Z-Monoku-Speed
Making the things to look the same like an indefinite colored abstract painting.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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I Want To Live On An Abstract Plain
Ive had it with this town
I never saw those shifting skies
I never saw the ground
Or the sunset rise
I want to live on an abstract plane
Im building a frame
A place to put my ten-yard stare
Thinking of that paint
Painted in plein-air
I want to live on an abstract plane
I need a new adress
I want some new terrain
Is it north or south?
I want to live on an abstract plain
I could sit on the roof
On top of that abstract house
See my abstract view
An abstract mouse
I want to live on an abstract plane
I need a new adress
Tell me Im not insane
Is it up or down?
I want to live on an abstract plane
song performed by Frank Black
Added by Lucian Velea
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My Father Is A Retired Magician
(for ifa, p.t., & bisa)
my father is a retired magician
which accounts for my irregular behavior
everythin comes outta magic hats
or bottles wit no bottoms & parakeets
are as easy to get as a couple a rabbits
or 3 fifty cent pieces/ 1958
my daddy retired from magic & took
up another trade cuz this friend of mine
from the 3rd grade asked to be made white
on the spot
what cd any self-respectin colored american magician
do wit such a outlandish request/ cept
put all them razzamatazz hocus pocus zippity-do-dah
thingamajigs away cuz
colored chirren believin in magic
waz becomin politically dangerous for the race
& waznt nobody gonna be made white
on the spot just
from a clap of my daddy's hands
& the reason i'm so peculiar's
cuz i been studyin up on my daddy's technique
& everythin i do is magic these days
& it's very colored
very now you see it/ now you
dont mess wit me
i come from a family of retired
sorcerers/ active houngans & pennyante fortune tellers
wit 41 million spirits critturs & celestial bodies
on our side
i'll listen to yr problems
help wit yr career yr lover yr wanderin spouse
make yr grandma's stay in heaven more gratifyin
ease yr mother thru menopause & show yr son
how to clean his room
YES YES YES 3 wishes is all you get
scarlet ribbons for yr hair
benwa balls via hong kong
a miniature of machu picchu
all things are possible
but aint no colored magician in her right mind
gonna make you white
i mean
this is blk magic
[...] Read more
poem by Ntozake Shange
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Gioconda And Si-Ya-U
to the memory of my friend SI-YA-U,
whose head was cut off in Shanghai
A CLAIM
Renowned Leonardo's
world-famous
"La Gioconda"
has disappeared.
And in the space
vacated by the fugitive
a copy has been placed.
The poet inscribing
the present treatise
knows more than a little
about the fate
of the real Gioconda.
She fell in love
with a seductive
graceful youth:
a honey-tongued
almond-eyed Chinese
named SI-YA-U.
Gioconda ran off
after her lover;
Gioconda was burned
in a Chinese city.
I, Nazim Hikmet,
authority
on this matter,
thumbing my nose at friend and foe
five times a day,
undaunted,
claim
I can prove it;
if I can't,
I'll be ruined and banished
forever from the realm of poesy.
1928
Part One
Excerpts from Gioconda's Diary
15 March 1924: Paris, Louvre Museum
At last I am bored with the Louvre Museum.
[...] Read more
poem by Nazim Hikmet
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Indefinite Pronouns and the Universe
He said;
his arm flowing outward;
'The problem of the 21st Century
is the Indefinite Pronoun.
We're all everyone and no one
indefinite;
pronoun, but not a noun
the universal vagueness
of time, meaning, and identity,
rather like the cloud of electrons
flying around the nucleus of the atom
there and not there;
but capable of being anywhere
or in two places at the same time;
holding many beliefs constantly shifting,
feeling fervently one thing and its opposites
the next minute,
being who am I this minute
and not who I am the next minute;
in a world changing fast
speeding up
and speeding up faster
and faster;
indistinct
shadowy
flashing lights
spark
racing by
approaching
and not approaching the speed of light.
There I'm me, us
none of us;
we,
I
have said it;
both me?
The Indefinite Pronoun Defined
'Singular: another, anybody, anyone, anything, each, either, everybody, everyone, everything, little, much, neither, nobody, no one, nothing, one, other, somebody, someone, something
Plural: both, few, many, others, several.
Singular or Plural: all, any, more, most, none, some'
--
[...] Read more
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Soccer–Passion Song
Soccer–Passion Song
Soccer in the evening;
Soccer in the morning;
Soccer in spring and fall.
Soccer in the raining;
Soccer in the snowing;
Soccer in winter and summer.
Soccer in between my feet,
where I walk;
Soccer in my heart and mind,
how I live;
Soccer my love and life.
Soccer I wake up and play;
Soccer I hold it to sleep;
Soccer my work and rest.
Soccer I sing a new song;
Soccer I dance the magic steps;
Soccer my tears and joy.
Soccer my Mom buys it for me to play;
Soccer my Dad brings me to the game;
Soccer my dear Love watches me to score.
Soccer I dribble and shoot;
Soccer I pass and fall;
Soccer my glory and downfall.
Soccer I strike to attack;
Soccer I tackle to defend;
Soccer my struggle and survival.
Soccer I receive the flags and the whistles;
Soccer I get the yellow and red card;
Soccer my moves and stop.
Soccer I meet my friends;
Soccer I make my enemies;
Soccer my conflict and peace.
Soccer I play and watch;
Soccer I watch but cannot play;
Soccer my dream and reality.
Soccer I learn the rights;
Soccer I confess the fouls;
[...] Read more
poem by Laijon Liu
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Painting The Walls
painting the walls,
rolling over handprints,
cobwebs, and smoke stains....
over splashes of color,
over peels of time.
painting over the sounds
of voices whispering, laughing....
painting over tears hidden
from the world, from each other.
painting over running, and working,
working all day and half the night.
painting over children, and dreams,
folded like old clothes, and put away.
painting over notes from God,
that were often barely noticed...
painting over the nail that held
up the clock, hands moving slowly,
turning the seasons of living....
painting over the final words,
the last breath held in the hands,
of lives written in the grain....
the testimony of each feeling....
painting the walls,
and brushing the corners,
as if we never lived!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Drug's Not Working
I was shooting in the back of the car
When the windows smashed on the police cars
I was swimming through the streets of New York
With my cocaine dagger and throats to cut
And it was making her cry
And it was making her cry
And it was making her cry
But it was making me high
She was a hooker at the age of 16
All she wanted was the money
She didn't need an I.D.
She was a junkie and I know its clich
But then so was her life
I mean, she lived in L.A.
And it was making her cry
And it was making her cry
And it was making her cry
But it was making her high
And it was making her cry
And it was making her cry
And it was making her cry
But it was making her high
And it was making her cry
And it was making her cry
(Riot in my skull, demons are coming)
And it was making her cry
(Los Angeles is dead, the drugs ain't working)
And it was making her cry
(Painted it all black, the chains are jerking)
And it was making her cry
(Los Angeles is dead, the drugs ain't working)
And it was making her cry
(Riot in my skull, demons are coming)
And it was making her cry
(Los Angeles is dead, the drugs ain't working)
And it was making her cry
(Los Angeles is dead, the drugs ain't working)
Riot in my skull, demons are coming
L.A. your dead, the drugs ain't working
Painted it all black, the chains are jerking
L.A. is dead, the drugs ain't working
L.A. your dead, the drugs ain't working
L.A. your dead, the drugs ain't working
The drugs ain't working
The drugs ain't working
song performed by Ryan Adams
Added by Lucian Velea
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Give Your Heart To The Hawks
1 he apples hung until a wind at the equinox,
That heaped the beach with black weed, filled the dry grass
Under the old trees with rosy fruit.
In the morning Fayne Fraser gathered the sound ones into a
basket,
The bruised ones into a pan. One place they lay so thickly
She knelt to reach them.
Her husband's brother passing
Along the broken fence of the stubble-field,
His quick brown eyes took in one moving glance
A little gopher-snake at his feet flowing through the stubble
To gain the fence, and Fayne crouched after apples
With her mop of red hair like a glowing coal
Against the shadow in the garden. The small shapely reptile
Flowed into a thicket of dead thistle-stalks
Around a fence-post, but its tail was not hidden.
The young man drew it all out, and as the coil
Whipped over his wrist, smiled at it; he stepped carefully
Across the sag of the wire. When Fayne looked up
His hand was hidden; she looked over her shoulder
And twitched her sunburnt lips from small white teeth
To answer the spark of malice in his eyes, but turned
To the apples, intent again. Michael looked down
At her white neck, rarely touched by the sun,
But now the cinnabar-colored hair fell off from it;
And her shoulders in the light-blue shirt, and long legs like a boy's
Bare-ankled in blue-jean trousers, the country wear;
He stooped quietly and slipped the small cool snake
Up the blue-denim leg. Fayne screamed and writhed,
Clutching her thigh. 'Michael, you beast.' She stood up
And stroked her leg, with little sharp cries, the slender invader
Fell down her ankle.
Fayne snatched for it and missed;
Michael stood by rejoicing, his rather small
Finely cut features in a dance of delight;
Fayne with one sweep flung at his face
All the bruised and half-spoiled apples in the pan,
[...] Read more
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Why Is Repin Painting Monet?
why is repin
painting monet
why is not repin
painting repin
or why is not monet
painting monet
or they're just
making a team
in this day
very sunny day
in the south
south of beauty
oh beauty
beauty named france
france of that field
the sunflower field
oh making
making for a painting
a painting for price
a price for bread
bread for respect
respect for van gogh
van gogh for a day
a day for painting
painting for words
words for us
and us for them
and them are only
only and just
just se7en words
'we all are brothers
brothers
in love'
poem by Ahmed Khaled
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untitled abstract painting of Custer's Last Stand
Untitled abstract painting of Custer’s last stand
an abstract painting of custer’s last stand
Hangs in the Montana Museum of Modern Art
A fish with a halo and many Indians mating
And no name tag makes this painting, stand apart
Montanans know the title of this portrait
Although no name tag is shown
Yet, as the gaze falls upon it
the title is intuitively known,
the last words that were spoken
from this famous man’s mouth
As the battle of the Big horn
Began to go south
Oddly enough, as in the painting
his last words were not prayer
Though the words; “copulation and Indians, “
“Fish And Holy, “ were there.
The title of the painting and Custer’s last words
Weren’t from Romans or Corinthians.
They were simply “Holy Mackerel
Look at all the F#@*in’ Indians
poem by David Whalen
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Thurso’s Landing
I
The coast-road was being straightened and repaired again,
A group of men labored at the steep curve
Where it falls from the north to Mill Creek. They scattered and hid
Behind cut banks, except one blond young man
Who stooped over the rock and strolled away smiling
As if he shared a secret joke with the dynamite;
It waited until he had passed back of a boulder,
Then split its rock cage; a yellowish torrent
Of fragments rose up the air and the echoes bumped
From mountain to mountain. The men returned slowly
And took up their dropped tools, while a banner of dust
Waved over the gorge on the northwest wind, very high
Above the heads of the forest.
Some distance west of the road,
On the promontory above the triangle
Of glittering ocean that fills the gorge-mouth,
A woman and a lame man from the farm below
Had been watching, and turned to go down the hill. The young
woman looked back,
Widening her violet eyes under the shade of her hand. 'I think
they'll blast again in a minute.'
And the man: 'I wish they'd let the poor old road be. I don't
like improvements.' 'Why not?' 'They bring in the world;
We're well without it.' His lameness gave him some look of age
but he was young too; tall and thin-faced,
With a high wavering nose. 'Isn't he amusing,' she said, 'that
boy Rick Armstrong, the dynamite man,
How slowly he walks away after he lights the fuse. He loves to
show off. Reave likes him, too,'
She added; and they clambered down the path in the rock-face,
little dark specks
Between the great headland rock and the bright blue sea.
II
The road-workers had made their camp
North of this headland, where the sea-cliff was broken down and
sloped to a cove. The violet-eyed woman's husband,
Reave Thurso, rode down the slope to the camp in the gorgeous
autumn sundown, his hired man Johnny Luna
Riding behind him. The road-men had just quit work and four
or five were bathing in the purple surf-edge,
The others talked by the tents; blue smoke fragrant with food
and oak-wood drifted from the cabin stove-pipe
And slowly went fainting up the vast hill.
Thurso drew rein by
a group of men at a tent door
And frowned at them without speaking, square-shouldered and
heavy-jawed, too heavy with strength for so young a man,
He chose one of the men with his eyes. 'You're Danny Woodruff,
[...] Read more
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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The Concrete and the Abstract
The concrete is visible,
the abstract is invisible.
The concrete is the outside,
the abstract is the inside.
The concrete is objective,
the abstract is subjective.
People go on searching for
God in the concrete.
'We would like to see God'
-they say.
But only the concrete can be seen;
the abstract has to be felt.
The concrete can be seen-
with the eyes open,
the abstract has to be seen-
with eyes closed.
God is inside you, as you.
You cannot stand outside God
and see Him;
you can see Him
only from the inside-
by being Him.
If you see a flower,
you can look at it scientifically.
You look at the chemistry of it,
You dissect it and
you come to know
about the components of it.
But something is missed
in that very analysis.
The beauty is missed,
because beauty is not a component.
If you ask the scientist -
'Where is the beauty that was in the flower? ’ he will say-
'That was not there,
it was just an illusion.'
'I have dissected it-
all and all,
and these are the things
that I have found.
These chemicals were there,
this matter was there,
these atoms, these molecules....
but there was no beauty.'
[...] Read more
poem by Nazmul Haque
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S-e-x-x-y
Dressed only in clothes
From her head to her toes
This is the way
The talking part goes
S-e-x-x-y
More than enough
Around the clock with nobody else
S-e-x-x-y
There she is
Standing on the bed
Cookie in one hand, wig on her head
S-e-x-x-y
X because its extra baby
Y because its extra baby
Unnoticed by few
Very very few
And that includes you
Look inside your mind
Look inside your eye
Secret agent spy, come to see why
S-e-x-x-y
One finger nail
Across your back
Babys first gold tooth initials inscribed
S-e-x-x-y
X because its extra baby
Y because its extra baby
You gotta understand
She wants to be your man
Shes got another plan
Notes
The infamous warren rigg microwave remix goes as follows:
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y s-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y s-e-x-x-y
[...] Read more
song performed by They Might Be Giants
Added by Lucian Velea
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Daily Records
This could be suffering
This could be suffering
This could be pleasure
This could be pleasure
Im unaware of any difference
Im unaware of any difference
My head is aging
My head is aging
My balls are aching
My balls are aching
But Im not looking for deliverence
But Im not looking for deliverence
This could be letting on
This could be letting on
This could be highly cut
This could be highly cut
Im unaware of ~any difference
Im unaware of ~any difference
One says it cant be done
One says it cant be done
Then somebody does it - but
Then somebody does it - but
Im not watching for equivalents.
Im not watching for equivalents.
I just dont quite know how to wear my hair no more
I just dont quite know how to wear my hair no more
No sooner cut it than they cut it even more
No sooner cut it than they cut it even more
Got to admit that I created private worlds
Got to admit that I created private worlds
Cold sex and booze dont impress my little girls
Cold sex and booze dont impress my little girls
Daily records
Daily records
Just want to be making daily records
Just want to be making daily records
Try to avoid the bad news in the letters
Try to avoid the bad news in the letters
Just wanna be making records
Just wanna be making records
Play in - play out - fade in - fade out
Play in - play out - fade in - fade out
Making records day in - day out
Making records day in - day out
And they say its just a stage in life
And they say its just a stage in life
But I know by now the problem is a stage
But I know by now the problem is a stage
And they say just take your time and itll go away
And they say just take your time and itll go away
[...] Read more
song performed by Who
Added by Lucian Velea
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Sugar Mountain
Oh, to live on sugar mountain
With the barkers and the colored balloons,
You cant be twenty on sugar mountain
Though youre thinking that youre leaving there too soon,
Youre leaving there too soon.
Its so noisy at the fair
But all your friends are there
And the candy floss you had
And your mother and your dad.
Oh, to live on sugar mountain
With the barkers and the colored balloons,
You cant be twenty on sugar mountain
Though youre thinking that youre leaving there too soon,
Youre leaving there too soon.
Theres a girl just down the aisle,
Oh, to turn and see her smile.
You can hear the words she wrote
As you read the hidden note.
Oh, to live on sugar mountain
With the barkers and the colored balloons,
You cant be twenty on sugar mountain
Though youre thinking that youre leaving there too soon,
Youre leaving there too soon.
Now youre underneath the stairs
And youre givin back some glares
To the people who you met
And its your first cigarette.
Oh, to live on sugar mountain
With the barkers and the colored balloons,
You cant be twenty on sugar mountain
Though youre thinking that youre leaving there too soon,
Youre leaving there too soon.
Now you say youre leavin home
cause you want to be alone.
Aint it funny how you feel
When youre findin out its real?
Oh, to live on sugar mountain
With the barkers and the colored balloons,
You cant be twenty on sugar mountain
Though youre thinking that youre leaving there too soon,
Youre leaving there too soon.
Oh, to live on sugar mountain
With the barkers and the colored balloons,
You cant be twenty on sugar mountain
Though youre thinking that youre leaving there too soon,
Youre leaving there too soon.
song performed by Neil Young
Added by Lucian Velea
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An Abstract painting
My eyes fall on an abstract painting
of which my girlfriend,
wants to paint a series
that may hang in board halls
and offices.
There’s something hot and alive
in the background
that changes from golden yellow,
to flame orange
and flows into black red
and a green line
runs from the foreground
into the horizon.
With strong straight lines wood,
and sink plate shacks appear
with horizontal and vertical lines
and it looks like a squatter camp,
or the houses of a headman
in the country.
To me it looks like drums and large tin cans
that lies around in the front
and a big old TV set
with sitting places round it
and at the back,
there are two wooden pens
to keep in sheep and goats.
Maybe there’s red sand
on the one side
and yellow and green grass
for grazing on the other side,
but honestly I do not want to stay
in such a place.
[Reference: Abstract painting by Mandi. Look at the painting on my mabooki webpage: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1416_An_Abstract_ painting.htm]
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Fable For Critics
Phoebus, sitting one day in a laurel-tree's shade,
Was reminded of Daphne, of whom it was made,
For the god being one day too warm in his wooing,
She took to the tree to escape his pursuing;
Be the cause what it might, from his offers she shrunk,
And, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a trunk;
And, though 'twas a step into which he had driven her,
He somehow or other had never forgiven her;
Her memory he nursed as a kind of a tonic,
Something bitter to chew when he'd play the Byronic,
And I can't count the obstinate nymphs that he brought over
By a strange kind of smile he put on when he thought of her.
'My case is like Dido's,' he sometimes remarked;
'When I last saw my love, she was fairly embarked
In a laurel, as _she_ thought-but (ah, how Fate mocks!)
She has found it by this time a very bad box;
Let hunters from me take this saw when they need it,-
You're not always sure of your game when you've treed it.
Just conceive such a change taking place in one's mistress!
What romance would be left?-who can flatter or kiss trees?
And, for mercy's sake, how could one keep up a dialogue
With a dull wooden thing that will live and will die a log,-
Not to say that the thought would forever intrude
That you've less chance to win her the more she is wood?
Ah! it went to my heart, and the memory still grieves,
To see those loved graces all taking their leaves;
Those charms beyond speech, so enchanting but now,
As they left me forever, each making its bough!
If her tongue _had_ a tang sometimes more than was right,
Her new bark is worse than ten times her old bite.'
Now, Daphne-before she was happily treeified-
Over all other blossoms the lily had deified,
And when she expected the god on a visit
('Twas before he had made his intentions explicit),
Some buds she arranged with a vast deal of care,
To look as if artlessly twined in her hair,
Where they seemed, as he said, when he paid his addresses,
Like the day breaking through, the long night of her tresses;
So whenever he wished to be quite irresistible,
Like a man with eight trumps in his hand at a whist-table
(I feared me at first that the rhyme was untwistable,
Though I might have lugged in an allusion to Cristabel),-
He would take up a lily, and gloomily look in it,
As I shall at the--, when they cut up my book in it.
Well, here, after all the bad rhyme I've been spinning,
I've got back at last to my story's beginning:
Sitting there, as I say, in the shade of his mistress,
As dull as a volume of old Chester mysteries,
[...] Read more
poem by James Russell Lowell
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Fra Lippo Lippi
I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave!
You need not clap your torches to my face.
Zooks, what's to blame? you think you see a monk!
What, 'tis past midnight, and you go the rounds,
And here you catch me at an alley's end
Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar?
The Carmine's my cloister: hunt it up,
Do—harry out, if you must show your zeal,
Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole,
And nip each softling of a wee white mouse,
Weke, weke, that's crept to keep him company!
Aha, you know your betters! Then, you'll take
Your hand away that's fiddling on my throat,
And please to know me likewise. Who am I?
Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend
Three streets off—he's a certain...how d'ye call?
Master—a...Cosimo of the Medici,
I' the house that caps the corner. Boh! you were best!
Remember and tell me, the day you're hanged,
How you affected such a gullet's gripe!
But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves
Pick up a manner nor discredit you:
Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets
And count fair prize what comes into this net?
He's Judas to a tittle, that man is!
Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends.
Lord, I'm not angry! Bid your hangdogs go
Drink out this quarter-florin to the health
Of the munificent House that harbors me
(And many more beside, lads! more beside!)
And all's come square again. I'd like his face—
His, elbowing on his comrade in the door
With the pike and lantern—for the slave that holds
John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair
With one hand ("Look you, now," as who should say)
And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped!
It's not your chance to have a bit of chalk,
A wood-coal or the like? or you should see!
Yes, I'm the painter, since you style me so.
What, brother Lippo's doings, up and down,
You know them and they take you? like enough!
I saw the proper twinkle in your eye—
'Tell you, I liked your looks at very first.
Let's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch.
Here's spring come, and the nights one makes up bands
To roam the town and sing out carnival,
And I've been three weeks shut within my mew,
A-painting for the great man, saints and saints
And saints again. I could not paint all night—
Ouf! I leaned out of window for fresh air.
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from Men and Women (1855)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Loves of the Angels
'Twas when the world was in its prime,
When the fresh stars had just begun
Their race of glory and young Time
Told his first birth-days by the sun;
When in the light of Nature's dawn
Rejoicing, men and angels met
On the high hill and sunny lawn,-
Ere sorrow came or Sin had drawn
'Twixt man and heaven her curtain yet!
When earth lay nearer to the skies
Than in these days of crime and woe,
And mortals saw without surprise
In the mid-air angelic eyes
Gazing upon this world below.
Alas! that Passion should profane
Even then the morning of the earth!
That, sadder still, the fatal stain
Should fall on hearts of heavenly birth-
And that from Woman's love should fall
So dark a stain, most sad of all!
One evening, in that primal hour,
On a hill's side where hung the ray
Of sunset brightening rill and bower,
Three noble youths conversing lay;
And, as they lookt from time to time
To the far sky where Daylight furled
His radiant wing, their brows sublime
Bespoke them of that distant world-
Spirits who once in brotherhood
Of faith and bliss near ALLA stood,
And o'er whose cheeks full oft had blown
The wind that breathes from ALLA'S throne,
Creatures of light such as still play,
Like motes in sunshine, round the Lord,
And thro' their infinite array
Transmit each moment, night and day,
The echo of His luminous word!
Of Heaven they spoke and, still more oft,
Of the bright eyes that charmed them thence;
Till yielding gradual to the soft
And balmy evening's influence-
The silent breathing of the flowers-
The melting light that beamed above,
As on their first, fond, erring hours,-
Each told the story of his love,
The history of that hour unblest,
When like a bird from its high nest
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Moore
Added by Poetry Lover
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Take A Look
I don't know what you're after
Wannna know all the details of my disaster
Like an accident on the side of the road
When you're driving past slow but there's nothing to see here
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
I'm some kind of freak now and
You'll never see me the same
What's all the fuss about?
Are you sure you wanna find out?
Cause once you know the truth
You might wish you'd walked away
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
What if I'm not able
To put my cards on the table?
And would it liberate you
If you knew what I knew?
It's been over a year now and
I never saw him again
The facts and the fiction
Collide as the bodies untangle
And the traffic moves on like it did
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
song performed by Liz Phair
Added by Lucian Velea
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