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Poetry Corner

a poem to the freaks - Jack Micheline​

To live as I have done is surely absurd
in cheap hotels and furnished rooms
To walk up side streets and down back alleys
talking to oneself
and screaming to the sky obscenities
That the arts is a rotten business indeed
That mediocrity and the rage of fashion rules
My poems and paintings piled on the floor
To be one with himself
A Saint
A Prince
To Persevere
Through the storms and hard-ons
Through dusk and dawns
To kick death in the ***
To be passed over like a bad penny
A midget
An Ant
A roach
A freak
A Hot Piece
An Outlaw
Raise your cup and drink my friend
Drink for those who walk alone in the night
To the crippled and the blind
To the lost and the damned
To the lone bird flying in the sky
Drink to wonder
Drink to me
Drink to ***** and dreams
Drink to madness and all the stars
I hear the birds singing

​

 
Not a fan of poetry in general, but in song absolutely. I tend to be somewhat nihilistic, and as a somewhat newly christened agnostic/atheist I tend toward the existentialist dread spectrum of lyrics.

Something like this, one of my favorite songs by one of my very favorite bands. These guys had a period of time when I think they were excellent lyricists. Sadly, like a lot of them, they got off drugs and the quality of their work fell off a cliff for a while. Lately I think they are getting better, but their early stuff is gold.

Love lies in pools of questions
Love stays away from me
Love dies and there's no question
I'm gone baby, I'm all the way gone

Call me your lousy father
Call me your demon king
Call me your new tornado
Right here baby, together we stay

I don't think I can feel any longer
I only know that the voids getting stronger
The only time that it's real is when you cry

Here's a torch to burn your cancer
Here's a hand to fill the hole
Lost souls need simple answers
It feels good to do what you're told

I don't think I can feel any longer
I only know that the voids getting stronger
The only time that it's real is when you cry

So leave the mirror and love yourself
My sweetest baby has gone to hell
I hear your heartbeat, your eye is a shrine
I drink your teardrops, now burn me alive

The sky splits open, and the ocean swells
If you're in limbo, then I'm in hell
So leave the mirror and love yourself
My sweetest baby has joined me in hell

She join me in hell

I don't think I can feel any longer
I only know that the voids getting stronger
The only time that it's real is when you cry

I don't think I can feel any longer
I only know that the voids getting stronger
The only time that it's real is when you cry

So leave the mirror and love yourself
My sweetest baby has gone to hell
I hear your heartbeat, your eye is a shrine
I drink your teardrops, now burn me alive
 

Not Fade Away - Michael Robbins​

Half of the Beatles have fallen
and half are yet to fall.
Keith Moon has set. Hank Williams
hasn’t answered yet.

Children sing for Alex Chilton.
Whitney Houston’s left the Hilton.
Hendrix, Guru, Bonham, Janis.
They have a tendency to vanish.

Bolan, Bell, and Boon by car.
How I wonder where they are.
Hell is now Jeff Hanneman’s.
Adam Yauch and three Ramones.

[This space held in reserve
for Zimmerman and Osterberg,
for Bruce and Neil and Keith,
that sere and yellow leaf.]

Johnny Cash and Waylon Jennings,
Stinson, Sterling, Otis Redding.
Johnny Thunders and Joe Strummer,
Ronnie Dio, Donna Summer.

Randy Rhoads and Kurt Cobain,
Patsy Cline and Ronnie Lane.
Poly Styrene, Teena Marie.
Timor mortis conturbat me.
 
The NBA’s Great Illusion-By TGS


The ball goes up, the crowd goes wild,
A game so pure—or just beguiled?
Superstars shine, their moves so slick,
But somehow fouls and lottery balls are oddly picked.

A phantom whistle, a late-game call,
Momentum shifts—was that a stall?
A storybook ending, a script so tight,
Did Vegas place the bets just right?

The underdog fights, his heart on display,
But ratings demand a Game 7 play.
Coincidence? Chance? Or is it contrived? The words of Donaghy come to the mind.
And oh, that push, but the whistle stayed mute,
Russell went flying, MJ took the loot.
A “greatest” moment, frozen in time,
Or just one more missed call in its prime?

So cheer for your team, but know in your soul,
The refs hold the whistle, the league holds the goal.

It’s basketball, sure, but here is the trick—Its no longer a game as the profits run thick.
 
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