I've dated jerks, so why not geeks?
quote by Kelly LeBrock
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Prince Of The Punks
A well known groover, rock n roll user,
Wanted to be a star.
But he failed the blues, and hes back to loser,
Playing folk in a country bar.
Reggae music didnt seem to satisfy his needs.
He couldnt handle modern jazz,
cause they play it in difficult keys.
But now hes found a music he can call his own,
Some people call it junk, but he dont care,
Hes found a home.
Hes the prince of the punks and hes finally made it,
Thinks he looks cool but his act is dated.
He acts working class but its all bologna,
Hes really middle class and hes just a phony.
He acts tough but its just a front,
Hes the prince of the punks.
Hes the prince of the punks and hes finally made it,
Thinks he looks cool but his act is dated.
He tried to be gay, but it didnt pay,
So he bought a motorbike instead.
He failed at funk, so he became a punk,
cause he thought hed make a little more bread.
Hes been through all of the changes,
From rock opera to mantovani.
Now he wears a swastika band
And leather boots up past his knees.
Hes much too old for twenty-eight,
But he thinks hes seventeen,
He thinks hes a stud,
But I think he looks more like a queen.
Hes the prince of the punks and hes finally made it,
Thinks he looks cool but his act is dated.
He talks like a cockney but its all bologna,
Hes really middle class and hes just a phony.
He acts tough but its just a front.
Hes the prince of the punks and hes finally made it,
Thinks he looks cool but his act is dated.
He acts working class but its all bologna,
Hes really middle class and hes just a phony.
He acts tough but its just a front,
Hes the prince of the punks and hes finally made it,
Thinks he looks cool but his act is dated.
He acts working class but its all bologna,
Hes really middle class and hes just a phony.
He acts tough but its just a front,
Hes the prince of the punks.
song performed by Kinks
Added by Lucian Velea
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Rusty
You look worn out, more and more each day
With every step, and every page
You look worn out, more and more each day
With every step, and every page
Your croft, dated back to the beginning of the century
Its the beginning of the century
Inside your croft, dated back to the beginning of the century
Its the beginning of the century
What are you looking for? Youll never get close
You definitely dont know, youre not original
What are you looking for? Youll never get close,
You definitely dont know, you definitely dont know
What youre about
You look worn out, more and more each day
With every step and every page
And youre still worn out, more and more each day
Theres every way to......
Your croft, dated back to the beginning of the century
Its the beginning of the century
Inside your croft, dated back to the beginning of the century
Its the beginning of the century
What are you looking for? Youll never get close
You definitely dont know, youre not original
What are you looking for? Youll never get close
You definitely dont know, you definitely dont know
What youre about
What are you looking for? Youll never get close
You definitely dont know, youre not original
What are you looking for? Youll never get close
You definitely dont know, you definitely dont know
What youre about
song performed by Idlewild
Added by Lucian Velea
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Prince Of Punks
A well known groover, rock 'n' roll user,
Wanted to be a star.
But he failed the blues, and he's back to loser,
Playing folk in a country bar.
Reggae music didn't seem to satisfy his needs.
He couldn't handle modern jazz,
'Cause they play it in difficult keys.
But now he's found a music he can call his own,
Some people call it junk, but he don't care,
He's found a home.
He's the prince of the punks and he's finally made it,
Thinks he looks cool but his act is dated.
He acts working class but it's all bologna,
He's really middle class and he's just a phony.
He acts tough but it's just a front,
He's the prince of the punks.
He's the prince of the punks and he's finally made it,
Thinks he looks cool but his act is dated.
He tried to be gay, but it didn't pay,
So he bought a motorbike instead.
He failed at funk, so he became a punk,
'Cause he thought he'd make a little more bread.
He's been through all of the changes,
From rock opera to Mantovani.
Now he wears a swastika band
And leather boots up past his knees.
He's much too old for twenty-eight,
But he thinks he's seventeen,
He thinks he's a stud,
But I think he looks more like a queen.
He's the prince of the punks and he's finally made it,
Thinks he looks cool but his act is dated.
He talks like a Cockney but it's all bologna,
He's really middle class and he's just a phony.
He acts tough but it's just a front.
He's the prince of the punks and he's finally made it,
Thinks he looks cool but his act is dated.
He acts working class but it's all bologna, -acapo
song performed by Kinks
Added by Lucian Velea
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Wind
The calendar-dated joy
The alarm waking breath
The nine-month expectation
The delicacy of a rose
The coarseness of a leaf
The destined seasons
The place of the dayspring
Harmattan's and winter's dry and chill
Autumn, as the leaves leave home and hit the ground
The trees say goodbye as you fall
Summer, your sun's glory days
Rain, God's crying ways, your pain aches
Spring, the flowers they bloom and so do you
Music, the hemoglobin of my heart
The acoustic guitar, the violin...
Words, spoken few, written more
Three words that makes all the difference
Killed some, healed some, made some
God, my lifetime dated lover
The life-timed goodbye, death
Leaves the soil wetter
Turns the light on for those it takes
Dims the lamp for those behind
The winds, ah, the winds
The North wind brought you in nine months
And pours on you the grace to live
And shines on you the light that will guide you back North
The East wind, brought love your way
Hope you loved deeply and truly?
The healing, the rising of your sun
The making of the you, you are
The West wind, it sets your sun
The pain, the love lost, the darkness
The loss, the aching sea, the grief
The South wind, the calender-dated end
Pulling down the poster of the nine-month gift
Ending the sojourn on the countryside
The last string of the violin
The last note of a song
Did you dance while the song was playing?
Did you hear the music or at least feel your heart beat
Me, you, we, are waiting for a purpose to rise
The calender-dated joy
Your wedding day, graduation, golden anniversary
Are you happy today?
Were you with joy as each wind blew
I wasn't, I'm not...I'm wrong
Each wind plays a song
Tells a story...listen...its the story of life
And there's a hand offering to dance
[...] Read more
poem by Jenim Dibie
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Towns in Colour
I
Red Slippers
Red slippers in a shop-window, and outside in the street, flaws of grey,
windy sleet!
Behind the polished glass, the slippers hang in long threads of red,
festooning from the ceiling like stalactites of blood, flooding the eyes
of passers-by with dripping colour, jamming their crimson reflections
against the windows of cabs and tram-cars, screaming their claret and salmon
into the teeth of the sleet, plopping their little round maroon lights
upon the tops of umbrellas.
The row of white, sparkling shop fronts is gashed and bleeding,
it bleeds red slippers. They spout under the electric light,
fluid and fluctuating, a hot rain - and freeze again to red slippers,
myriadly multiplied in the mirror side of the window.
They balance upon arched insteps like springing bridges of crimson lacquer;
they swing up over curved heels like whirling tanagers sucked
in a wind-pocket; they flatten out, heelless, like July ponds,
flared and burnished by red rockets.
Snap, snap, they are cracker-sparks of scarlet in the white, monotonous
block of shops.
They plunge the clangour of billions of vermilion trumpets
into the crowd outside, and echo in faint rose over the pavement.
People hurry by, for these are only shoes, and in a window, farther down,
is a big lotus bud of cardboard whose petals open every few minutes
and reveal a wax doll, with staring bead eyes and flaxen hair,
lolling awkwardly in its flower chair.
One has often seen shoes, but whoever saw a cardboard lotus bud before?
The flaws of grey, windy sleet beat on the shop-window where there are only
red slippers.
II
Thompson's Lunch Room - Grand Central Station
[...] Read more
poem by Amy Lowell
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The Longest Poem In The World
The longest poem in the world
Went on and on and on...
So much that when it was unfurled,
Rolled on and on and on...
Folks were entranced when first they read,
Yet none could see it through.
For soon they had to go to bed
And sleep as sleepers do.
The fastest speakers had their turn,
Attempting what they could,
Yet they grew hoarse to likewise learn
That it did them no good.
Computer geeks were rallied round,
Translating text to speech.
It wore the geeks into the ground,
Too far beyond their reach.
God called His angels to His Throne
And asked for volunteers,
Yet when the poem's length was known,
They knew it would take years!
Despite this fact, God's Son stood proud
And said it was sublime...
And solemnly that day He vowed
That He would spare the time.
So God agreed and Jesus left
And read the poem through...
God missed His Son and felt bereft,
Yet time in Heaven flew.
God's Son returned with His report,
The poem to explain...
He shared the poet's every thought,
The power of his brain...
The angels listened patiently
And when Jesus was done,
They praised the Lord in ecstacy
And thanked God for His Son!
The longest poem to recall!
From the oldest man who lived!
For Christ alone had read it all -
Methusaleh's greatest gift!
poem by Denis Martindale
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Of the billionaires I have known, money just brings out the basic traits in them. If they were jerks before they had money, they are simply jerks with a billion dollars.
quote by Warren Buffett
Added by Lucian Velea
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A Wreath Of Sonnets For My Darling
I
Outside all the streets are lighted
while you smell red roses in the garden
and it's as if my thoughts linger with you,
at the morning glories trumpeting over the wall,
the windows reflect you in their glare
and you crawl just deeper into my thoughts,
above me stars sparkle, it's as if one is dancing
and I am aware of a secret bond,
I am madly in love with you;
our friendship came suddenly
where two people in the whole universe
are momentarily astounded by each other
and its only moments before you join me,
the doors are closed and locked.
II
The doors are closed and locked
when you come into my life irrevocable
and my world is falling to pieces
but it's as if you give to every day the summer sun,
you change the cool winter rain of months
with a unknown adaptability
and deep in my heart you are the only one;
that makes me happy and sometimes sad,
maybe we knew that difficult days will come,
maybe we had an intuition that moments do decay
but still we are in love with each other,
as two persons finding each other in all of humanity
and it's as if the blessings of God do descend on us,
when the nightly silence lingers.
III
When the nightly silence lingers
I read deep thoughts, your eyes shine
with the brilliance and glittering of rainbows,
they are radiated by a bright pure light,
they lie like two olives totally oval,
when you laugh full of sunshine and you are elated
and still they have got the capacity
to draw all of my thought to you,
when you want to make my whole world wonderful,
as if we are totally exceptional,
and it's as if every bird is calling its mate,
as if the sunrise and the days become more beautiful
[...] Read more
poem by Gert Strydom
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Pods And Gods
Martian men are coming to earth
they're abducting all of the jerks,
Martian men are coming to earth
Martian men, don't take me
Pods are landing from outer space
Pods are duplicating my face
Pods are landing from outer space
Pods they leave me alone
I don't know what conventions you go to
I don't know what movies you've seen
I don't wanna hear explainations of unexplainable things.
It's not that I don't belive in aliens
It's just, I really dont care.
I wouldn't mind some interplanetary freinds
until they come I'll hang in my own hemisphere
Holy ghost is coming to Earth
Saving souls of all of the jerks
The holy ghost is coming to earth
Savior man don't save me
The number 1 son is flippin the tab
payin for sins and under your hat
the number 2 son is flippin the bill
let me chip in for the tip
I dont understand why you beg for forgiveness
Just b4 you do it again
Is it more altruistic to worship
or actually help fellow man?
Its not that I don't belive in Jesus Christ
Its just I care about other things
the world could certianly use some miracles,
until then I'll put my faith in human beings.
song performed by NOFX
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Thompson’s Lunch Room—Grand Central Station
STUDY IN WHITES
Wax-white—
Floor, ceiling, walls.
Ivory shadows
Over the pavement
Polished to cream surfaces
By constant sweeping.
The big room is coloured like the petals
Of a great magnolia,
And has a patina
Of flower bloom
Which makes it shine dimly
Under the electric lamps.
Chairs are ranged in rows
Like sepia seeds
Waiting fulfilment.
The chalk-white spot of a cook’s cap
Moves unglossily against the vaguely bright wall—
Dull chalk-white striking the retina like a blow
Thru the wavering uncertainty of steam.
Vitreous-white of glasses with green reflections,
Ice-green carboys, shifting—greener, bluer—with the jar of moving water.
Jagged green-white bowls of pressed glass
Rearing snow-peaks of chipped sugar
Above the lighthouse-shaped castors
Of grey pepper and grey-white salt.
Grey-white placards: “Oyster Stew, Cornbeef Hash, Frankfurters”:
Marble slabs veined with words in meandering lines.
Dropping on the white counter like horn notes
Through a web of violins,
The flat yellow lights of oranges,
The cube-red splashes of apples,
In high plated épergnes.
The electric clock jerks every half-minute:
“Coming!—Past!”
“Three beef-steaks and a chicken-pie,”
Bawled through a slide while the clock jerks heavily.
A man carries a china mug of coffee to a distant chair.
Two rice puddings and a salmon salad
Are pushed over the counter;
The unfulfilled chairs open to receive them.
A spoon falls upon the floor with the impact of metal striking stone,
And the sound throws across the room
Sharp, invisible zigzags
Of silver.
poem by Amy Lowell
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My darling’s arm lies over me
My darling’s arm lies over me
and it’s as if the silence
gets a deeper new meaning.
I lie on my back and she on her side
and our heads touch hot
against each other and forever
I can stay like this against her.
I feel her breath softly
blowing against my ear
and there’s intimacy
with her hand
clinging to my breast
and the sun is already high.
Outside there’s blue air
coming through the window
and she sleeps peaceful
and the light wind
jerks and jerks leaves
of the potato trees
and there’s a cool breeze
intruding through the open window
into the room
and I lightly
stroke her soft back.
It’s nice to lie together
in bed on a Sunday morning
and to have you’re darling
lying against you
and her toes that stick out small
from under the duvet
is perfect in form and size
like those of the first woman
and her womanly beauty
pervades me strongly
while she sleeps on unaware
and I see a big pink-brown nipple
rising up and down while she breaths
and like a photograph
it’s framed into my mind.
My darling’s arm lies over me
and it’s as if the silence
that stretches out long
gets a deeper new meaning.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Two Peas In a Pod
Two peas in a pod.
Each other needed.
To feed a wish...
To be together,
And not mystified!
Two peas in a pod.
Each other needed.
To feed a wish...
To be together,
And not mystified!
Two peas in a pod.
Each other needed.
To feed a wish...
To be together,
And not mystified!
Panting...
And rushing out of breath.
To be in step,
And in sync with thought!
Never ones to rant,
Neither of them can't.
They have chosen a life for them that works.
Baggage free and deserted of jerks!
And those who have totally gone berserk,
With degrees to academically define...
An absence of common sense,
In their densed state of minds!
Trying to explain...
A dimming light in their brains!
Two peas in a pod.
Each other needed.
To feed a wish...
To be together,
And not mystified!
Two peas in a pod.
Each other needed.
To feed a wish...
To be together,
And not mystified!
Two peas in a pod.
Each other needed.
To feed a wish...
To be together,
And not mystified!
They don't try to meet
Expectations that defeat
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Renda Writer - Cubicle Cages
Work to live or live to work
For better or for worse
Most of us put work first
But what hurts worse
Is the world was built by blue shirts
But white shirts get respect first
It should be vice verse in the network
What's your net worth?
Evenly disperse
The paychecks and the perks
Who ever gets first
Is whoever knows how the network
And the experts
Do less work
While the rest work
Til' their heads hurt
Excessive stress and work
Is situation red alert
We're working for oppressive jerks
'Til our backs and our necks hurt
Interview is the first date
First impression
Flirt
Fired from a line of work
Surrounded by spineless lying jerks
Frowns surrounded by smirks
But now I'm outta work
Working hard or hardly working
This is hard
Cause not working hardly works
And it's hurting
Looking for a job in a city where jobs hide
All time jobless high
National debt is colossal sized
A need to eat and stay alive
Collides with human pride
[...] Read more
poem by Renda Writer
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New type of guy
im with a guy who treats me right
He makes happy and warm inside
He doesnt try to go too far
Hes very sweet and cares for my heart
He doesnt talk to me like im nothing
He makes me feel like im his something
I havent dated many guys like him
I actually date jerks who dont care about whats within
I date guys who want nothing but sex
I date guys who i always regret
I am trying to change for i deserve more than that
So lets see where this goes and hopefully it doesnt end bad
poem by Jean Pullman
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I dated a lot of girls all through high school, and in college I dated a young lady for about eight months.
quote by Danny Pintauro
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We've all known a John Tucker. We've either known one, dated one or our best friend has dated one. I think a lot of men at one point or another have been a John Tucker.
quote by Sophia Bush
Added by Lucian Velea
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No Generation
never has the future seemed so dated
never have i been so lost for words
youll take a chance if youre given it
and youd fall in love with anything
never has the future seemed so tainted
its always been at loss for what its known as
at lost for what its known as
but im fine about it
i knew more about you before you were born
i knew more about you before you were born
i knew more about this place before id ever been here
youve got no generation
youve got no generation
youve got no generation
lets celebrate alo-one
how does it feel yes how does it feel
to know that you will never take part
i promise i wont be apart
and how does it feel yes tell me
how does it feel
to know that you will never take part
planning for the future seems so dated
listen plans you make them and ignore them
only to find that and believe them to be true
and planning for the future seems so tainted
its always been at loss for what its known as
at lost for what its known as
but im fine about it
i knew more about you before you were born
i knew more about you before you were born
i knew more about this place before id ever been here
youve got no generation
youve got no generation
youve got no generation
lets celebrate alo-one
youve got no generation
youve got no generation
youve got no generation
lets celebrate alo-one
how does it feel yes how does it feel
to know that you will never take part
i promise i wont be apart
and how does it feel yes tell me
how does it feel
to know that you will never take part
i promise i wont be wont be apart
i promise i wont be wont be apart
i promise i wont b
song performed by Idlewild
Added by Lucian Velea
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I Wont Be Renewing My Love At All
I wont be renewing my love at all.
To me it's over-rated.
I hate to even make it.
I wont be renewing my love at all.
Oh-oh...
No no!
I'll be happy with a cat and glad of that!
It wont have painted nails,
Or sit around getting fat.
I wish I could trade you for a new Cadillac.
Oh-oh,
I'd be ready to go!
And I wont be renewing my love at all.
Oh-oh...
No no!
I wont sit around to watch your thick hips jiggle.
Or try to wiggle into jeans you know are too little.
I can't look at you because you look like a fool.
You'd be a big hit on YouTube!
You've made spandex your best catch yet.
There are no holes located...
When it's stretched around your weight.
I remember when we dated,
I had chased you for 'some'.
But those days from us have passed.
And I don't want 'none'.
I wont be renewing my love at all.
Oh-oh...
No no!
I wont sit around to watch your thick hips jiggle.
Or try to wiggle into jeans you know are too little.
I can't look at you because you look like a fool.
You'd be a big hit on YouTube!
I wont be renewing my love at all.
To me it's over-rated.
I hate to even make it.
I wont be renewing my love at all.
I'll be happy with a cat,
And glad of that!
Oh-oh...
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Artistic Consummations Unending
Man when it comes to romance
commitment to long term courtship
speak not of rocking artistic me;
and my constant consistent courtship
with my dated loose laying poetry.
In more than twenty
predominantly neglected years
I’ve never been through them all;
caught up with my neglected years
my dated draft diary entries.
I’ve got so many
loose lines lines lines
hanging heavy in my restless head;
I can never get them lines
all laid down right.
There’s too many
to save, for, a rainy day.
Multiple droplets; in their hundreds trillions;
adorn, all objects; visible on rainy days.
Hang from, transformed, rain dewed trees.
But even when the sun is still shining.
I’m still two timing, multiple poetic pieces.
I’m still too time starved; for catch up poetic binding.
I’m afraid I’m never, going to get written pieces,
through; to that last eternally unwritten line.
Hanging out waiting around for me
in expectation, of artistically, desired pick up.
When will such a courtship; finally end?
When the muse may, no longer, dances up,
her dazzling; or simplistic lines entwining me.
When I’m too tired to write my nights
my days, my artistic life, poetically away.
Then poetry will find; another poet to daze;
for days, for nights; to artistic life write away.
Then poetry will find, another poet, to courtship bard.
Copyright © Terence George Craddock
Written in July 1999 on the 17.7.99.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Prosaic
If poetry’s pronounced prosaic,
like Prozac thought to be archaic,
prescribed for those who are depressed,
with prose preferred by all the rest,
should I consider that I’m dated,
out-rhymed and out-alliterated
by cruel haters of all verse
who poetry pooh-pooh and curse,
especially the rhyming kind
to which prose preachers are unkind
more than to verse so free it looks
like prose that’s printed in their books?
Of course I’m dated, but so what?
Prose writer is what I am not
by birth or inclination, so forgive
the way I write so I can live
with meter, rhyme, and let me scan,
though I am an archaic man,
and keep you daily up to date
with verse that prose-pros love to hate.
Inspired by an article on Kurt Weill by Matthew Gurewitsch in the NYT on November 19 [“The Weill (Almost) Nobody Knows]. Gurewitsch writes about a revival of Weill’s “Maria Galante, ” which Weill wrote in Paris in 1934. It is written in the acid style that made “Threepenny Opera” such a success, and which he abandoned afer he emigrated to the United States. Acid style wsa to Weill what rhyme is to me:
Festive as the title may sound, “Marie Galante” — based on a novel by Jacques Deval — turns out to be a gritty shocker. It opened to mixed reviews on Dec.22,1934, when Weill was in Paris, on the run from the Nazis, and closed the first week of January 1935. (A Jewish cantor’s son, Weill was born in Germany in 1900. He got out just in time, in 1933. In 1935 he landed in New York, where he died in 1950.) A foundling and born sex kitten, Marie blossoms quickly, giving herself freely at first, just for pleasure. Then she starts taking money because she has to. When a ship captain dumps her in Panama, she lucks into higher fees spying but pays with her life.Mr. Clarac, the director, relates “Marie Galante” to a tradition of film noir that continued in France long past the war years, citing titles like “Le Quai des Brumes, ” “Pépé le Moko” and “Les Orgueilleux.” But it is also very much a product of its time and place. “The plays in Paris then were not nice and pink and sweet, ” Mr. Clarac said recently from Marie’s home port of Bordeaux, which is his home also. “The idea was that stories set in a very simple, poor, low-class milieu achieve a kind of universality. Everyone is kind of blasé, tired, washed out. There are no happy characters in ‘Marie Galante.’ Panama may sound exotic, but for those who live there, it is not. It’s superhot and superhumid, nobody has any money and everyone is in exile.” Several songs from “Marie Galante” popularized by Weill specialists like Teresa Stratas and Ute Lemper are sung not by Marie but by other drifters and misfits. The lyrics, by Deval and Roger Fernay, are rough stuff, conjuring nightmares of sexual degradation, mutilation, a boy-eating ogre, a train bound for glory and a fairy-tale king who cheats on the queen. Weill’s music gives them punch and edge and sometimes a desperate longing. His score also features a ravishing instrumental number, which Fernay at an unknown later date retrofitted with lyrics as “Youkali: Tango Habañera.” The vocal version was published in Paris in 1946. The New York production assigns it to Marie, an unauthorized choice but one that seems hard to fault. To Ms. Bayrakdarian the tango is “the song and dance of the common people, the oppressed and disadvantaged, helpless strangers in a strange land, desperately seeking escape.” “Marie embodies these qualities, ” Ms. Bayrakdarian continued. “She is fiery but inconsolable, always hoping for salvation, for Utopia. As for ‘J’Attends un Navire, ’ I believe the song is her mantra to distance herself from her harsh reality, the song she sings to herself every time she has a new customer.”
11/10/08
poem by Gershon Hepner
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