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It's not that the creative act and the critical act are simultaneous. It's more like you blurt something out and then analyze it.

quote by Robert Motherwell
Added by Lucian Velea
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Condition Critical

Oh the tension's mounting
The pressure starts to show
All the men in haunting
Please don't let me go
(Don't go)
Try to free my body
(Don't go)
Try to strap me down
(Don't go)
These'll never break me
(Don't go)
Free wheel to look at me
Condition critical
I'm feeling physical
Condition critical
Now I'm really cynical
The bells they are ringing
Or is it in my head
My nerves numb understanding
I'm falling out of bed
(Don't go)
So call it paranoia
(Don't go)
I don't see it that way
(Let's go)
You say I adore ya
(Hell no)
We're gonna rock they way
Condition critical
I'm feeling physical
Condition critical
Now I'm really cynical
Ooh ooh
Whips and chains
Don't feel no pain
What's so wrong
I think I'm going out of my head
Over heels
I can't feel
No pain, only pleasure
Get me out
Take me home
Can't you see my condition
Woo-woo-woo
Condition
Condition
Condition critical, critical
Condition
Condition
Condition critical

[...] Read more

song performed by Quiet Riot
Added by Lucian Velea
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“Mathew” 6: 9-13

“our father in heaven”
(ode to the man who has children,
sitting around in an imaginary
place envied by other members
of the brainwashed)

“hallowed be your name”
(the sheep that baaaaa in unison
believe that there is a sound made
by all the simultaneous crying in
desperation which has then been
construed as a “name” then given
to the imaginary listener in said
imaginary place)

“your kingdom come”
(evidently, this wondrous trailer
park in the sky is something that is
supposed to be open to anyone sad
enough to submit their will to the pool
of simultaneous sheep baaaaa ing away
at the wall in hopes that the imaginary
listener in this imaginary place will
say something back)

“your will be done”
(those committed to baaaaa ing & to the
spread of this act of yelling to the sky in
hopes that said imaginary listener in said
imaginary trailer park will say something
back, wrote a lot of their babbling fiction
down & apparently there is where the aspiring
brainwashed can find the how to manual
for walking on four legs, growing a thick
coat of bustling hair & chewing grass)

“on earth as it is in heaven”
(and once you drink the kool aid, there is
no going back according to the sheep
gazing at the stars, baaaaa ing in unison
hoping for the trailer park in the sky
where they can continue to baaaaa
together, grow their coats together &
chew grass together obliviously)

“give us this day our daily bread”
(baaaaa ing loud enough at the sky is
supposed to bring 3 square meals back to
the sheep who have done so, because
after having created an imaginary listener

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Delapruch
Added by Poetry Lover
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I Should Be Allowed To Think

I saw the best minds of my generation
Destroyed by madness, starving, hysterical
I should be allowed to glue my poster
I should be allowed to think
I should be allowed to glue my poster
I should be allowed to think
I should be allowed to think
I should be allowed to think
And I should be allowed to blurt the merest idea
If by random whim, one occurs to me
If necessary, leave paper stains on the grey utility pole
I saw the worst bands of my generation
Applied by magic marker to dry wall
I should be allowed to shoot my mouth off
I should have a call in show
I should be allowed to glue my poster
I should be allowed to think
I should be allowed to think
I should be allowed to think
And I should be allowed to blurt the merest idea
If by random whim, one occurs to me
If necessary, leave paper stains on the grey utility pole
I am not allowed
To ever come up with a single original thought
I am not allowed
To meet the criminal government agent who oppresses me
I was the worst hope of my generation
Destroyed by madness, starving, hysterical
I should be allowed to share my feelings
I should be allowed to feel
I should be allowed to glue my poster
I should be allowed to think
I should be allowed to think
I should be allowed to think
And I should be allowed to blurt the merest idea
If by random whim one occurs to me
But sadly, this can never be
I am not allowed to think
I am not allowed to think
I am not allowed to think (I am not allowed to think)
I am not allowed to think (I am not allowed to think)
I am not allowed to think (I am not allowed to think)
I am not allowed to think (I am not allowed to think)

song performed by They Might Be Giants
Added by Lucian Velea
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With A Downsizing Subsidized

Opps!
Caught in the middle of being super critical.
Opps!
Caught in the middle of being super critical.
Opps!
Caught in the middle of being super critical.

Sitting in the middle and being hypocritical.

They use denial in attempt to disguise...
With a minimizing done to be felt inside.
With a downsizing subsidized tried,
With a hiding pushed aside.
But what is scooped...
Can not be duped to opps!

As they sit in the middle,
Knowing they are hypocritical.

Opps!
Caught in the middle of being super critical.
Opps!
Caught in the middle of being super critical.
Opps!
Caught in the middle of being super critical.

But what is scooped...
Can not be duped to opps!
With a downsizing subsidized,
And pushed aside!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Feeling Obligated

Someone has to give in and give up,
A dream...
About to be touched.
If a love of another is wanted that much.
Someone has to give in and give up.
Someone has to give in and give up.

Someone has to give in and give up,
A dream...
About to be touched.
If a love of another is wanted that much.
Someone has to give in and give up.
Someone has to give in and give up.

It's hard to love someone,
If that one is creative.

It's hard to leave and separate from...
Someone loved that's very innovative.
Someone loved that is creative,
Someone loved that is creative.

It's hard to love someone,
If that one is creative.

It's hard to leave and separate from...
Someone loved that's very innovative.
Someone loved that is creative,
Someone loved that is creative.

When one wants to be that one and only...
Someone is feeling isolated.
When one wants to be that one and only...
Someone else is feeling obligated.
Someone else is feeling obligated.

It's hard to love someone,
If that one is creative.

It's hard to leave and separate from...
Someone loved that's very innovative.
To leave another feeling obligated.
To leave another feeling obligated.

It's hard to leave and separate from...
Someone loved that's very innovative.
To leave another feeling obligated.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Rise N Shine

Dawn wakes the silence,
Of a fainted lullaby
Day breaks the eyelid,
From a song sung in my eye
Night rests in peace,
As the sun mourns the sky
Alls accounted for sheep,
Over a horizons i
Rise, rise n shine
A new day is coming
Rise, rise in time
For everything under the sun
And when you see,
A south wind blow
Forecasting, you will know,
A hot day, will be on the way
(foolish one)
You analyze,
The earth and the sky
I ask you why,
You cant analyze the signs,
Of the present time
I had a dream,
Not unlike the one from old
Of a man king,
Whose head was made of gold
Stand castles of sand
Weather the sundials rise n fall
Chasing wind through your hands,
til water runs dry the well
Dream, daniel, dream
For whats yet to come
See, daniel, see
For everything under the sun
And in the west,
A cloud appears
For shadows of
A coming shower near,
Oh, so near
(hypocrites)
You analyze,
The earth and the sky
I ask you why,
You cant analyze the signs,
Of the present time
Vanity,
Yes, all is vanity
Vanity,
Yes, alls futility
For one that dies,

[...] Read more

song performed by Extreme
Added by Lucian Velea
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Part I: Rise n Shine

Dawn wakes the silence,
Of a fainted lullaby
Day breaks the eyelid,
From a song sung in my eye
Night rests in peace,
As the sun mourns the sky
Alls accounted for sheep,
Over a horizons i
Rise, rise n shine
A new day is coming
Rise, rise in time
For everything under the sun
And when you see,
A south wind blow
Forecasting, you will know,
A hot day, will be on the way
(foolish one)
You analyze,
The earth and the sky
I ask you why,
You cant analyze the signs,
Of the present time
I had a dream,
Not unlike the one from old
Of a man king,
Whose head was made of gold
Stand castles of sand
Weather the sundials rise n fall
Chasing wind through your hands,
til water runs dry the well
Dream, daniel, dream
For whats yet to come
See, daniel, see
For everything under the sun
And in the west,
A cloud appears
For shadows of
A coming shower near,
Oh, so near
(hypocrites)
You analyze,
The earth and the sky
I ask you why,
You cant analyze the signs,
Of the present time
Vanity,
Yes, all is vanity
Vanity,
Yes, alls futility
For one that dies,

[...] Read more

song performed by Extreme
Added by Lucian Velea
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Ooddled Up

Total open bootle stroking.
Open toking...
To be broken,
Coping.
And ooddled up.
With the stuff.

Soaking near the ropes to toke.
And poking for some hope,
They cope and smoke...
Feeling dope!

To lube and idolize.
Too pooped to analyze,
The people.
Crunking with a blunt!
To lube and idolize.
Too pooped to analyze,
The people.
And peel we do,
With the tools.

Total open bootle stroking.
Open toking...
To be broken,
Coping.
And ooddled up.
With the stuff.

Crunked with their blunts...
And bumping.
Humping, dump and crumping.

Crunked with their blunts...
And bumping.
Humping, dump and crumping.

Soaking near the ropes to toke.
And poking for some hope,
They cope and smoke...
Feeling dope!

Crunked with their blunts...
And bumping.
Humping, dump and crumping.

Total open bootle stroking.
Open toking...
To be broken,
Coping.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Why Do We Analyze The 'Why

You don't, hear it.
You don't, feel it.
And you don't see it,
Like I do.

Like I do...
You don't want it.
Like I do...
You don't need it.
Like I do.
But you deceive like to do,
Too!

Why do we testify,
To fantasize and criticize.
Apologize to cover lies...
As if our lives are hypnotized.

Why do we try to hide,
Reasons why we can't harmonize.
And why do we analyze the 'why'?
Why?

Why do we testify,
To fantasize and criticize.
Apologize to cover lies...
As if our lives are hypnotized.
And...
Why do we try to hide,
Reasons why we can't harmonize.
And why do we analyze the 'why'?
Why?

Why do we testify,
To fantasize and criticize.
Apologize to cover lies...
As if our lives are hypnotized.
And why do we analyze the 'why'?

Why do we try to hide,
Reasons why we can't harmonize.
And why do we analyze the 'why'?

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Picking It Up

Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up,
From the middle can be critical.
Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up...
Like that does not ensure,
Self assurance to occur.

Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up,
From the middle can be critical.
Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up...
Like that does not ensure,
Self assurance to occur.

It is a strategy that one should seek.
With satisfaction first examined.
To make sure that one increases harmony!
With a proactive way,
Of life to live.

Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up,
From the middle can be critical.

It is the heat that one releases.
When nothing satisfies to analyzing eyes...
Only seeing with a vision that's fixed.
As if in a tunnel,
To rip through quick.

It's not a riddle when one plays it second fiddle,
Oh...
Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up,
From the middle can be critical.
Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up,
With proactive actions to prevent blurs.

And...
Don't be vague!

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Act Nice & Gentle

You dont need no fancy clothes
Whered you get them, goodness knows?
Just show some civility.
Act nice, act nice and gentle to me.
I dont need no luxuries,
As long as you are understanding,
Im not difficult to please.
Act nice, act nice and gentle to me.
Well Im the kind of guy who likes
To take you as I find you
So throw away those false eyelashes and,
Act nice, act nice, baby.
Come on baby, hold my hand.
Come on baby, understand, you gotta
Act nice, act nice and gentle to me.
Act nice, act nice and gentle to me.
Come on baby, hold my hand.
Come on baby, understand, you gotta
Act nice, act nice and gentle to me.
Act nice, act nice and gentle to me.

song performed by Kinks
Added by Lucian Velea
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XI. Guido

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Magpie, My Keeper, Is Flying - Upon Freeing the Gift of Creativity Turned Inward

.
for Elaine Bellezza, Beloved Anima-as-Fate

'There is only one real deprivation, I decided this morning, and that is not to be able to give one's gift to those one loves most...The gift turned inward, unable to be given, becomes a heavy burden, even sometimes a kind of poison. It is as though the flow of life were backed up.' - May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude

This afternoon while still somewhat hungover from last night's rich meal and several glasses of strong red wine, I stumbled as one does when hungover, only today without feet but with eyes, upon the above quote by May Sarton. I had awakened this morning with fragments of a dream, repetitive of other dreams the past few months, where I am carrying something precious and just cannot put it down in any old place or upon just any available surface. I cannot put it down until I find the right surface and location.

These dreams are full of torrential flood waters, or backed up, stagnant water, toilets full of filth and pungent bright orange dark urine days old and fermenting. I cannot unhand the burden even though the urge to pee or flee or drive a car away or into flood waters is strong. I must not put down the burden odd as it is; it is my laptop carrying case made of canvas. It is large enough to carry not only my laptop but also many books with which I cannot, will not be parted from as they are the must-have-with-me-always 'bread', my staple and stability in a given to me world out of balance.

I have understood the dreams only a little - something within the psyche is flooding up, over-spilling or has already, has not been adequately canalized, channeled, streamed and guided, shaped and formed. Or flushed. I knew that eventually, as dreams do when one sits consciously, patiently, persistently with them, they would yield their messages to me, and upon revelation these must be obeyed, brought out into the world, Carl Jung having said that one has a moral responsibility to dreams once they are kenned and must be conscientiously acted upon in the outer world. Just dreaming is not enough. Everyone dreams but not very many know to dream them out into the world, to let their messages unfurl, flood and flow to bring forth new consciousness, to reshape old forms no longer adequate to self, place and time into symbol and their sense, usually not literal.

And thus, only just now, upon opening up haphazardly in a book about Dostoevsky and his struggle with addictions which mirror the profound compulsion to create at any cost perhaps beyond one's capacities to renew oneself, I find May Sarton's quote and suddenly the dreams clarify and sharpen into focus; I understand them as the burden of creativity too long turned inward, the burden of writing, the burden of poetry which I have carried heavily for most of my life since middle school when I was 11 or 12 years old when books became my lifeline, my link to existence that I could live on in spite of not wanting to do so. Written words, books, kept me from disappearing though I was and remain a mostly invisible word.

And thus the floods. One cannot ignore them. Alphabets tumble and roil. One dare not ignore them. One must see them without a choice to not see them. In them I am suddenly made visible, bright orange p*ss pots and all. I am both appalled and pleased. My burden is upon my knees.

The backed up water, the urine, is creativity. A somewhat odd symbol of creativity, there is more than enough evidence that urination is symbolic of self expression which is creativity. In ancient Rome the highly valued dirt from the urinals of boys' schools was collected to be used as a cosmetic in order to restore youthful energy and looks. A young boy, or puer in Latin, is an archetypal symbol of ongoing creativity and inspiration, the puer aeternas, the eternal youth, well springs of ongoing creativity still imaged in solid fountains of the world where eternal waters flow from the peni of cherubic youth.

I have struggled my entire life with a strong urge to create, to write, to express in words that creative daemon within which torments no matter the completion of a poem or essay, a lecture, a psalm. And now my dreams have had me consciously, urgently seeking a place to put the burden down, to perhaps come to it anew. I imagine that landing the burden means bringing it down to earth, manifesting creativity all the more by bringing my efforts to others for the strongest part of the compulsive urge in my creativity has been to contribute one good thing, one good poem or piece of writing which in some way might further the culture even if only by a flea's leg length.

The dreams urge me to let the urine flow, to let the flood waters indeed flood over, to be less self conscious of what I write and say but to have at it all and to say my say. And to let whatever waves there are crest and break upon ever receptive banks and shores whose duty it is to allow what may come from motion without complaint, the more compliant toward as yet to be fully formed purposes as yet to be scored.

Synchronistically, a few days ago I listened to a lecture by poet Allen Ginsberg about Walt Whitman and his imitators, those who were goodly influenced by his effulgent, self indulgent style, his garrulous poems which presumed to express the very expansiveness of the North American continent over-flooded by a plague of itinerant, persistent poachers and prophets from Europe to Eastern disembarkation and then inland and Westward, compelled to overtake land and native peoples in their possessed, pushed wake. Ginsberg imagined himself to be a timely extension of this unruly school, as savage as the projected upon land and justly-resistant, resident humanity stretched beyond known bounds and sounds. Blood drowned and pounded the god-hounded land even now is flooded by unleashed mighty rivers seeking, if rivers seek at all, to undo and renew in horse shoe and other shapes the crimes of consciousness compelled to overtake while leaving it up to human souls to repent and repair, to prepare for more powerful insurgencies of land and Self ever seeking new and nower expressions of dirt and deity. There's enough history beneath layers to support the scarp and scrape of momentary yet monumental motions finally given mouths to utter what lies both beneath and within the heaping huzzahs of here here here full and deep. As in my dream, it is hard to steer in such surpassing tides and currents. Still, I am searching for holy campground that I may lay my burden down.

I have no wish to imitate Whitman nor Ginsberg - though both are easily imitated since they did so themselves, an occupational hazard for writers - but only to be obedient to the daemon, that urgent, emergent, creative force within. It rushes within and against me. No matter whether derived of the grandiose American continent and the even more grandiose sky or not, I have all too successfully braced against it in fear of failure, reprisal or, worse, complete indifference from others. My dreams now urge floods and resultant coagulations, they bring creative splurges to ground from hand to the hard world. And Nature, too, is indifferent but begs none the less and all the more to be given utterance and response.

Respondeo ergo sum. I respond, therefore I am. I respond, therefore the other, earth, all her ants, is as long as there are eyes, ears, and scanning minds to acknowledge and touch, wrestle, caress, shape - some in scansions - outer from inner, inner from outer, landscapes to be all too quickly discarded in time for what is sung just ahead. And seen. Or hoped, all praise to telescopes. We would be they, so addicted to horizons, to bring them close.

Something there is needs completion via coagulation, forming, shaping, and sharing with whomever may be open to clods delivered. If not, rivers will, as they will without reason, continue to overrun their banks and insist upon covering designated previous cultivations. Let then excess of creativity have its say, play out, and leave the critical post-considerations to others. I will surely sit and ponder spent what spills forth, to shape, to edit, to discard. And watch my little yard sink beneath needed and needy floods.

I will have done with deprivation and bring myself, what I have shaped and misshapen, to the world. These things, this burden, have I most loved and felt responsible for, have born the shame of. I have fought and have failed utterly again and again though my attempts have been, and still are, sincere though not blameless. Fear has been my encampment, a longing beneath knowing feet in secret cellars just beyond reach of contracted hands forever spelling hunger. I know open bastion doors and windows to now fling beyond embankments what has been wrung out of my floes and woes though hands wither from too much turning against and inward. What a relief to burst beyond boundaries too long successfully restraining.

I recently wrote a poem about much too too solid bastions of self, of forceful puer energy ramming through and over and into long buried storms and petrified forms, of passion mangling the delusion of 'norms' ignoring too sensitive alarms. Given May Sarton's May revelation this morning I now understand that the poem is about more than eros, it is about that powerful creative/destructive force, the daemon/tyro that ever urges outward intent on making and staking Self in new land and at least one aging man wrenched and rendered from dried and calcified encrustations. I am, to borrow from the insistent dream image, beginning to leak. And to break open.

Archeology - What The Stele Says 'Upon Taking A Much Younger Lover'

That this old ground yields to plow stuns.
What begins to be, earth swell, breaks
root-room open to blood means.

Old skeins tear upon what is new terrain,
hunger worn, long appended. There is
no blame for pain is the blessing.

All hurt now stings twilight quaked into being.
Your breath falls upon me now, taut, sinew,
bruising hand, purple inside flares warrior nerves

[...] Read more

poem by Warren Falcon
Added by Poetry Lover
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(This Ain't No) Thinkin' Thing

I been thinkin' 'bout our love situation
All this attraction in the present tense
I've reached the only logical conclusion
Love ain't supposed to make sense
This ain't no thinkin' thing right brain left brain
It goes a little deeper than that
It's a chemical physical emotional devotion
Passion that we can't hold back
There's nothin' that we need to analyze
There ain't no rhyme or reason why
'Cause this ain't this ain't no thinkin' thing
Forget mathematical equations
Self help psychology
Gray matter don't matter much darlin'
When it's gettin' down to you and me
This ain't no thinkin' thing right brain left brain
It goes a little deeper than that
It's a chemical physical emotional devotion
Passion that we can't hold back
There's nothin' that we need to analyze
There ain't no rhyme or reason why
'Cause this ain't this ain't no thinkin' thing
There's nothing that we need to analyze
There ain't no rhyme or reason why
'Cause this ain't, this ain't, no thinkin' thing
This ain't, no this ain't no thinkin' thing
This ain't no thinkin' thing girl
no this ain't no thinkin' thing
This ain't, no this ain't no thinkin' thing girl
This ain't no thinkin' thing baby

song performed by Trace Adkins
Added by Lucian Velea
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No Thinkin' Thing

(tim nichols/mark d. sanders)
I been thinkin' 'bout our love situation
All this attraction in the present tense
I've reached the only logical conclusion
Love ain't supposed to make sense
This ain't no thinkin' thing, right brain, left brain
It goes a little deeper than that
It's a chemical, physical, emotional devotion
Passion that we can't hold back
There's nothin' that we need to analyze
There ain't no rhyme or reason why
'cause this ain't, this ain't no thinkin' thing
Forget mathematical equations
Self help psychology
Gray matter don't matter much darlin'
When it's gettin' down to you and me
This ain't no thinkin' thing, right brain, left brain
It goes a little deeper than that
It's a chemical, physical, emotional devotion
Passion that we can't hold back
There's nothin' that we need to analyze
There ain't no rhyme or reason why
'cause this ain't, this ain't no thinkin' thing
There's nothing that we need to analyze
There ain't no rhyme or reason why
'cause this ain't, this ain't no thinkin' thing
This ain't, no this ain't no thinkin' thing

song performed by Trace Adkins
Added by Lucian Velea
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Pity Makes Those Visits

Everyday you have to pray,
If you want a life to be lived right.
Everyday.

And everyday you have to do it in a way,
To make those loose ends tight.
Without a struggle or fight.

You want a life that's easy pleasing.
Without discipline or meaning.
Without work or sweat involved.
With your troubles quickly solved.

You wish your dreams to come alive.
While you sit and analyze...
Why others seem to have such luck!
And all you have is whining time.
With pity making visits in your mind.
That's all you want,
There to fine.

Everyday you have to pray,
If you want a life to be lived right.
Everyday.

And everyday you have to do it in a way,
To make those loose ends tight.
Without a struggle or fight.

But pity makes those visits in your mind.
All the time.
And all you wish to do is sit...
And analyze.
Why you ain't gotta dime.

And pity makes those visits in your mind.
All the time.

And all you wish to do is sit...
And analyze.
With thin dimes on your mind!

As pity makes those visits in your mind.
Without a thin dime to find!

As pity makes those visits...
You don't want to quit,
In your mind.
Without a thin dime to find!

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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The Cenci : A Tragedy In Five Acts

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

Count Francesco Cenci.
Giacomo, his Son.
Bernardo, his Son.
Cardinal Camillo.
Orsino, a Prelate.
Savella, the Pope's Legate.
Olimpio, Assassin.
Marzio, Assassin.
Andrea, Servant to Cenci.
Nobles, Judges, Guards, Servants.
Lucretia, Wife of Cenci, and Step-mother of his children.
Beatrice, his Daughter.

The Scene lies principally in Rome, but changes during the Fourth Act to Petrella, a castle among the Apulian Apennines.
Time. During the Pontificate of Clement VIII.

ACT I

Scene I.
-An Apartment in the Cenci Palace.
Enter Count Cenci, and Cardinal Camillo.

Camillo.
That matter of the murder is hushed up
If you consent to yield his Holiness
Your fief that lies beyond the Pincian gate.-
It needed all my interest in the conclave
To bend him to this point: he said that you
Bought perilous impunity with your gold;
That crimes like yours if once or twice compounded
Enriched the Church, and respited from hell
An erring soul which might repent and live:-
But that the glory and the interest
Of the high throne he fills, little consist
With making it a daily mart of guilt
As manifold and hideous as the deeds
Which you scarce hide from men's revolted eyes.

Cenci.
The third of my possessions-let it go!
Ay, I once heard the nephew of the Pope
Had sent his architect to view the ground,
Meaning to build a villa on my vines
The next time I compounded with his uncle:
I little thought he should outwit me so!

[...] Read more

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Accordingly

someday everyone will be wise in the future
everyone will be sensible and forward thinking
wear sensible shoes and act accordingly in the future
wise action according to everyone will be the act
of the future everyone will be futuristic someday
according to god according to everyone and their shoes
in the future everyone will be godless and free
act accordingly in the future or else
play accordions wisely in your godless future
in the future accordions will play themselves

act three in the future: there will be no accordions
everyone will get nostalgic for the accordion god
and act as if they were wise in the future
everyone will be according to god
in the future everyone will not act accordingly
wisdom is unholy in the future
to act accordingly is to stay out of trouble
in the future jails will be bigger and much better
everyone will need some punishment in the future
thinking of accordions will be a crime

lawrence welk is a revolutionary in the future
to act accordingly is to act with wisdom
everyone will act as one in the future
accordingly for everyone to act
in the future everyone will be discredited
everyone must act now to avoid the future
be wise and dont act accordingly
play accordions in the street the future cannot
wait for wisdom and forced accord
one chord might save the future

poem by Stephen Roxborough
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Ugly Duckling of QCPU

Ugly, she ain't fit nor fair
Gimpy heart she hath
Lone of her none do care
Yellow asked her wrath

Grudge she kept; not to hurt
Ephemeral was her hold
Mad gone her in midst of blurt
Monster chicks had told.

Amplified her voice had gone
Lucks of her shone in place
Yonder lake swam she, set sun
Not a single peck never daze

Imbricated feathers appeared
Simultaneous alteration abound
Sick those sought naught beauty here
O 'Lin made naught much sound

Pretty allurement was set in no time
Redolent scent filled the place
Exceptional glamor has finally shined
Tintinabulations whilst i gaze.

Totally mesmerized to her juvenility
Our eyes were filled with the beauty
Brood she'd gone long and lame
Epiphany afore hath come in game

Felicity of hers hidden yonder
Aloft the ugliness of human nature
Truth! that is reality's wonder
~~Yes! there is no constant matter.

poem by Ellirie Aviles
Added by Poetry Lover
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