Sunday poetry programming

dirty_wall1
it is a sunday. my brain feels like a dried up sponge. i hope to make sundays a relaxing day. with poetry and so on and so forth.

we will begin this shindig with one of my own compositions. and follow up with some poetry that has been playing on repeat in my brain for the past few months

the artists below are as follows.
1)mr robbie reaves – riding a bicycle at night.
2)mr zack de la rocha – bulls on parade
3)mr frank o’hara- an excerpt from “Mayakovsky”
4)mr frank o’hara – Song (Is it dirty)
5)mr el-p – league of extraordinary nobodies

nightbike3

the in and out breathy sound
escapes a pair of lips,
riding a bicycle at night.

and there is no light,
except that of the tall lamp posts.

on a bicycle at night the sound is tire and asphalt.
and the breathy sound escaping.
and the syncopation of the tire and the asphalt and the breathy sound escaping.

on a bicycle at night i watch the ground
the tire and the asphalt
and the glimmer of the spokes waltzing
against the empty shimmering road.

and right beneath the light
of the tall lamp posts

i am alone.
with the breathy sound.
and the spokes are dancing.
and the the syncopation of the tire and the asphault and the breathy sound escaping.

riding a bicycle at night and i am cold
my breath is fog.
and i watch my shadow come and go
circling around the spokes
and twisting with the light.

and the syncopation of the tire and the asphault
and a bicycle at night.

——————————–

Bulls on Parade – Zack De la Rocha

The microphone explodes, shattering the molds
Ya either drop tha hits like de la O or get tha &%$# off tha commode
Wit tha sure shot, sure ta make tha bodies drop
Drop an don’t copy yo, don’t call this a co-opt
Terror rains drenchin’, quenchin’ tha thirst of tha power dons
That five sided fist-a-gon
Tha rotten sore on tha face of mother earth gets bigger
Tha triggers cold now empty ya purse

They rally round tha family! With a pocket full of shells

Weapons not food, not homes, not shoes
Not need, just feed the war cannibal animal
I walk tha corner to tha rubble that used to be a library
Linin’ to the mind cemetery now
What we don’t know keeps tha contracts alive an movin’
They don’t gotta burn tha books they just remove ’em
While arms warehouses fill as quick as tha cells

They Rally round tha family! With a pocket full of shells

Bulls on parade!

——————————–


Frank O’Hara – Mayakovsky (excerpt)

Now I am quietly waiting for

the catastrophe of my personality

to seem beautiful again,

and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of
the year, what does he think of
that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.

Frank O’Hara – Song

Is it dirty

does it look dirty

that’s what you think of in the city

does it just seem dirty
that’s what you think of in the city
you don’t refuse to breathe do you

someone comes along with a very bad character
he seems attractive. is he really. yes. very
he’s attractive as his character is bad. is it. yes

that’s what you think of in the city
run your finger along your no-moss mind
that’s not a thought that’s soot

and you take a lot of dirt off someone
is the character less bad. no. it improves constantly
you don’t refuse to breathe do you

——————————–

El P -The league of Extraordinary Nobodies

I just counted in my head how many people in this room
I’m talking to that I would never give the time
Here we are, all being vain and looking at ourselves
in mirrors very closely nodding straight up in a line
All the funny little stories that are told
are being fueled by what amounts to nothing more than minor crime
But I’m a whore and I’m exploring territory where the party and the pussy
both are numbered with a dime

I’ve been thinkin’ that this frozen glow I’ve chosen
is a candidate to lead me to a very sudden end
Another room up in the tombs of lovely substance
where the grave diggers are shoveling that dirt up in her heads
The very fact is that I’m sitting here with zombies talking endlessly
but couldn’t tell you one thing that was said
I get surrounded by the friendliest of strangers
who would sooner kill themselves than give a fuck if I were dead

I just realized the tragedy of this
is that her hand is on my leg and she so clearly wants to fuck
And though I’m wired, and I would certainly oblige
I can’t continue getting high and then confusing it for lust
I’m not an angel, but the baggie we unfolded
and just split to give a lick is dripping out me colored rust
And you seem nice but I still hate you for the moment
’cause I’m too smart to be open, this is artificial trust

I’ve been noticing the fact that nothing glorious can happen anymore
we’ve run the gamut of our filth
But here I am again, pretending spontaneity exists with idiots
all lifted out their little gills
Aren’t you disturbed that everything you did tonight is something else you did already
and its meaning is still nill
And all the people in your presence are just weapons
it’s as simple as the theory that the dying love to kill

Everybody, everybody, everybody, everybody
Everybody here is so alive

Oh, what a night
Oh, what a night
Oh, what a night
You would tell me if I was crazy, right?

I’ve been wondering how arrogant it is for me to keep doing the things
that killed so many that we know
I’ve been noticing how quickly motherfuckers have the answers to existence
just as soon as someone goes
We change the channel for a week or so of cleansing and reflecting on ourselves
but then it’s back to that old show
I hear the cackles of the crowd, they’re laughing at us
and we haven’t even gotten to the part where it’s a joke

——————————–

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