Friday, June 08, 2007
stories of art
The Day the Color Went Out of the TV
Words cannot always fill in the blanks
And there are times when silence
Is the only appropriate form of space
As light changes into other forms of matter
And the daze eventually fades in the setting
Hours upon hours sat to do something is better
The magazine spread on the coffee table
The mood is disrupted by a stranger.
And even in the full room emptiness creeps
And the voice missing is the what the waiting is for
But no wait will be long enough and there are tensions
That swell the walls a mist erupts into stories
Lessons and heart felt expressions and well there is nothing else
That the group can do and the process is among us all
And Is repeated when necessary.
Grey is one of those colors that frighten me
It cannot be identified on its own just a pieces of others
And well the whole science of the color spectrum is rather dangerous
And I would not make a metaphor for the tube being black and white
Or would I?
There are times when words only hint
When they lead the reader to a decision
To agree or disagree no black and white
No grey just pure emotion pure sentiment
And the problem today nothing is so indiscriminate
These times (the news may say) are dangerous
And the unrest is awakening and my shows are offset
Water of the masses is a shallow stimulant
And the people never meet eyes on
Just the Facts
The fact is this
I have never loved poetry
I grew up with fiction
And lived in fantasy
Yearned for amassing comic upon comic
Every month I waited by the news stand
And the clerk smiled as I gave him my money
In exchange for pulp for my daydreams
Superpowers super duper details
Morality haunted me as I read the glorious recounting
Of writers glorification of the anti-hero
Teenage years full of stereotype upon stereotype
Safety pins and punk rock yearnings
Left me needing structure but I took it my way
Searching music that was the antithesis of what everyone else understand
I often read the books that I was told to read
But I searched out the other ones I was told not to read
Cookbooks about warfare and drug abuse
Bohemians writing about sex, drugs, train hopping
Books with “fuck” and explicit experiences
And the more I read the more I lived
Life does that to you
And I never loved poetry
But every lyric to every song gave me meaning
The tortured heroin addict that made music for himself
Self absorbed rationalist, the socialist with a smile, the punk rockers with Mohawks
Skinheads that were not racist
But landed many punches before asking the right questions
And all my friends were the most dangerous
Pop culture was our life and we floated in and out of own generation
Reliving the glorious moments of the past but still fighting the modern argument
Meaning was never found but that’s the hidden secret
Poetry was there
In the background Ginsberg in middle Whitman in the summer
Hiding in the grass Kerouac deep ceded in daydreams
But it was never in the front and never will be
And I have to admit there are things that come before
And all the greats were often just great with this
Mediocrity never did much harm
Acceptance is often deluded from denial
And in college I decided I was a poet
In a group of poets we all had voices
And writing styles and concepts
Often vague but the bars would be where we thrived
Smoking hookahs and other devices
And the words touched for seconds and than split
Shattered across and in cities that seemed like universes away
I spoke with my own words
And I did it on my terms
We did it ourselves
Poetry was ours for a brief second
And than the year left and reality settled in
Life gets in the way
And no one ever warned me
That poetry still follows me around
Even though I secretly resent it
And what is stands for but I must admit
It is the most honest form of expression in these times
And the media denies it
Some never make much sense
And I never loved poetry
I still don’t but I still write
My words are concise and lack the excitement
That was once there and now gone
There is no time to hold onto the past only to relive it
No shame in regret and I missed the times when it meant something to write
And it was not just a hobby but a certain lifestyle
Culture has blended and melded there seem to be less danger nowadays
But fears guides the ants while others often fall short of expectations
And even at 25 I still do not love poetry
But I express it I can’t deny it
And sometimes I even forget it
Words cannot always fill in the blanks
And there are times when silence
Is the only appropriate form of space
As light changes into other forms of matter
And the daze eventually fades in the setting
Hours upon hours sat to do something is better
The magazine spread on the coffee table
The mood is disrupted by a stranger.
And even in the full room emptiness creeps
And the voice missing is the what the waiting is for
But no wait will be long enough and there are tensions
That swell the walls a mist erupts into stories
Lessons and heart felt expressions and well there is nothing else
That the group can do and the process is among us all
And Is repeated when necessary.
Grey is one of those colors that frighten me
It cannot be identified on its own just a pieces of others
And well the whole science of the color spectrum is rather dangerous
And I would not make a metaphor for the tube being black and white
Or would I?
There are times when words only hint
When they lead the reader to a decision
To agree or disagree no black and white
No grey just pure emotion pure sentiment
And the problem today nothing is so indiscriminate
These times (the news may say) are dangerous
And the unrest is awakening and my shows are offset
Water of the masses is a shallow stimulant
And the people never meet eyes on
Just the Facts
The fact is this
I have never loved poetry
I grew up with fiction
And lived in fantasy
Yearned for amassing comic upon comic
Every month I waited by the news stand
And the clerk smiled as I gave him my money
In exchange for pulp for my daydreams
Superpowers super duper details
Morality haunted me as I read the glorious recounting
Of writers glorification of the anti-hero
Teenage years full of stereotype upon stereotype
Safety pins and punk rock yearnings
Left me needing structure but I took it my way
Searching music that was the antithesis of what everyone else understand
I often read the books that I was told to read
But I searched out the other ones I was told not to read
Cookbooks about warfare and drug abuse
Bohemians writing about sex, drugs, train hopping
Books with “fuck” and explicit experiences
And the more I read the more I lived
Life does that to you
And I never loved poetry
But every lyric to every song gave me meaning
The tortured heroin addict that made music for himself
Self absorbed rationalist, the socialist with a smile, the punk rockers with Mohawks
Skinheads that were not racist
But landed many punches before asking the right questions
And all my friends were the most dangerous
Pop culture was our life and we floated in and out of own generation
Reliving the glorious moments of the past but still fighting the modern argument
Meaning was never found but that’s the hidden secret
Poetry was there
In the background Ginsberg in middle Whitman in the summer
Hiding in the grass Kerouac deep ceded in daydreams
But it was never in the front and never will be
And I have to admit there are things that come before
And all the greats were often just great with this
Mediocrity never did much harm
Acceptance is often deluded from denial
And in college I decided I was a poet
In a group of poets we all had voices
And writing styles and concepts
Often vague but the bars would be where we thrived
Smoking hookahs and other devices
And the words touched for seconds and than split
Shattered across and in cities that seemed like universes away
I spoke with my own words
And I did it on my terms
We did it ourselves
Poetry was ours for a brief second
And than the year left and reality settled in
Life gets in the way
And no one ever warned me
That poetry still follows me around
Even though I secretly resent it
And what is stands for but I must admit
It is the most honest form of expression in these times
And the media denies it
Some never make much sense
And I never loved poetry
I still don’t but I still write
My words are concise and lack the excitement
That was once there and now gone
There is no time to hold onto the past only to relive it
No shame in regret and I missed the times when it meant something to write
And it was not just a hobby but a certain lifestyle
Culture has blended and melded there seem to be less danger nowadays
But fears guides the ants while others often fall short of expectations
And even at 25 I still do not love poetry
But I express it I can’t deny it
And sometimes I even forget it
# posted by Bobby Bobson : 9:38 PM
