jojobongo wrote:trilonaut wrote:Great music is falling out of our pockets, rolling amidst brandednapkins and fast-food containers.When the arcade claw crane drops down the uncovered drain, it nevercomes up with that great music which is never heard again.Great music becomes a currency of curios for deaf vermin in the sewers.Great music is whistled by the tone deaf man who heard a tone deaf manwhistle the tune he heard from the tone deaf man who heard a tone deafman whistle the tune he heard from the tone deaf man who heard a tonedeaf man whistle the tune he heard from a tone deaf woman humming Ode to Joy.Great music is played by a man drumming two bladed spatulas into themakings of a cheese steak on the grill.Great music is at least 4 hours long and requires exhaustiveexplorations of melismatic iterations and invocations upon epithetsuntil the singer falls asleep.Good music is at least 20 years old, great music is at least 20 yearsinto the future.(7.25.13)Wow.+1

trilonaut wrote:Great music is falling out of our pockets, rolling amidst brandednapkins and fast-food containers.When the arcade claw crane drops down the uncovered drain, it nevercomes up with that great music which is never heard again.Great music becomes a currency of curios for deaf vermin in the sewers.Great music is whistled by the tone deaf man who heard a tone deaf manwhistle the tune he heard from the tone deaf man who heard a tone deafman whistle the tune he heard from the tone deaf man who heard a tonedeaf man whistle the tune he heard from a tone deaf woman humming "Ode to Joy".Great music is played by a man drumming two bladed spatulas into themakings of a cheese steak on the grill.Great music is at least 4 hours long and requires exhaustiveexplorations of melismatic iterations and invocations upon epithetsuntil the singer falls asleep.Good music is at least 20 years old, great music is at least 20 yearsinto the future.(7.25.13)Wow.

WB Yeats - The Second Coming Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand; A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?This ominous poem has stayed with me since I first came across it. I love the feeling of dread that it articulates - it was written just after WW1, the Spanish Flu epidemic and the Russian Revolution, and I'm sure there was a feeling at the time, in Europe at least, of well, what next?

Thanks for the positive feedback!It has inspired me to write today, so I googled poetry prompts and used them to whip up a batch:PilgrimageThe sages and followers came by the caravanThe topography taxing the elephantsThe possibilities of magic inspired them on(The drovers, not the elephants)Camels frolic and keep their distanceMerchant calls out like a barkerSelling relics in a slipshod shackPilgrims barter away their last hard tackWhat items have they culled so far?Her two curled hairs, one dark, one fairAnd what do the pilgrims cravenly crave?Pickled appendix of the blessed aviatrixWho flew to heaven before her timeIn a gyrocopter of her own designAnd petitioned the divine Please ¦Let us pray not on our knees.---------------The seed will soon unseat the sealTamping down the teeming dreamTeams will turn the seed to vealYou'll read it in your feed and scream-----------------Life is longer than people generally give it credit for, Charlie Looker said it is the longest thing we haveI used to think in a solipsistic existential sort of way about death that was derived from certain booksIn which the all of existence is effectively coterminous with your life, as cessation of sensory experienceAnd consciousness would constitute the closing of all windows and mean the end of the world For the dying's intents and purposes, that would go for all of us -- not to mention the further implication:The end of memory would be the retroactive erasure of all that came before, meaning everything...So that all past and future being ultimately cancelled out, we are back to square one, where we defineOur own meanings to fill our lives with, with understanding that the whole circular thought processHas no valuable destination, which would imply that the longer the circle, the larger the waste of time,Falsely, for the longer the circle the more you might glean along the way about where you find meaning, What you value in life ¦ but this thinking, even if not by its letter, seems to discourage concerns of legacy.Growing out of being a teenager and going to funerals of increasing personal relevance and having a kidDefinitely outweighs that kind of perspective and makes you feel obligated to care about the worldThe next generation will have to live in, as well as wish to live in such manner as to inspire a good eulogyeven though you won't hear it.

Dave N. wrote:jojobongo wrote:trilonaut wrote:Great music is falling out of our pockets, rolling amidst brandednapkins and fast-food containers.When the arcade claw crane drops down the uncovered drain, it nevercomes up with that great music which is never heard again.Great music becomes a currency of curios for deaf vermin in the sewers.Great music is whistled by the tone deaf man who heard a tone deaf manwhistle the tune he heard from the tone deaf man who heard a tone deafman whistle the tune he heard from the tone deaf man who heard a tonedeaf man whistle the tune he heard from a tone deaf woman humming "Ode to Joy".Great music is played by a man drumming two bladed spatulas into themakings of a cheese steak on the grill.Great music is at least 4 hours long and requires exhaustiveexplorations of melismatic iterations and invocations upon epithetsuntil the singer falls asleep.Good music is at least 20 years old, great music is at least 20 yearsinto the future.(7.25.13)Wow.+1great fucking poem, thanks for sharing it.

thesj180herself wrote:i don t know what i don t know,but about a lot, there s a biti could sit with you and wag my chin,but you wouldn't hear any of it.the air is too damn thinfor you to be talking so much,the sky is too damn loudand your focus out of touch.but sit with me in silencepay attention to the birds,see the murder gatheringall action, no real words.That is really good.

i don t know what i don t know,but about a lot, there s a biti could sit with you and wag my chin,but you wouldn't hear any of it.the air is too damn thinfor you to be talking so much,the sky is too damn loudand your focus out of touch.but sit with me in silencepay attention to the birds,see the murder gatheringall action, no real words.

if i kept carrying you,holding you high above me,i d drown in the rising floodand you could never love me.if i say good-bye again,my vocal cords will frysend the bridge back up in flamesi can t keep watching you cry.i asked to get, and i got,i asked for even moreand you fell into my basket;this beggar chose and folded,and would have given you twice as much -all you had to do was ask it.

This lunar beautyHas no historyIs complete and early,If beauty laterBear any featureIt had a loverAnd is another.This like a dreamKeeps other timeAnd daytime isThe loss of this,For time is inchesAnd the heart's changesWhere ghost has hauntedLost and wanted.But this was neverA ghost's endeavorNor finished this,Was ghost at ease,And till it passLove shall not nearThe sweetness hereNor sorrow takeHis endless look.--Auden

In an effort to get people to lookinto each other s eyes more,and also to appease the mutes,the government has decidedto allot each person exactly one hundredand sixty-seven words, per day.When the phone rings, I put it to my earwithout saying hello. In the restaurantI point at chicken noodle soup.I am adjusting well to the new way.Late at night, I call my long distance lover,proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.I saved the rest for you.When she doesn t respond,I know she s used up all her words,so I slowly whisper I love youthirty-two and a third times.After that, we just sit on the lineand listen to each other breathe.The Quiet World, Jeffrey McDaniel