instigator of crime

I am ruin and sorrow

I am shame

I am dishonor

I am death

I am Absinthe"

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The Awakening by Robert Calvert

I would rather the fire storms of atmospheres

Than this cruel descent from a thousand years

of dreams, into the starkness of the capsule.

Where two of our crew still lay suspended cool

in their tombs of sleep.

Those nagging choirs of memory

the tubes and wires

worming from their flesh to machinery

I would have to cut

Such midwifery is but one function of the leader here

Floating in a sac of fluid dark

A clear century of space

Away from Earth

While one man stares from the trauma of his birth

Attending to the hypno-tapes

Assuring him

that this is reality

however grim

Our journey's end

Landing itself was nothing

We touched upon a shelf of rock

selected by the automind

And left a galaxy of dreams behind.....

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Another cool story, if you don't know it.

Coleridge had been reading a book describing Xanadu, the summer palace of the Mongol ruler Kublai Khan.

He had ingested opium which had been prescribed for pain, and he fell asleep and had an epic vision or dream.

Upon awakening, he set out to write down the vision as it was still quite vivid in his mind.

He estimated that the poem would be close to 300 lines.

After barely getting started, he was interrupted by a visitor from the nearby village who was there on business, and ended up taking nearly an hour to leave.

Afterwards, Coleridge could not remember the rest of the vision, as he had been sidetracked by the ill-timed interruption.

He was so disappointed that he didn't publish the poem until years later at the urging of a fellow poet.

Who says drugs don't fuel creativity? LOL

Kubla Khan

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round:

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!

A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

A mighty fountain momently was forced:

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

It flung up momently the sacred river.

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,

Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:

And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far

Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure

Floated midway on the waves;

Where was heard the mingled measure

From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw:

It was an Abyssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she played,

Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight 'twould win me

That with music loud and long

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome! those caves of ice!

And all who heard should see them there,

And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honey-dew hath fed

And drunk the milk of Paradise.

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La sottise, l'erreur, le péché, la lésine,

Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps,

Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords,

Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.

Nos péchés sont têtus, nos repentirs sont lâches;

Nous nous faisons payer grassement nos aveux,

Et nous rentrons gaiement dans le chemin bourbeux,

Croyant par de vils pleurs laver toutes nos taches.

Sur l'oreiller du mal c'est Satan Trismégiste

Qui berce longuement notre esprit enchanté,

Et le riche métal de notre volonté

Est tout vaporisé par ce savant chimiste.

C'est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent!

Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas;

Chaque jour vers l'Enfer nous descendons d'un pas,

Sans horreur, à travers des ténèbres qui puent.

Ainsi qu'un débauché pauvre qui baise et mange

Le sein martyrisé d'une antique catin,

Nous volons au passage un plaisir clandestin

Que nous pressons bien fort comme une vieille orange.

Serré, fourmillant, comme un million d'helminthes,

Dans nos cerveaux ribote un peuple de Démons,

Et, quand nous respirons, la Mort dans nos poumons

Descend, fleuve invisible, avec de sourdes plaintes.

Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l'incendie,

N'ont pas encor brodé de leurs plaisants dessins

Le canevas banal de nos piteux destins,

C'est que notre âme, hélas! n'est pas assez hardie.

Mais parmi les chacals, les panthères, les lices,

Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents,

Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants,

Dans la ménagerie infâme de nos vices,

II en est un plus laid, plus méchant, plus immonde!

Quoiqu'il ne pousse ni grands gestes ni grands cris,

Il ferait volontiers de la terre un débris

Et dans un bâillement avalerait le monde;

C'est l'Ennui! L'oeil chargé d'un pleur involontaire,

II rêve d'échafauds en fumant son houka.

Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat,

— Hypocrite lecteur, — mon semblable, — mon frère!

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Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?

Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind.

Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm,

Er faßt ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm.

Mein Sohn, was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht?

Siehst Vater, du den Erlkönig nicht!

Den Erlenkönig mit Kron' und Schweif?

Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif.

Du liebes Kind, komm geh' mit mir!

Gar schöne Spiele, spiel ich mit dir,

Manch bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand,

Meine Mutter hat manch gülden Gewand.

Mein Vater, mein Vater, und hörest du nicht,

Was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht?

Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind,

In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind.

Willst feiner Knabe du mit mir geh'n?

Meine Töchter sollen dich warten schön,

Meine Töchter führen den nächtlichen Reihn

Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein.

Mein Vater, mein Vater, und siehst du nicht dort

Erlkönigs Töchter am düsteren Ort?

Mein Sohn, mein Sohn, ich seh'es genau:

Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau.

Ich lieb dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt,

Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt!

Mein Vater, mein Vater, jetzt faßt er mich an,

Erlkönig hat mir ein Leids getan.

Dem Vater grauset's, er reitet geschwind,

Er hält in den Armen das ächzende Kind,

Erreicht den Hof mit Mühe und Not,

In seinen Armen das Kind war tot.

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Before A Crucifix

Here, down between the dusty trees,

At this lank edge of haggard wood,

Women with labour-loosened knees,

With gaunt backs bowed by servitude,

Stop, shift their loads, and pray, and fare

Forth with souls easier for the prayer.

The suns have branded black, the rains

Striped grey this piteous God of theirs;

The face is full of prayers and pains,

To which they bring their pains and prayers;

Lean limbs that shew the labouring bones,

And ghastly mouth that gapes and groans.

God of this grievous people, wrought

After the likeness of their race,

By faces like thine own besought,

Thine own blind helpless eyeless face,

I too, that have nor tongue nor knee

For prayer, I have a word to thee.

It was for this then, that thy speech

Was blown about the world in flame

And men's souls shot up out of reach

Of fear or lust or thwarting shame -

That thy faith over souls should pass

As sea-winds burning the grey grass?

It was for this, that prayers like these

Should spend themselves about thy feet,

And with hard overlaboured knees

Kneeling, these slaves of men should beat

Bosoms too lean to suckle sons

And fruitless as their orisons?

It was for this, that men should make

Thy name a fetter on men's necks,

Poor men's made poorer for thy sake,

And women's withered out of sex?

It was for this, that slaves should be,

Thy word was passed to set men free?

The nineteenth wave of the ages rolls

Now deathward since thy death and birth.

Hast thou fed full men's starved-out souls?

Hast thou brought freedom upon earth?

Or are there less oppressions done

In this wild world under the sun?

Nay, if indeed thou be not dead,

Before thy terrene shrine be shaken,

Look down, turn usward, bow thine head;

O thou that wast of God forsaken,

Look on thine household here, and see

These that have not forsaken thee.

Thy faith is fire upon their lips,

Thy kingdom golden in their hands;

They scourge us with thy words for whips,

They brand us with thy words for brands;

The thirst that made thy dry throat shrink

To their moist mouths commends the drink.

The toothed thorns that bit thy brows

Lighten the weight of gold on theirs;

Thy nakedness enrobes thy spouse

With the soft sanguine stuff she wears

Whose old limbs use for ointment yet

Thine agony and bloody sweat.

The blinding buffets on thine head

On their crowned heads confirm the crown;

Thy scourging dyes their raiment red,

And with thy bands they fasten down

For burial in the blood-bought field

The nations by thy stripes unhealed.

With iron for thy linen bands

And unclean cloths for winding-sheet

They bind the people's nail-pierced hands,

They hide the people's nail-pierced feet;

And what man or what angel known

Shall roll back the sepulchral stone?

But these have not the rich man's grave

To sleep in when their pain is done.

These were not fit for God to save.

As naked hell-fire is the sun

In their eyes living, and when dead

These have not where to lay their head.

They have no tomb to dig, and hide;

Earth is not theirs, that they should sleep.

On all these tombless crucified

No lovers' eyes have time to weep.

So still, for all man's tears and creeds,

The sacred body hangs and bleeds.

Through the left hand a nail is driven,

Faith, and another through the right,

Forged in the fires of hell and heaven,

Fear that puts out the eye of light:

And the feet soiled and scarred and pale

Are pierced with falsehood for a nail.

And priests against the mouth divine

Push their sponge full of poison yet

And bitter blood for myrrh and wine,

And on the same reed is it set

Wherewith before they buffeted

The people's disanointed head.

O sacred head, O desecrate,

O labour-wounded feet and hands,

O blood poured forth in pledge to fate

Of nameless lives in divers lands,

O slain and spent and sacrificed

People, the grey-grown speechless Christ!

Is there a gospel in the red

Old witness of thy wide-mouthed wounds?

From thy blind stricken tongueless head

What desolate evangel sounds

A hopeless note of hope deferred?

What word, if there be any word?

O son of man, beneath man's feet

Cast down, O common face of man

Whereon all blows and buffets meet,

O royal, O republican

Face of the people bruised and dumb

And longing till thy kingdom come!

The soldiers and the high priests part

Thy vesture: all thy days are priced,

And all the nights that eat thine heart.

And that one seamless coat of Christ,

The freedom of the natural soul,

They cast their lots for to keep whole.

No fragment of it save the name

They leave thee for a crown of scorns

Wherewith to mock thy naked shame

And forehead bitten through with thorns

And, marked with sanguine sweat and tears,

The stripes of eighteen hundred years

And we seek yet if God or man

Can loosen thee as Lazarus,

Bid thee rise up republican

And save thyself and all of us;

But no disciple's tongue can say

When thou shalt take our sins away.

And mouldering now and hoar with moss

Between us and the sunlight swings

The phantom of a Christless cross

Shadowing the sheltered heads of kings

And making with its moving shade

The souls of harmless men afraid.

It creaks and rocks to left and right

Consumed of rottenness and rust,

Worm-eaten of the worms of night,

Dead as their spirits who put trust,

Round its base muttering as they sit,

In the time-cankered name of it.

Thou, in the day that breaks thy prison,

People, though these men take thy name,

And hail and hymn thee rearisen,

Who made songs erewhile of thy shame,

Give thou not ear; for these are they

Whose good day was thine evil day.

Set not thine hand unto their cross.

Give not thy soul up sacrificed.

Change not the gold of faith for dross

Of Christian creeds that spit on Christ.

Let not thy tree of freedom be

Regrafted from that rotting tree.

This dead God here against my face

Hath help for no man; who hath seen

The good works of it, or such grace

As thy grace in it, Nazarene,

As that from thy live lips which ran

For man's sake, O thou son of man?

The tree of faith ingraffed by priests

Puts its foul foliage out above thee,

And round it feed man-eating beasts

Because of whom we dare not love thee;

Though hearts reach back and memories ache,

We cannot praise thee for their sake.

O hidden face of man, whereover

The years have woven a viewless veil,

If thou wast verily man's lover,

What did thy love or blood avail?

Thy blood the priests make poison of,

And in gold shekels coin thy love.

So when our souls look back to thee

They sicken, seeing against thy side,

Too foul to speak of or to see,

The leprous likeness of a bride,

Whose kissing lips through his lips grown

Leave their God rotten to the bone.

When we would see thee man, and know

What heart thou hadst toward men indeed,

Lo, thy blood-blackened altars; lo,

The lips of priests that pray and feed

While their own hell's worm curls and licks

The poison of the crucifix.

Thou bad'st let children come to thee;

What children now but curses come?

What manhood in that God can be

Who sees their worship, and is dumb?

No soul that lived, loved, wrought, and died,

Is this their carrion crucified.

Nay, if their God and thou be one,

If thou and this thing be the same,

Thou shouldst not look upon the sun;

The sun grows haggard at thy name.

Come down, be done with, cease, give o'er;

Hide thyself, strive not, be no more.

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Music is life

Music is colorful

Music is passion

Music is soothing.

Music makes one romantic

Music evades loneliness

Music makes to forget worries

Music gives hope.

Music can take you ages back

Music can tell you stories

Music can control emotions

Music is always endless…

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It is my hope and dream

To hook up through the satellites

With everyone that's in the Family

Red and Blue, Green, Gold and Yellow

All the girls that are in jail with me

That gave their lives, took their lives

Gave their lives again

This is on the other side of the noose

That hangs in the sky

Where the infinite consciousness

Within all living things cry

Sometimes you can just hang there and fly

I was going to give you some poetry

Of how it feels to be lonely

To be alone, with no one, sitting down in the hole

No letters for five years

Just turned sixteen

I almost got adopted once

But they took a guy who was deaf and dumb

Brought him to California

Put him on a ranch

He took a gun and started shooting cows

Johnny Holiday

All the cowboys in the Rio were like outlaws

Steel sharpened

Knives came through the spirits eyes

Landed right on my tongue

I had to learn everything all by myself

The first thing I learned was:

Don't Trust Anyone

No more than you do yourself

If we're gonna do something in this world

We've gotta do it right

Underneath all that ever was

Reasons and rhymes wound up tight

Astral flight, my spiralling staircase dreams

Lucifer my brother, died of strings

Come on in, with your organ, cupid-man flies

Coming down the highway, crystal palace dreams

Dreams dreamin' on, know what I'm feelin'

Far is the country, way out on a balmy sea

Sail--Sailing on home boy, sailing on home

Singing it on home

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Jehovah buried, Satan dead,

do fearers worship Much and Quick;

badness not being felt as bad,

itself thinks goodness what is meek;

obey says toc,submit says tic,

Eternity’s a Five Year Plan:

if Joy with Pain shall hang in hock

who dares to call himself a man?

go dreamless knaves on Shadows fed,

your Harry’s Tom,your Tom is Dick;

while Gadgets murder squawk and add,

the cult of Same is all the chic;

by instruments,both span and spic,

are justly measured Spic and Span:

to kiss the mike if Jew turn kike

who dares to call himself a man?

loudly for Truth have liars pled,

their heels for Freedom slaves will click;

where Boobs are holy,poets mad,

illustrious punks of Progress shriek;

when Souls are outlawed,Hearts are sick,

Hearts being sick,Minds nothing can:

if Hate’s a game and Love’s a fuck

who dares to call himself a man?

King Christ,this world is all aleak;

and lifepreservers there are none:

and waves which only He may walk

Who dares to call Himself a man.

by E. E. Cummings

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English Teeth, English Teeth!

Shining in the sun

A part of British heritage

Aye, each and every one.

English Teeth, Happy Teeth!

Always having fun

Clamping down on bits of fish

And sausages half done.

English Teeth! HEROES' Teeth!

Hear them click! and clack!

Let's sing a song of praise to them -

Three Cheers for the Brown Grey and Black.

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