Monday, October 09, 2006
a group of more poems
Perfect Night
there is something about the bar
worn black band t-shirts
crow colored hair in each shot
a certain familiar atmosphere
but also a certain uneasy strain
an unspoken nervousness
jolted in every stare and conversation
a certain Ted Leo song on the jukebox
many pints seem to pour
splash the plastic rail guards
pouring into a drain of emptiness
a sewage of endless booze
a river for a sort of mystic redemption
conversation drifts to vague stories
details absorb from others
European meth heads scratching
speaking too quick about life lessons
in there distorted state their words retain a trueness
not captured in others straight laced folks
a table of two long lost drifter friends
huddle into the sort of cozy bar time
and just naked sincerity
in these times is so hard to find
A Damsel in a Dungeon
No forced images but a clear concise outrightness that often is not found by many. Straight to the point abruptness and wide eyed ambition unnerved my drinking. There was the way she talked while she drank a cup of ice water while everyone else pushed there way up to order a couple more.
Speaking concise sentences about being a student of integrity and mannerisms. Pomp and drunk circumstance has seemed to rear its head in this location as the group chuckles. A story of abandonment stuck in the nestles of a fishing town somewhere throughout Alaska a dimness and a consciousness without clarity the gray outweighs the light often.
She told us about how she kept a certain comfort down streets and alleys in Baltimore. She would prefer these than even taking a brisk dive into any sort of fresh salty water. She preferred greater lakes to the dingy ocean where creatures lie for victims sharks she spouted I have heard of the sharks.
She was rather queer with her stubbornness to make a mute point. Do you read the paper and hear of muggings killings and rapes? Keep your wits about you more than a trip to water no pictures kept of boardwalk or taffy but rather the tide hiding life and taking from the beach.
At Your Request
She asked me about my poems
asking me about which ones were about here?
Assuming any where about her but she insisted there were
a number of my writing dedicated to her.
She had a certain passion to this conversation
which she never had quite before.
Which poem was rather g-rated and did not talk about
a predisposition I had with fucking and sucking.
I tell her all my poems that mention women
come from my subconscious life experience
and they are based on an archetype of all women
from my first girlfriend, my mother, my long time gf,
my female friends, my ex gfs, and even you.
She accused me of a certain frugal freud trump
after a few moments I chuckle
and admit I could not distort every experience
around one archetype each character represents
one experience I had in real life or in my head.
I am guilty of self narration and self abuse
its my way of psycho analyzing.
I admit she said you can be rather neurotic
and set in your ways of being oblivious to reality.
The way you sink in and type it all up
and re-write history is rather intimidating.
Everything I do and say recorded in your head,
should I be more careful?
I told her to stop being so prudish and that
I would not write about her.
She asked me if I could record this conversation
and create something of use out of it.
Some introspective piece reflecting our complex friendship,
a verbose ode of sorts-- I sort of flinched
but said I would try.
DEEJAY
I find passion
when I stand behind
the dj booth
and play a record
that sets conversation
that hits people in the chest
that gives you a nod of a head
I like to start slow
and build like a carpenter
not Jesus but I carry my plywood
and nails dust off my recsuccords
set the needle in and smash
spontaneous success
who? what? when?
drink up and tip your bartenders
I think of myself like a sniper
and my fingers sit on the trigger
eyeing up potential targets
blood and guts splatter on me
close range big tunes
build up a slaughter house
please call me the boss
Conversative Talk Radio
blame the liberal strangehold
use the word pussy
call them the Blacks
blame those illegal mexicans
cough cough media bias
our type of people
change the topic
the President isn't that bad
democrats just feed that hate
random excuses
living in an age of terror
sacrifice a couple freedoms
look at the polls
atleast we are safe
lack of responsibility
fork tongue rattle snakes
there is something about the bar
worn black band t-shirts
crow colored hair in each shot
a certain familiar atmosphere
but also a certain uneasy strain
an unspoken nervousness
jolted in every stare and conversation
a certain Ted Leo song on the jukebox
many pints seem to pour
splash the plastic rail guards
pouring into a drain of emptiness
a sewage of endless booze
a river for a sort of mystic redemption
conversation drifts to vague stories
details absorb from others
European meth heads scratching
speaking too quick about life lessons
in there distorted state their words retain a trueness
not captured in others straight laced folks
a table of two long lost drifter friends
huddle into the sort of cozy bar time
and just naked sincerity
in these times is so hard to find
A Damsel in a Dungeon
No forced images but a clear concise outrightness that often is not found by many. Straight to the point abruptness and wide eyed ambition unnerved my drinking. There was the way she talked while she drank a cup of ice water while everyone else pushed there way up to order a couple more.
Speaking concise sentences about being a student of integrity and mannerisms. Pomp and drunk circumstance has seemed to rear its head in this location as the group chuckles. A story of abandonment stuck in the nestles of a fishing town somewhere throughout Alaska a dimness and a consciousness without clarity the gray outweighs the light often.
She told us about how she kept a certain comfort down streets and alleys in Baltimore. She would prefer these than even taking a brisk dive into any sort of fresh salty water. She preferred greater lakes to the dingy ocean where creatures lie for victims sharks she spouted I have heard of the sharks.
She was rather queer with her stubbornness to make a mute point. Do you read the paper and hear of muggings killings and rapes? Keep your wits about you more than a trip to water no pictures kept of boardwalk or taffy but rather the tide hiding life and taking from the beach.
At Your Request
She asked me about my poems
asking me about which ones were about here?
Assuming any where about her but she insisted there were
a number of my writing dedicated to her.
She had a certain passion to this conversation
which she never had quite before.
Which poem was rather g-rated and did not talk about
a predisposition I had with fucking and sucking.
I tell her all my poems that mention women
come from my subconscious life experience
and they are based on an archetype of all women
from my first girlfriend, my mother, my long time gf,
my female friends, my ex gfs, and even you.
She accused me of a certain frugal freud trump
after a few moments I chuckle
and admit I could not distort every experience
around one archetype each character represents
one experience I had in real life or in my head.
I am guilty of self narration and self abuse
its my way of psycho analyzing.
I admit she said you can be rather neurotic
and set in your ways of being oblivious to reality.
The way you sink in and type it all up
and re-write history is rather intimidating.
Everything I do and say recorded in your head,
should I be more careful?
I told her to stop being so prudish and that
I would not write about her.
She asked me if I could record this conversation
and create something of use out of it.
Some introspective piece reflecting our complex friendship,
a verbose ode of sorts-- I sort of flinched
but said I would try.
DEEJAY
I find passion
when I stand behind
the dj booth
and play a record
that sets conversation
that hits people in the chest
that gives you a nod of a head
I like to start slow
and build like a carpenter
not Jesus but I carry my plywood
and nails dust off my recsuccords
set the needle in and smash
spontaneous success
who? what? when?
drink up and tip your bartenders
I think of myself like a sniper
and my fingers sit on the trigger
eyeing up potential targets
blood and guts splatter on me
close range big tunes
build up a slaughter house
please call me the boss
Conversative Talk Radio
blame the liberal strangehold
use the word pussy
call them the Blacks
blame those illegal mexicans
cough cough media bias
our type of people
change the topic
the President isn't that bad
democrats just feed that hate
random excuses
living in an age of terror
sacrifice a couple freedoms
look at the polls
atleast we are safe
lack of responsibility
fork tongue rattle snakes
# posted by Bobby Bobson : 9:32 PM
