I'm not a lyric writer to make statements. What I enjoy doing is making paintings with lyrics, creating colorful images. I think that's more what entertainment and music should be.
quote by Chris Cornell
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Entertainment
Theres been another assassination
T.v. cameras moving in.
To shoot the bloodstains on the pavement
And get them on the news at ten.
Will he live or will he die, before we go on the air?
Yes, the networks are all there, in the name of
Entertainment.
Superstar psycho, from a killer to a hero,
An overnight sensation on the lips of all the nation
Is he mad or is he sane? it makes for good conversation
I call it suffering and pain, but they call it entertainment
Sex violence murder and rape. (entertainment entertainment)
Thats what you came for, thats what you pay for.
Entertainment, entertainment.
They call it entertainment
Inform us, educate us with your media machine
(call it entertainment)
Tell me what to dream
(call it entertainment)
You pay your money, what do you get?
Entertainment.
Real life for entertainment,
Cheapens my reality,
So that hollywood can make it into another b movie
The vultures get the rating and the people get the thrills
But the victims always pay, I guess they always will.
Sex violence murder and rape (entertainment entertainment)
Thats what you want, thats what they need,
Thats what you came for, thats what your paying for.
They call it entertainment (call it entertainment)
Inform us, educate us with your media machine,
(call it entertainment)
Tell me what to dream
(call it entertainment)
You pay your money, what do you get?
Entertainment, entertainment.
song performed by Kinks
Added by Lucian Velea
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Images
I think images are worth repeating
Images repeated from a painting
Images taken from a painting
From a photo worth re-seeing
I love images worth repeating
Project them upon the ceiling
Multiply them with silk screening
See them with a different feeling
Images, oh, images
Images, oh, images
Some say images have no feeling
I think theres a deeper meaning
Mechanical precision or so its seeming
Instigates a cooler feeling
I love multiplicity of screenings
Things born anew display new meanings
I think images are worth repeating
And repeating and repeating
Images, oh, images
Images, images
Im no urban idiot savant
Spewing paint without any order
Im no sphinx, no mystery enigma
What I paint is very ordinary
I dont think Im old or modern
I dont think I think Im thinking
It doesnt matter what Im thinking
Its the images that are worth repeating
And repeating, oh, images
Images
If youre looking for a deeper meaning
Im as deep as this high ceiling
If you think technique is meaning
You might find me very simple
You might think that images boring
Cars and cans and chairs and flowers
You might find me personally boring
Hammer, sickle, mao tse tong
Mao tse tong
Ooohhh, images, images
Images
I think that it bears repeating
The images upon the ceiling
I love images worth repeating
And repeating and repeating
Images, images
Oh, images, oh, images
song performed by Lou Reed
Added by Lucian Velea
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Kahlo-Christ Conjunctions - Sacrificed Flesh, Broken Bread, Emmaus Vision
[The curious or, better, interested reader may view the images alluded to in this essay at this website: http: //falconwarren.blogspot.com/2011/01/kahlo-christ- conjunctions-sacrificed.html]
Kahlo Strophes
As with love, also the bellows.
Calavera*, the Future stands
hand to mouth, fingers to forehead
unfolding before still instatic shapes.
Hold desperately to frames before
these quaking perceptions.
She could not stop there,
had to flare out, dry paint,
and the dryer flesh peel down
to bone, a sexless esqueleto**,
skull no longer mustached,
a calavera, nothing more,
curved calcium reliant forever
upon canvas, what is congealed
there to fan and burn,
a 'cauda pavonis'***.
- the author, from the text below
*Skull
**Skeleton
***Peacock's Tail (an image in alchemy) .
'Poetry such as this attempts not just a new syntax of the word. Its revolution is aimed at the syntax of the mind itself. Its structuring of experience is purposive, not dreamlike. We are dealing with a self-induced, or naturally or mysteriously come by, creative state from which two of the most fundamental human activities diverge, the aesthetic and the mystic act. The creative matrix is the same in both, and it is that state of being that is most peculiarly and characteristically human, as the resulting aesthetic and mystic experience is the purist form of human act. There is a great deal of overlapping, today especially, when art is all the religion most people have and when they demand of it experiences that few people of the past demanded of religion....A visionary poem is not a vision. The religious experience is necessitated and ultimate.' - Kenneth Rexroth, World Outside the Window, the Selected Essays of Kenneth Rexroth, pg.255-256
Rexroth's words are pertinent to the images used in this essay, Kahlo's painting above is visionary, Grunewald's are religious, and several photos are both, and all are 'aimed at the syntax of the mind itself.. Its restructuring of experience is purposive, not dreamlike.' The images included in this essay, which is more a prose poem than regular prose, are meant to convey equally or more, at least as as much as, the words in their incantatory formations which may induce entrance into 'imaginal' spaces where word and image meet in a practical magic, inspire a felt understanding and perhaps gain a view or actual entrance into what ecstatic poet, Rainer Maria Rilke, calls 'the Greater Relation.'
I've decided to publish this piece-in-progress as it unwinds in spirals 'aimed at the syntax of the mind itself...its restructuring of experience' with the understanding that it may later appear in greatly altered form. In a real sense this writing writes itself; I try to heed, copy, then hone to the bone what might be wanting to be sung, for what is below, and often what I write, is more akin to music, a vocal/verbal lilt beyond a particular solid tilt of view of a world absolute, static logos.
Heraclitus noted thousands of years ago, 'All is flux.'
To this I would only add, and perhaps this is what all of my writing amounts to,
'All is reflux.'
Selah. WF
NYC,1/31/11
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Let It All Be Music
Music is a mirror
Near around my soul
Music is the spirit
Come on let it roll
Music is my nature
People have you heard
Music is my future
Music is the world
Let it all be music
People sing a song
Let it all be music
Let us sing it on and on and on and on
Lets play the music
My kind of music
Lets play the music
Play it on
Lets play the music
My kind of music
Lets play the music
Play it on and on and on
Music isnt somewhere
Music turns you right
Music is a fever
Leads you day and night
Music is like heaven
Where you wanna be
Music is religion
Music sets you free
Let it all be music
People sing a song
Let it all be music
Let us sing it on and on and on and on
Lets play the music
My kind of music
Lets play the music
Play it on
Lets play the music
My kind of music
Lets play the music
Play it on and on and on
Music is tomorrow
Music is today
Music is forever
Music is the way
Music is for women
Music is for men
Music is for children
Sing it all again
Let it all be music
People sing a song
[...] Read more
song performed by Boney M.
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Paperback Writer
(LennonMcCartney)
Paperback writer
Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book?
It took me years to write, will you take a look?
It's based on a novel by a man named Lear
And I need a job, so I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
It's the dirty story of a dirty man
And his clinging wife doesn't understand
His son is working for the Daily Mail
It's a steady job but he wants to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer
It's a thousand pages, give or take a few
I'll be writing more in a week or two
I can make it longer if you like the style
I can change it round and I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
If you really like it you can have the rights
It could make a million for you overnight
If you must return it, you can send it here
But I need a break and I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer (fade out)
song performed by Paul McCartney
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Feel The Music
What is music and why is it here?
Music is made for the ear.
To be made and played for many of decades.
To be embraced by different cultures and race,
Music
the heart of man
Only it seems now only a few understand
Music.
The upbeat the down beat the chords the rhythm it plays.
Exchanging and changing forever.
Music.
Not one man can take the responsibility for making the music the music made us.
You have to trust in the
Music
Classical Jazz, Swing, Country everything it brings.
Music.
Although music has a lot of names it will always remain the same
Music will always change.
The dramatic character of a story.
It will always end with the final glory.
Because of its graceful authority
[...] Read more
poem by Tiffany Burton
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Mammary Tunes
Under heavy haze I cast an ear…
Was that a distant hymn?
To view, to peer ahead,
I span thro’ sharpened eyes,
Connecting brain. Surprise
Awards emotion to the show –
A fine refrain.
I think I know the source:
Without recourse my keen and
Eager shoes propel my whole.
And she regales me as I close –
The drifting notes propose I place
An ear to verge upon the emanation.
Choice of left or right
Invites and overwhelms;
A brief respite, and then
I poise an aural organ,
Seeking out the balance
In the tone from rhythmic flesh.
O Holy Grail, the sweet spot!
Honed in stereophony and
Mastered out of euphony:
Her music –
Diaphragms of luscious areolae
Give the tune
Atop a vibrant bass –
Quivers in the
Belly of her breast.
And presently
I fall beneath a spell of heady music
As her reproductive cushions do the rest.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Images Presented
The image that's presented,
Determines how impressive...
Those pretentious rush to protect.
And the image that's presented,
Has less to do with intellect.
Or competence and its effect,
Upon those expecting...
Much more than an image projected to accept.
Images old have molded.
Although repeatedly they have been sold!
Those images presented,
Represent times gone.
Those images presented,
Have been rusted so long.
Those images presented,
Do not feed!
Those images presented,
No one needs now!
Those images presented represent a decadence.
And they represent with evidence pretentions that are meant.
Those images presented do not feed.
Those images presented no one needs,
Now.
Those images presented represent a decadence.
And they represent with evidence pretentions that are meant.
Those images presented do not feed.
Those images presented no one needs,
Now.
Those images presented,
Represent times gone.
Those images presented,
Have been rusted so long.
Those images presented do not feed.
Those images presented no one needs,
Now.
Those images presented represent a decadence.
And they represent with evidence pretentions that are meant.
Images old have molded.
Although repeatedly they have been sold!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Piano Lurched
Contact was sharp…
I jolted from immediacy of senses torn from mind:
Such was I at unawares with you –
To strike with Master’s single chord that pounced and caught me blind –
Piano, how you lurched and rent me through!
Delightful music welcomed me to drift in quasi-syncope:
Soft tranquillo sought to rest my bones –
I glided reaching largo; sang with sweet cantabile, and
Forte let me in to louder tones.
I cried with lacrimoso; squirmed when agitato flared;
My hearing rang when fingers danced the trill.
And so it was, this maestro grand was genius declared –
Acting out in music for the thrill.
Translating pen to piano, this player takes me back thro’ time…
In the chamber, fine composers charm:
I watch the manic hands of Liszt abound with tunes sublime;
Mozart teased my mood with stark alarm.
Then entered Bach to demonstrate his mathematic flare,
Calculating notes supreme of form.
And I – the minion audience – sat wanting in my chair,
Having heard my idols all perform.
Did Darwin’s theory tell at all why Man evolved this way?
Why would music help him to survive?
But scientific muse had veered my thoughts from this display, and
Music called: ‘Just listen - you’re alive! ’
The maestro draws conclusion; lets the piano die a death
To stand as wood, inert just as before –
A pollished casket lined with keys, at calm from naught of breath,
Bade me scream: ‘Bravo! ’ and ‘Hail! Encore! ’
He wakes the box to dance again with noble works of art:
Resurrected; fully primed with zest.
Now even I was back to life with reason in my heart –
Heightened from the pounding in my chest.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
All rights reserved
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The House Of Dust: Complete
I.
The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.
And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,
The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,
And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
The purple lights leap down the hill before him.
The gorgeous night has begun again.
'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams,
I will hold my light above them and seek their faces.
I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .'
The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness,
Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest,
Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains.
We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music,
Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard;
We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight,
We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair,
With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word;
We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer
Moves among us like light, like evening air . . .
Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways,
The rain runs over the pavement before our feet,
The cold rain falls, the rain sings.
We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces
To what the eternal evening brings.
Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid,
We have built a tower of stone high into the sky,
We have built a city of towers.
Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness.
Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . .
What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . .
Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . .
And after a while they will fall to dust and rain;
Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands;
And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.
II.
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poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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I Hear A Song...
In the song of life, all lyrics need a melody.
You are the lyric and you are the melody.
You are the lyric of my heart and of my soul.
The beauty of the rose, speaks a lyric of love.
Love, speaks a lyric of you.
The silent lyric of goodness, echoes from within you.
My heart, speaks the lyric of love...to only you.
Let the words...the lyric...that bind, pass between us.
Let the lyric, of you...of me...be as one.
A million words I can speak of you and the lyrics
would be the same...I love you now. I always will
poem by Joe Fazio
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Life And Lyrics
In the song of life, all lyrics need a melody.
You are the lyric and you are the melody.
You are the lyric of my heart and of my soul.
The beauty of the rose, speaks a lyric of love.
Love, speaks a lyric of you.
The silent lyric of goodness, echoes from within you.
My heart, speaks the lyric of love...to only you.
Let the words...the lyric...that bind, pass between us.
Let the lyric, of you...of me...be as one.
A million words I can speak of you and the lyrics
would be the same...I love you now. I always will.
poem by Joe Fazio
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Lyrics Of Life
In the song of life, all lyrics need a melody.
You are the lyric and you are the melody.
You are the lyric of my heart and of my soul.
The beauty of the rose, speaks a lyric of love.
Love, speaks a lyric of you.
The silent lyric of goodness, echoes from within you.
My heart, speaks the lyric of love...to only you.
Let the words...the lyric...that bind, pass between us.
Let the lyric, of you...of me...be as one.
A million words I can speak of you and the lyrics
would be the same...I love you now. I always will
poem by Joe Fazio
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Lyrics Of Life
In the song of life, all lyrics need a melody.
You are the lyric and you are the melody.
You are the lyric of my heart and of my soul.
The beauty of the rose, speaks a lyric of love.
Love, speaks a lyric of you.
The silent lyric of goodness, echoes from within you.
My heart, speaks the lyric of love...to only you.
Let the words...the lyric...that bind, pass between us.
Let the lyric, of you...of me...be as one.
A million words I can speak of you and the lyrics
would be the same...I love you now. I always will
poem by Waldon Pond Productions
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Lyrics Of Life
In the song of life, all lyrics need a melody.
You are the lyric and you are the melody.
You are the lyric of my heart and of my soul.
The beauty of the rose, speaks a lyric of love.
Love, speaks a lyric of you.
The silent lyric of goodness, echoes from within you.
My heart, speaks the lyric of love...to only you.
Let the words...the lyric...that bind, pass between us.
Let the lyric, of you...of me...be as one.
A million words I can speak of you and the lyrics
would be the same...I love you now. I always will
poem by Joe Fazio
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My Heart Sings
In the song of life, all lyrics need a melody.
You are the lyric and you are the melody.
You are the lyric of my heart and of my soul.
The beauty of the rose, speaks a lyric of love.
Love, speaks a lyric of you.
The silent lyric of goodness, echoes from within you.
My heart, speaks the lyric of love...to only you.
Let the words...the lyric...that bind, pass between us.
Let the lyric, of you...of me...be as one.
A million words I can speak of you and the lyrics
would be the same...I love you now. I always will
©Joe Fazio
poem by Joe Fazio
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MY Heart Sings...
In the song of life, all lyrics need a melody.
You are the lyric and you are the melody.
You are the lyric of my heart and of my soul.
The beauty of the rose, speaks a lyric of love.
Love, speaks a lyric of you.
The silent lyric of goodness, echoes from within you.
My heart, speaks the lyric of love...to only you.
Let the words...the lyric...that bind, pass between us.
Let the lyric, of you...of me...be as one.
A million words I can speak of you and the lyrics
would be the same...I love you now. I always will
poem by Joe Fazio
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My Song Is You...
In the song of life, all lyrics need a melody.
You are the lyric and you are the melody.
You are the lyric of my heart and of my soul.
The beauty of the rose, speaks a lyric of love.
Love, speaks a lyric of you.
The silent lyric of goodness, echoes from within you.
My heart, speaks the lyric of love...to only you.
Let the words...the lyric...that bind, pass between us.
Let the lyric, of you...of me...be as one.
A million words I can speak of you and the lyrics
would be the same...I love you now. I always will
poem by Joe Fazio
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Sing Me A Love Song...
In the song of life, all lyrics need a melody.
You are the lyric and you are the melody.
You are the lyric of my heart and of my soul.
The beauty of the rose, speaks a lyric of love.
Love, speaks a lyric of you.
The silent lyric of goodness, echoes from within you.
My heart, speaks the lyric of love...to only you.
Let the words...the lyric...that bind, pass between us.
Let the lyric, of you...of me...be as one.
A million words I can speak of you and the lyrics
would be the same...I love you now. I always will
poem by Joe Fazio
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With A Song In My Heart...
In the song of life, all lyrics need a melody.
You are the lyric and you are the melody.
You are the lyric of my heart and of my soul.
The beauty of the rose, speaks a lyric of love.
Love, speaks a lyric of you.
The silent lyric of goodness, echoes from within you.
My heart, speaks the lyric of love...to only you.
Let the words...the lyric...that bind, pass between us.
Let the lyric, of you...of me...be as one.
A million words I can speak of you and the lyrics
would be the same...I love you now. I always will
©Joe Fazio
poem by Joe Fazio
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