Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were filled with your most high deserts?
Though yet, Heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your
parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say, this poet lies,
Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly
faces.
So should my papers, yellow'd with their age,
Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than
tongue;
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage,
And stretched Metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive at that time,
You should live twice:-in it, and in my rhyme.
-William Shakespeare
The Hang-Over
I felt so wonderful, last night,
I had such wisdom and such wit
At least, I thought so,
(Wondering now
if others thought the same of it.)
And all I said was right and true
and charming.
(That, last night, I knew.)
Today, I'm not so sure.
But more and more I find it true,
That hour or two of laughter
Is just not worth the price I pay,
When Comes the morning after.
-Connie Coe
Fuel
They were digging a new foundation in Manhattan, and they discovered a slave cemetery there,
May their souls rest easey now that lynching is frowned upon, we've moved on to the electric chair.
And I wonder, who's gonna be president? Tweedledumb or Tweedledumber?
And who's gonna have the blockbuster box office this summer?
How bout we put up a wall between the houses and the Highway,
And then you can go your way, and I can go my way.
Except all the radios agree with all the TVs,
and the Magazines agree with all the radios,
And I keep hearing that same damn song everywhere I go!
Maybe I should put a bucket over my head, and a marshmallow in each ear
And stumble around for another dumb numb week, for another hum drum hit song to appear.
Now everythiing is cross marketing, it's about Sunglasses and Shoes or Guns and Drugs, you choose.
We got re-hashed, We got half-assed,
We're digging up all the graves and we're spitting on the past.
And we can choose between the colours of the lipstick on the whores,
Because we know the difference between the font of Twenty percent more,
And the font of Teriyaki. You tell me, how does it make you feel?
You tell me what's real.
And they say that Alchoholics, are always Alchoholics, even when they're dry as my lips, for years,
Even when they're stranded on a small desert island with no place in two thousand miles to buy beer.
And I wonder, is he different? Is he different? Has he Changed - what he's about?
Or is he just a liar, with nothing to lie about?
Am I headed for the same brick wall?
Is there anything I can do, about anything at all?
Except go back to that corner in Manhattan,
And dig deeper, dig deeper this time.
Down beneath the impossible pain of our history.
Beneath unknown bones, beneath the bedrock of the mystery.
Beneath the sewage system and the path train.
Beneath the cobblestones and the water main.
Beaneath the traffic of friendships, and street deals.
Beneath the screeching of kamikaze cab wheels.
Beneath everything I can think of, to think about.
Beneath it all, beneath all get out.
Beneath the good, and the kind, and the stupid, and the cruel,
There is a fire that's just waiting for fuel.
-Ani DiFrancoUNTITLED
Outside the winds blow
I wait.
A bird flies past the window
I wait
My cat scratches to come in
Patience my pet
I stand
I wait
I wonder
How much longer must I wait
Until I mustn't pay?
30 more seconds...
There's a knock at the door
Dammit, he's here
And he forgot the anchovies.
-Jenica Hagan
The Hollow Men MISTAH KURTZ -- HE DEAD. A penny for the Old Guy I We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats' feet over broken glass In our dry cellar Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion; Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom Remember us--if at all--not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men. II Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death's dream kingdom These do not appear: There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are In the wind's singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star. Let me be no nearer In death's dream kingdom Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves In a field Behaving as the wind behaves No nearer-- Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom III This is the dead land This is cactus land Here the stone images Are raised, here they receive The supplication of a dead man's hand Under the twinkle of a fading star. Is it like this In death's other kingdom Waking alone At the hour when we are Trembling with tenderness Lips that would kiss Form prayers to broken stone. IV The eyes are not here There are no eyes here In this valley of dying stars In this hollow valley This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms In this last of meeting places We grope together and avoid speech Gathered on this beach of the tumid river Sightless, unless The eyes reappear As the perpetual star Multifoliate rose Of death's twilight kingdom The hope only Of empty men. V Here we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear Here we go round the prickly pear At five o'clock in the morning. Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the shadow For Thine is the Kingdom Between the conception And the creation Between the emotion And the response Falls the Shadow Life is very long Between the desire And the spasm Between the potency and the existence Between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom For thine is Life is For Thine is the This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper
-T. S. EliotEin Catharsis
Razzle Dazzle,
My heart’s on a platter,
And you’re getting in my way.
I’ve lined up the tin cans,
With my jangled jing hands,
I’ll hit them, and knock them; betray.
It’s all for you, picket fence,
with white peeling paint for suspense
And the fandangled gold dust as cliche.
Woozle-bamboozle,
Grandma’s crisp aple strudel
Has forgotten it’s orchard and tree.
I’ve cooked out it’s nature
With cramped hand and baster,
I’ve stopped ol’ Time’s memory.
Stature was my laughter,
Time revenge is he’s snatched her,
And stewed her in my own juices.
I’ve kept the pretenses
On the can-littered fences.
I’ve forgotten the one thing is me.
-KJ Southworth
For Emily Whenever I May Find Her
What a dream I had,
Pressed in organdy,
Clothed in crynolin,
Of smoky burgundy.
Softer than the rain...
I wandered empty streets
Down, past the shop displays,
I heard cathedral bells,
Dripping down the alleyways.
As I walked on...
And when you ran to me
Your, cheeks flushed with the night,
We walked on frosted fields,
Of juinper and lamplight.
I held your hand...
And when I awoke,
And felt you warm and near,
I kissed your honey hands,
With my grateful tears.
Oh I love you, girl...
Oh I love you.
-Paul Simon
Pretty Good Year
Tears on the sleeve of a man,
Don't wanna be a boy today.
I heard the Eternal Footman,
Bought himnslef a bike to race.
Greg he writes letters,
And burns his CD's,
They say you were something,
In those formative years.
Hold on to nothing, as fast as you can,
Well,
Still,
Pretty good year.
Maybe a bright sandy beach,
Is gonna bring you back.
Maybe not, son now you're off,
You're gonna see America,
Well let me tell you something about America...
Pretty good Year.
Some things are melting, now.
What's it gonna take, till my baby's alright?
Greg he writes letters,
With his birthday pen.
Sometimes he's aware that they're drawing him in.
Lucy was pretty,
Your best friend agreed,
Well,
Still,
Pretty good year.
-Tori Amos
Song
