weslgarlic Posted January 3, 2013 Share Posted January 3, 2013 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! Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Bong-Man Posted January 3, 2013 Share Posted January 3, 2013 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 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Anjin-san Posted January 3, 2013 Share Posted January 3, 2013 If your liver doesn't quiver And your bladder doesn't splatter Have another drink Because it doesn't really matter Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Strider Posted January 3, 2013 Share Posted January 3, 2013 "Me We" ~ Muhammad Ali Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Old Shep Posted January 3, 2013 Share Posted January 3, 2013 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. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Ady Posted January 3, 2013 Share Posted January 3, 2013 "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 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
shnflacwav Posted January 3, 2013 Share Posted January 3, 2013 Roses are red Violets are blue I hate my wife and our kids do, too! Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
bcarter690 Posted January 3, 2013 Share Posted January 3, 2013 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 ethereal. It is fulfilling as deep sleep and dirty as a broken bottle in the gutter. 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 done. 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 circumstances. 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 Valhalla. 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 musicianship. 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 bottle. Furious and glorious... Balance. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TheLastSpartan Posted January 3, 2013 Share Posted January 3, 2013 Roses are gay Violets are gayer Fuck this poem And listen to slayer Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TypeO Posted January 3, 2013 Share Posted January 3, 2013 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. Nothing. 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. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Babs Posted January 3, 2013 Share Posted January 3, 2013 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 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Led Zep Girl Posted January 3, 2013 Share Posted January 3, 2013 One of my favorite poets, Edgar Allen Poe 'Dreams' 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. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
paul carruthers Posted January 3, 2013 Share Posted January 3, 2013 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 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
reswati Posted January 3, 2013 Share Posted January 3, 2013 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" Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Ady Posted January 3, 2013 Share Posted January 3, 2013 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..... Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TypeO Posted January 3, 2013 Share Posted January 3, 2013 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. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Old Shep Posted January 3, 2013 Share Posted January 3, 2013 (edited) 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! Edited January 4, 2013 by Old Shep Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Old Shep Posted January 4, 2013 Share Posted January 4, 2013 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. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
weslgarlic Posted January 4, 2013 Author Share Posted January 4, 2013 (edited) 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. Edited January 4, 2013 by weslgarlic Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
ZEPFAN17 Posted January 4, 2013 Share Posted January 4, 2013 MUSIC IS ENDLESS 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… Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Old Shep Posted January 4, 2013 Share Posted January 4, 2013 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 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
weslgarlic Posted January 4, 2013 Author Share Posted January 4, 2013 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 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TypeO Posted January 4, 2013 Share Posted January 4, 2013 *e. e. cummings Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
redrum Posted January 4, 2013 Share Posted January 4, 2013 'I see the sea!' I got a gal in Tee-A-Juana, She knows how, But she don't wanna! Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
weslgarlic Posted January 4, 2013 Author Share Posted January 4, 2013 Teeth 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. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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