To be common place would be unique,
But we’re so obscure we’re incoherent,
Like tongueless vigilantes choking just to make you choke,
Rattling, rattling,
No nails to hold ideas in place, no expression on your face.
Music and her patrons are dead and irrelevant,
Like osteoporosis, she’s brittle she is broken.
Static comes through synthesizers, megaphones and drum machines,
Beauty sounds like smashed guitars,
And several references to feedback,
Rattling, rattling,
No surgery to save your life,
No promise everything’s all right.
Music and her patrons are dead and irrelevant,
Like osteoporosis she’s brittle and she is broken.
Languages must be organic because like flies they fall and die,
Music now sleeps with Latin and Aramaic,
It’s over, it’s over,
No more waiting for something to live for,
It’s over, it’s over,
Everything is dying and we want something more.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Despair
I'm so frustrated I want to punch myself in the face.
I have no idea what I'm doing or where I am going.
Money...money...money...
Why does everything come back to that?
Whatever happened to faith?
Am I just prone to making irrational stupid decisions until I die?
What is being an adult?
I don't get this.
I feel like I'm going to have a breakdown or a panic attack.
I don't want these strings, I hate money.
I want to just be cast away from this place.
But I just can't cut everything away because...
God.
What?
I just don't know.
Every time I make plans and try to do the right thing, stuff explodes.
I'm so freaking sick of it.
I try not to make plans and things fail.
I make plan and things fail.
Does it make sense why I'm frustrated?
I can't function, I suck at this stuff.
I wish I would stop hurting long enough so I could think straight.
I wish my stupid heart would stop functioning long enough for my brain to sever it with cold and accurate logic.
I want to hate everything but I can't because my heart bleeds with emotion and empathy for everyone around me.
I'm so weak, I'm so needy, just a child
just a child in need of your love.
And here we come
to this line again
and baby I don't know what to tell you.
Just pray things hold together
long enough,
just long enough
so we don't die
and in the meantime
maybe,
just maybe baby
we'll live long enough to see the sunrise.
I have no idea what I'm doing or where I am going.
Money...money...money...
Why does everything come back to that?
Whatever happened to faith?
Am I just prone to making irrational stupid decisions until I die?
What is being an adult?
I don't get this.
I feel like I'm going to have a breakdown or a panic attack.
I don't want these strings, I hate money.
I want to just be cast away from this place.
But I just can't cut everything away because...
God.
What?
I just don't know.
Every time I make plans and try to do the right thing, stuff explodes.
I'm so freaking sick of it.
I try not to make plans and things fail.
I make plan and things fail.
Does it make sense why I'm frustrated?
I can't function, I suck at this stuff.
I wish I would stop hurting long enough so I could think straight.
I wish my stupid heart would stop functioning long enough for my brain to sever it with cold and accurate logic.
I want to hate everything but I can't because my heart bleeds with emotion and empathy for everyone around me.
I'm so weak, I'm so needy, just a child
just a child in need of your love.
And here we come
to this line again
and baby I don't know what to tell you.
Just pray things hold together
long enough,
just long enough
so we don't die
and in the meantime
maybe,
just maybe baby
we'll live long enough to see the sunrise.
Time Come, Time Gone, Time Alone
Time coming and going
speeding across the line
fleeting and flowing
with the sighs and groans
of people living and dying
as you sit here aching and crying
and I'm here waiting,
just waiting for the sun to come
and waiting for the moon to set
across the sky
and I sit here waiting
to share tea
with my bitter loneliness
and self imposed isolation
as I run from myself
and into the arms
of myself,
my love.
speeding across the line
fleeting and flowing
with the sighs and groans
of people living and dying
as you sit here aching and crying
and I'm here waiting,
just waiting for the sun to come
and waiting for the moon to set
across the sky
and I sit here waiting
to share tea
with my bitter loneliness
and self imposed isolation
as I run from myself
and into the arms
of myself,
my love.
"Dragon Attack" - Queen
John Deacon is one of my biggest bass influences and this little known Queen song is one of my favorite bass lines ever. Just raw, aggressive and feels like it is going to blow you away.
Quote of the Day - Part Two:
"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" - T.S. Elliot
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats 5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question … 10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; 25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go 35
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— 40
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare 45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all— 55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 60
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress 65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 85
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while, 90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— 95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while, 100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . . 110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use, 115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old … 120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me. 125
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats 5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question … 10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; 25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go 35
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— 40
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare 45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all— 55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 60
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress 65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 85
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while, 90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— 95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while, 100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . . 110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use, 115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old … 120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me. 125
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Quote of the Day:
"Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go."
-T.S. Elliot
-T.S. Elliot
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Quote of the Day, the Fourth:
"I imagine that right now, you're feeling a bit like Alice. Hmm? Tumbling down the rabbit hole? "
-Morpheus, 'The Matrix'
-Morpheus, 'The Matrix'
A Post Marked Letter
Someday I hope I can bring this,
someday I hope to give,
someday I hope to return
and have it not miss.
I want to give you
these things,
I want you to have
so much,
but it's not my place.
Everyone wants security,
the trappings of divine love
and the freedom from being guilty
and how I can give it
I know not.
I just know my words are weak
and my rhymes are fleeting
at this very late hour.
But there is sincerity
lining my hope.
I feel the sunrise
and know the morning
will be rushing all to soon
and what of the night?
There is a sacredness,
this divine covering
oft times missed at this hour,
witching and bewitching it is.
someday I hope to give,
someday I hope to return
and have it not miss.
I want to give you
these things,
I want you to have
so much,
but it's not my place.
Everyone wants security,
the trappings of divine love
and the freedom from being guilty
and how I can give it
I know not.
I just know my words are weak
and my rhymes are fleeting
at this very late hour.
But there is sincerity
lining my hope.
I feel the sunrise
and know the morning
will be rushing all to soon
and what of the night?
There is a sacredness,
this divine covering
oft times missed at this hour,
witching and bewitching it is.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
