Rollings Stones - Dead Flowers (live 1971)

Discussion of science, technology, politics, and other topics that aren't strictly philosophical.
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Tomas
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Location: North Dakota

BEWARE OF THE BUBBLEMAN - 11:65 (AM) IS TOO LATE

Post by Tomas »

.


I walked down the Avenues of skyscrapers
They had no feelings, I wish they would die
I saw the streets full of wealth
The stench was of no value
A black child is squashed by the wheels of a juggernaut
"I would stop but I've got a delivery to make and anyhow I
see people like you die everyday" the driver shouts.
People watch each other eating T.V. sets in the side street
whilst Mr. Dollar pushes his 80 ft. square wheeled limosine,
palm trees are laid out. He knows that he will be worshipped
for ever because he cannot go anywhere.
I see no religion, no culture, no humanity
Just greed, greed and more greed
"You have no business here, you're not the right colour, go
uptown" a policeman says without opening his mouth.
THIS IS THE BRONX -
I find it sad - I cannot romanticise about this place - other
peoples misery, frustration, misfortune, degradation in the
streets where the statue of Liberty has no place, why the
fuck are the ghettos full of coloured people, I ask - why only
a few blocks away is the religion of wealth full of whites -
This land does not belong to you, it belongs to the native
tribes. Just another justified and acceptable apartheid
regime, Christopher Columbus may you burn in hell with
your future generation queing behind you.
With Knowledge, Truth, History in my heart I will expose you;
If not me my children and their children's children


.
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Diebert van Rhijn
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Re: Poetry (APOLLO ONE)

Post by Diebert van Rhijn »

Tomas wrote: It took a few years for me to figure out what some people on the 'Net were talking about regarding "the tank engine". Didn't know it was a search engine..
You mean you don't know how to use one, that's something else . The Tank Engine's actually from before your time, kiddo ;-)

Anyway, it's here: Thomas the Tank Engine
Thomas is a tank engine: a steam locomotive with large rectangular tanks to carry water, on each side of his boiler. He is based on the E2 Class 0-6-0T locomotives built for the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway between 1913 and 1916.

In his first appearance in the television series he was described as follows:

Thomas is a tank engine who lives at a big station on the Island of Sodor. He's a cheeky little engine with six small wheels, a short stumpy funnel, a short stumpy boiler and a short stumpy dome
—from the episode "Thomas & Gordon" (known as "Thomas Gets Tricked" in the US)
The Tank - came from an incident that happened while I was in VietNam
I think all regulars here know that by now. Where did your humor go?
Sorry to disappoint but a fellow named Paul Leary (The History of Dogs) wrote it .. and he capped the lyrics.
Some proper credits wouldn't hurt then.

Sorry to have messed up your poetry department. Keep on rolling!
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Carl G
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Location: Arizona

Re: Poetry (APOLLO ONE)

Post by Carl G »

,

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

,
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Tomas
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Location: North Dakota

10 Good Things

Post by Tomas »

.


Little white lies-they hold little surprise

Where the arrogance of presidents-drive with the top down
And pop singers bite bullets-and pops kiss the ground
The most favoured nations-should be athiests
Not the penny pinch manipulators-of the fundamentalists

For everyone spotted-ten get missed
The deeper you look-the longer the list
And the C.N.N. calling card-red herring day, "no news today"
Somebody somewhere indirectly directs them on their way
Stand up a token figure-and twist whatever they say

Pin it on no one-it doesn't matter anyway
How many political despots worked for the USA
And who controls down South American way
And who controls who the modern Russian way
Death in the streets, death is a project
All in the weak, the poor, the rich, the racist
And free thought should be looked upon
As an enemy
Because free thought went to jail, long ago

What a pity
The spider's kiss, the White House astrologists
How many political despots worked for the CIA
The spider's kiss, the White House astrologists
Fuck, it's the CIA

Good things come in threes
The places I haunt-the powers I taunt
And the little I need-I need!


.
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Tomas
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Location: North Dakota

Re: Poetry

Post by Tomas »

.


Was a time when shadows grew bones,

stood up and walked whistling

past graveyards and no one feared midnight.

Alchemy was called Science

and therefore had to be torn down

and rebuilt. And all took responsibility for

their wickedness as well as their power.


.
imd12c4funn
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Joined: Wed Aug 29, 2007 1:07 am

Re: Poetry (10 Good Things)

Post by imd12c4funn »

My first published poem.

BLACK

Ungrateful souls taking deep breaths
In wilting candles' last flicker.
Claiming the flame and igniting chill
Keep out is the door sign of after life
And melted wax is the word to pass.
Is the flame bright?
Is it glowing with seconds "till its' final glint of color?
When you blink it is gone for eternity -
No Answer
Just BLACK
imd12c4funn
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Re: Poetry (10 Good Things)

Post by imd12c4funn »

I just have to post two more. This one is not reader friendly, and the 3rd, one of my favorites, albeit, not thought of as some of my best. I would post those as well, but I don't want to saturate this thread to much.

Jill

Up the hill Mr. Zill fell ill. Script to fill
Wrong pill, him did kill. Viewing his will,
All were still. His fish named Gil on
Windowsill in bowl of swill back home,
Liked dill. The Trustee with chill read - Re:
A bill due at the mill must from Zill’s till in
Full with quill pen thrill creditor Krill and be
Paid. A still he did fill with liquor so shrill
That with skill whom drinks of must grill,
From bowl of swill on windowsill, the fish Gil
Who likes dill and eat ones fill of Gil, 'til, late ill Zill
Who's pill Script's fill did kill Zill up the hill wore twill.
With chill, Zill’s will read, stilled all, and Zill’s bill
Signed by quill in Zill’s till to Krill whose still’s shrill
Liquor, all knew not 'til Gil from grill when eaten ones
Fill what was left. Still, one honored Zill’s will.
Her name? Jill. She ate her fill.
Inside Gil, a rare Diamond -
Worth over a mill!
imd12c4funn
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Joined: Wed Aug 29, 2007 1:07 am

Re: Poetry (10 Good Things)

Post by imd12c4funn »

I just love this. Hope you like.

O Hallowed Marshmallow
I dedicate this poem to marshmallows and campfires

Your Light skin I pierce
Flames lapping at you
No escape my friend
Swollen and sagging
Bubbles rupture, falling
With a final splash
Upon hells fury.
But a fine layer
Brown and wraught with flavor
Criss cross, oozing delight
Fill my appetite
You, then your homeys
Will die slowly
As I swallow your essense
And pleasure you with
A journey dark and deep,
O' hallowed marshmallow.
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Tomas
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Joined: Mon Jul 18, 2005 2:15 am
Location: North Dakota

Re: Poetry (10 Good Things)

Post by Tomas »

.


He's a greedy man

Loves animal's man

Hates human

He's a selfish man

He's the rape man

Got a wicked plan

I ain't no fan

He's a magic man

He's a murder man

Divide an rule man

He's the UN man

He's the fat man

No superman

Loss of reality man

Butcher man

Loves wealth man

Control man

Slander man

Eats babies man

He's removed man

Intellectual man

He's the boss man

Lollipop man

I want the truth man

He ain't no God man

He ain't a white man

Ain't no black man

Just a devil man


.
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Dan Rowden
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Re: Poetry (How would you feel)

Post by Dan Rowden »

He's a one-armed man
Gotta hell of a tan
He ain't got no plan
But he's a 7th Dan
With an electric fan
Some say he da man
He got a 100 year Nan
In those olympics he ran
'cause they said he can
But he used a van
So he copped a ban
What a man

Walt Whitman
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Jason
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Re: Poetry (How would you feel)

Post by Jason »

Thanks for that Dan.
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Tomas
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Joined: Mon Jul 18, 2005 2:15 am
Location: North Dakota

Is It Mikey

Post by Tomas »

.


Midnight drive to Huntsville
got to stop and get some fuel
Mikey said he'd be there
by the road at half past two
Got some sleep on Monday
but since then there's been no peace
Yonder stands a figure
Is it Mikey

Mikey spread his wisdom 'round
since 1963
Nickel at the Big Top
and some time in Tennessee
Pistol fight in Marfa
when the story made TV
Yonder stands a hero
Is it Mikey


.
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Tomas
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Location: North Dakota

The birds are dying

Post by Tomas »

.


The will to live
another day here
or find a place to hide
where the sky is clear

The birds are dying
in the cold black night
at their journey's end
no place to hide


.
Don't run to your death
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Dan Rowden
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Re: Poetry (The birds are dying)

Post by Dan Rowden »

Midnight drive to Ruttsville
got to stop and wipe my drool
Mikey said he'd be there
by the road heavin' up a spew
Got my leg over on Monday
but since then there's been no piece
Yonder bends a figure
Crikey, it's Mikey

Mikey spread his seed 'round
since 1963
Nicole at the Bus Stop
and some mole in Tent City
Picked up horny Martha
when the story made TV
Yonder stands a hero
Crikey, it's Mikey

Robert Frost
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Tomas
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Location: North Dakota

The Nazi Mother

Post by Tomas »

.


the nazi mother hears her baby cry
she fetches him from his crib, sits,
and holds him to her breast
as he nurses, she hums a song
about butterflies and bears

she marvels at his beauty
the perfection of his skin
his fresh, sleeping smell
her heart swells with pride and dread

the nazi mother
bounces her son on her knee
she tells him how it will be
when papa returns
and the world is safe again
then she scolds him that they mustn't
dawdle all day
they've much to do

she wants to weed the garden
and be done by midday
when her sister will come
and they'll all go down together
to watch the parade


.
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Carl G
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Re: Poetry (Sonnet)

Post by Carl G »

.

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface,
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distilled:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure ere it be self-killed.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's for thy self to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.

.
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Dan Rowden
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Re: Poetry (Sonnet)

Post by Dan Rowden »

Ned is in bed
Ned he be dead
Was due to be wed
But instead overfed
That's our Ned
He got Domino's cred
To the alter was led
But the box got his head
Now he be dead
In his bed
Our Ned
Nuff said
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Tomas
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Joined: Mon Jul 18, 2005 2:15 am
Location: North Dakota

She Doesn't Live Here Anymore

Post by Tomas »

.


On my way to North Dakota
Plastic jesus on my dashboard
St. Peter's voice was thin and stale
As i rode on this ghost-like trail
Found the spirit on the seventh mile
And i was doing okay for awhile
You know you kinda remind me of him when you smile

Same desperados, same state line
Same little towns disappearing on the other side
And you were always speaking in prayers
Though i didn't really know it at the time
I just hid in my room by the river
And i waited for a sign

And just for moment you see
Just for a moment there's no longing here
No remembering, no anything
You're forgetting everything

She had eyes like thunder
And a flame like the moon
and torrents of dignity
when she swore she was leaving here soon
So she changed her hair
She changed her name
Now she's just a memory
In a picture frame


.
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Tomas
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Joined: Mon Jul 18, 2005 2:15 am
Location: North Dakota

The Pusher

Post by Tomas »

.


You know I've smoked a lot of grass
O' Lord, I've popped a lot of pills
But I never touched nothin'
That my spirit could kill
You know, I've seen a lot of people walkin' 'round
With tombstones in their eyes
But the pusher don't care
Ah, if you live or if you die

God damn, The Pusher
God damn, I say The Pusher
I said God damn, God damn The Pusher man

You know the dealer, the dealer is a man
With the love grass in his hand
Oh but the pusher is a monster
Good God, he's not a natural man
The dealer for a nickel
Lord, will sell you lots of sweet dreams
Ah, but the pusher ruin your body
Lord, he'll leave your, he'll leave your mind to scream

God damn, The Pusher
God damn, God damn the Pusher
I said God damn, God, God damn The Pusher man

Well, now if I were the president of this land
You know, I'd declare total war on the Pusher man
I'd cut him if he stands, and I'd shoot him if he'd run
Yes I'd kill him with my Bible and my razor and my gun

God damn the Pusher
Gad damn the Pusher
I said God damn, God damn The Pusher man


.
Last edited by Tomas on Wed Jan 21, 2009 12:20 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Carl G
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Location: Arizona

Re: Poetry (THE PUSHER)

Post by Carl G »

Words and music by Hoyt Axton
© Irving Music Inc. (BMI)






_____________________
Fart Ass Frankfurters
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DHodges
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Re: Poetry (THE PUSHER)

Post by DHodges »

I really like the guitar riff in The Pusher, but its message in favor of a War on Some Drugs sounds a bit too much like our current drug policy for my taste.

I guess it was radical in its day...
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Tomas
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Location: North Dakota

SUZY BOO

Post by Tomas »

.


History will repeat itself
Don't you know you gotta teach yourself
All things they come and go
Like the buffalo, like the snow
Like the Empire in Roman times
Conquistadors and all their crimes
A sea of trouble, a coat of arms
Flag-wavers and Napalm bombs

Lost people in the sands of time
Soldiers marching all in line
Ancient sketches and T.V. news
The difference a century or two

Are you coming or going Suzy-Boo
A number one or a number two
Coming or going Suzy-Boo
Where's the chart, is it pink or blue
Hotel Hope and Dreamland too
Coming or going Suzy-Boo
Coca-Cola, polystyrene
Benzine and gasoline
Make me a bomb
Gonna stick to you
Fords, Chevys and Detroit cars
Pontiacs and red light bars
U.S. dollar looks after you


.
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Carl G
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Joined: Fri Aug 25, 2006 12:52 pm
Location: Arizona

Re: Poetry (THE PUSHER)

Post by Carl G »

.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear,
burning their money in wastebaskets and listening
to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through
Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their
torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares,
alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and
lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson,
illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery
dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops,
storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree
vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn,
ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless
ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine
until the noise of wheels and children brought
them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's
floated out and sat through the stale beer after
noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack
of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to
pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping
down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills
off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts
and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks
and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days
and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the
Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a
trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind-ings and
migraines of China under junk-with-drawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the
railroad yard wondering where to go, and went,
leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing
through snow toward lonesome farms in grand-father night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy
and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively
vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary
indian angels who were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore
gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight street
light smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston
seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the
brilliant Spaniard to converse about America
and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving
behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees
and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the
F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist
eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting
the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union
Square weeping and undressing while the sirens
of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed
down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked
and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight
in policecars for committing no crime but their
own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were
dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly
motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim,
the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose
gardens and the grass of public parks and
cemeteries scattering their semen freely to
whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up
with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath
when the blond & naked angel came to pierce
them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate
the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar
the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb
and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but
sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden
threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of
beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along
the floor and down the hall and ended fainting
on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and
come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling
in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning
but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sun
rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad
stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these
poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver-joy
to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls
in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses'
rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with
gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station
solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in
dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and
picked themselves up out of basements hung
over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third
Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on
the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the
East River to open to a room full of steamheat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment
cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime
blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall
be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested
the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their
pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the
bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned
with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded
by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty
incantations which in the yellow morning were
stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht
& tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot
for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks
fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique
stores where they thought they were growing
old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits
on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse
& the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments
of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the
fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the
drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten
into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley
ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of
the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes,
cried all over the street,
danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed
phonograph records of nostalgic European
1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and
threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans
in their ears and the blast of colossal steam whistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying
to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude
watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out
if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had
a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who
came back to Denver & waited in vain, who
watched over Denver & brooded & loned in
Denver and finally went away to find out the
Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying
for each other's salvation and light and breasts,
until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for
impossible criminals with golden heads and the
charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet
blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky
Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys
or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or
Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the
daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hyp
notism & were left with their insanity & their
hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism
and subsequently presented themselves on the
granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads
and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin
Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational
therapy pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic
pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of
blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible mad
man doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,
Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid
halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul,
rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench
dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare,
bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,
with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book
flung out of the tenement window, and the last
door closed at 4. A.M. and the last telephone
slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room
emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture,
a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet,
and even that imaginary,
nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and
now you're really in the total animal soup of time
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed
with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use
of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrating plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space
through images juxtaposed, and trapped the
archangel of the soul between 2 visual images
and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun
and dash of consciousness together jumping
with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human
prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent
and shaking with shame,
rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm
of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown,
yet putting down here what might be left to say
in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in
the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the
suffering of America's naked mind for love into
an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone
cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered
out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.
What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open
their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob
tainable dollars! Children screaming under the
stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men
weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the
loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy
judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the
crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of
sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment!
Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose
blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers
are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo!
Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows!
Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long
streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories
dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose
smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch
whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch
whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch
whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen!
Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream
Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in
Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom
I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch
who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy!
Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch!
Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs!
skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic
industries! spectral nations! invincible mad
houses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pave-
ments, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to
Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies!
gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole
boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions!
gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs!
Ten years' animal screams and suicides!
Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on
the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the
wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell!
They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving!
carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!
Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland
where you're madder than I am
I'm with you in Rockland
where you must feel very strange
I'm with you in Rockland
where you imitate the shade of my mother
I'm with you in Rockland
where you've murdered your twelve secretaries
I'm with you in Rockland
where you laugh at this invisible humor
I'm with you in Rockland
where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
I'm with you in Rockland
where your condition has become serious and
is reported on the radio
I'm with you in Rockland
where the faculties of the skull no longer admit
the worms of the senses
I'm with you in Rockland
where you drink the tea of the breasts of the
spinsters of Utica
I'm with you in Rockland
where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the
harpies of the Bronx
I'm with you in Rockland
where you scream in a straightjacket that you're
losing the game of the actual pingpong of the abyss
I'm with you in Rockland
where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul
is innocent and immortal it should never die
ungodly in an armed madhouse
I'm with you in Rockland
where fifty more shocks will never return your
soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a
cross in the void
I'm with you in Rockland
where you accuse your doctors of insanity and
plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the
fascist national Golgotha
I'm with you in Rockland
where you will split the heavens of Long Island
and resurrect your living human Jesus from the
superhuman tomb
I'm with you in Rockland
where there are twenty-five-thousand mad com-
rades all together singing the final stanzas of
the Internationale
I'm with you in Rockland
where we hug and kiss the United States under
our bedsheets the United States that coughs all
night and won't let us sleep
I'm with you in Rockland
where we wake up electrified out of the coma
by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the
roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the
hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls collapse
O skinny legions run outside O starry
spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is
here O victory forget your underwear we're free
I'm with you in Rockland
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-
journey on the highway across America in tears
to the door of my cottage in the Western night

.


_______________________
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Tomas
Posts: 4328
Joined: Mon Jul 18, 2005 2:15 am
Location: North Dakota

Re: Poetry (THE PUSHER)

Post by Tomas »

DHodges wrote:I really like the guitar riff in The Pusher, but its message in favor of a War on Some Drugs sounds a bit too much like our current drug policy for my taste.

I guess it was radical in its day...
Organ was/is my fave. Became interested in learning (how to play) when I heard 'The Happy Organ' by Dave "Baby" Cortez. My mom and sister were/are proficient on piano, so they showed me the basics. Accordion came easy, same with tenor sax, banjo and fiddle.

After a while Goldy McJohn showed up, Steppenwolf's keyboardist and it was all downhill from there :-)
Don't run to your death
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Tomas
Posts: 4328
Joined: Mon Jul 18, 2005 2:15 am
Location: North Dakota

Re: Poetry (10 Good Things)

Post by Tomas »

imd12c4funn wrote:I just love this. Hope you like.

O Hallowed Marshmallow
I dedicate this poem to marshmallows and campfires

Your Light skin I pierce
Flames lapping at you
No escape my friend
Swollen and sagging
Bubbles rupture, falling
With a final splash
Upon hells fury.
But a fine layer
Brown and wraught with flavor
Criss cross, oozing delight
Fill my appetite
You, then your homeys
Will die slowly
As I swallow your essense
And pleasure you with
A journey dark and deep,
O' hallowed marshmallow.

Lovely, didn't see this earlier :-)
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