The Winter Holi-Dazed & EnLightened Word Jam

Dec 2005
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jimboloco
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Post by jimboloco » December 10th, 2005, 9:20 am

don't crunch those late nite
early morning musings
i like the eye bites better
jammin wid yerself in clement weather

bah humbug indeed
i do not deny the darkness
but it is a far richer hell
one that tells the truth
i'd like to rattle their chains
open the doors of perception
then the star of bethlehem would appear
ahem
as a gleam and a beautious smile
yet i know all too well the cynicism
yes indeed
and the fuming anger despair lament
Kill a Kommie fer Keriiizzt
what i said to my childhood friend
just two weeks ago
tired of her exhortations to Jesus our Lord and Savior
and her populist right-wing rhetoric
and her pornographic giggles
and her undertaker husband
no wonder he got religion
good fer da biz and yet
and yet
andyet
with my well endowed element of cynicism and knowledge of despair
weeping and gnashing of the meek
i can weep and laugh
a subtlety of pleasant deceipt
and feel the airconditioned morning
and make my daily vows
[color=darkcyan]i'm on a survival mission
yo ho ho an a bottle of rum om[/color]

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Post by jimboloco » December 10th, 2005, 9:33 am

Image
hs thompson's artist sidekick, ralph steadman, amazing grace,
or what you did dad in th war?
[color=darkcyan]i'm on a survival mission
yo ho ho an a bottle of rum om[/color]

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Post by jimboloco » December 10th, 2005, 9:53 am

and yet, for someone who ilustrates an enoumous capacity for cnyicism, Ralphie also makes beautious drawings
like this one
Image
GROTTAGLIE, a pottery town of white buildings and steep streets
[color=darkcyan]i'm on a survival mission
yo ho ho an a bottle of rum om[/color]

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tinkerjack
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Post by tinkerjack » December 10th, 2005, 10:56 am

I was just looking at the da candle flame thinking about the poor Baby Buddha.

Thinking about every person who has ever been crucified burned at the stake, had there tongues torn out, been drawn and quatered, are we not wonderously made by our maker the random neurino with the intlligent design, the divine accident,
Than comes leanardo and we sit down to our last supper. And it is a long flight with the stench of death in our nostrils, which I don not know except for the smell of the dead rats with maggots in the basement with the trap door with the iron ring set in it for ahandle, it is a time for suicides, and drunks, the darkest time of the year, and it is a good time for the understaker, but it is the only jam in town, not many are chosen to see the promised land of bomb craters burned out buildings, charred bodies, disenbowled children, the shadows burned on the wall for ever more, yes I like the eye bits more too but just these words is all I see in front of me with the burning candle.
tired of her exhortations to Jesus our Lord and Savior
and her populist right-wing rhetoric
I know her too but she has no husband, but she has a cute president who one can not speak ill of because her anger flashes. But I don't know what I would leave her if I kicked that crutch from under arm. She is very sad, she is very sick, I let it slide, but like I said I have not seen the promise land, speak it jimbo, don't let no christ child punch yur ticket

But who the fuk are we kidding , we all know it is da rapture so what does it matter. Party on make merry go down with the ship, dam I had a long bit about suicide here I just deleted, people come and go all the time, and if it is the last thing I do I will keep that silver bullet in my pocket,

thursday come and gone, a no show for the peace vigil, family first then the world. teaching her how to fish, she got to figure out a way to be her own person even if the bear loves her.

glad I could get your day off tosuch a good start, chistmas don't mean nothing to me, except I love the peace and quiet of the road on chrismas day.

added lines

christmas does mean something but only on a very personal level, my aspirations of a perfect day, the day I get it right
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Post by tinkerjack » December 10th, 2005, 11:52 am

but it is a far richer hell
one that tells the truth
we go to life with the hand that was dealt us, some have quirky minds, they have no eye bytes, they have no music, they are dependent on the kindness of strangers for that. Hunter S Thompson is just another suicide, Spalding Gray too. How much pain can a man stand, but I am getting tired of the excuses. Suicide is crazy, end of story, that does not mean I have no compassion it just means I reject it. Except, Hunter and Spalding just did not seem that sick to me, they just could not write. I hear the hipsters nod their head and say "yeah I can dig it, how terrible, what a noble death." I would have to be a lot sicker, fuk this scribling, I would have to be facing the end, just before I lost the strength, the old man had a conversation with his daughter, "I don't know how to die" he told her, there in that hospital he was ready to go, he wanted to go. His wife of sixty years had gone on before and he missed her.



I have been a student of suicide since I was eight. What I remember was a feeling of unlove. which is predeath I heard someone say. I have no desire to die indoors, hospice or not, but we don't get to make that choice. If I was near the end I would take a taxi.
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Post by tinkerjack » December 10th, 2005, 11:55 am

mean while there is a war on
a war like no other
a war of the rich upon the poor
a war of tax cuts

but isn't that a lovely chrismass tree
Laura turns the switch on a season of light and life

cynicism and despair,

This holiday is backwards, messiahs are born in the spring with the lambs for the slaughter.

Yeah we all know one jimboloco we all know an undertaker's wife, did you feel good when you let her have it, did you feel powerful and righteous?
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Post by Lightning Rod » December 10th, 2005, 12:10 pm

When I heard the news of John Lennon's death, my young wife and I were living at the Ambassador Hotel in Dallas. The Ambassador was an elegant old hotel gone to seed. It reminded me of the Chelsea in New York or some of the North Beach residential hotels. We had been hiding out at our homestead in the country for the past year but an infusion of funds was required so we closed up the geodesic dome, drove to Dallas and checked in at the Ambassador.

The first night we were there, the battery was stolen out of my pick-up. Welcome back to the city.

The Ambassador was not in the best part of town, but the ambience was comfortably bohemian and the rent was reasonable. Susan immediately got a job as a waitress. She was a black-belt waitress. She was personable and efficient and cute and had great legs. When she bent over a table to wipe it off wearing a short black dress and heels, it was sight of pure culinary beauty. She made big tips.

In the mean time I was plying my trade as broker in the delicacies and contrabands of the underground.

When the news broke that John had been shot, a pall fell over the Ambassador. There were a few old-timers still living there leftover from the period that it was an old folk's home, but most of the residents were artists, writers and rock and roll musicians most of whom suddenly felt as if they had lost an intimate friend.

For the next several days you couldn't walk past a radio without hearing Imagine.

As events unfolded and the story came out about the forlorn and twisted fan with a copy of The Catcher in the Rye in his pocket just walking up and shooting his idol and then just standing there waiting to be arrested, it struck me that Lennon had succeeded in doing in his death the same thing he had done so well in his life--demonstrating how vulnerable a sensitive mind can be in this life.

We mourned his loss because he had given us so much.

When we went back to the country, the winter had bleached our house. Everything seemed so clean compared to the city. I chopped wood and carried water, hummed Beatles tunes. A Day in the Life.

I read the news today, oh boy.
"These words don't make me a poet, these Eyes make me a poet."

The Poet's Eye

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Artguy
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Post by Artguy » December 10th, 2005, 12:17 pm

"The way things are going they're going to crucify me..."

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iblieve
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Post by iblieve » December 10th, 2005, 12:21 pm

I remember John
a legend never dies
and IMAGINE if you will
a world with out sound
no music to be found.
I mourn another
not quite as well known
shot to death a year ago
the 8th of december
his guitar I will always remember
Dime Bag Darrel shot on stage
and how do we gage
success
a bullet to the breast.
Pantea died that day too.
Just thought I'd tell you
about a man who wrote the book
on heavy metal guitar hooks
and may he never be forgotten.

iblieve
[img]http://i9.photobucket.com/albums/a97/iblieve/9e35dd63.gif[/img]
iblieve
DARC Poet's Society.

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Post by tinkerjack » December 10th, 2005, 12:39 pm

Will you still love me when I'm sixty five.
I don't want to be still singing "I saw her face" when I am forty,


interview from when he was twenty five. As he speaks he tries to make his voice sound like a geezer. I rember an arguement I had with a friend back in the sixties. Who would be remembered longer Elvis Presley or W C Handy?

Will people remember John long after Jesus christ is forgoten?
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Post by tinkerjack » December 10th, 2005, 12:53 pm

Lady Madonna, baby at your breast
Wonder how you manage to feel the rest?
Like I was saying this holiday is all about men.

Quote:
BLESS YOU, WHEREVER YOU ARE,
WINDSWEPT CHILD ON A SHOOTING STAR,
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Post by Lightning Rod » December 10th, 2005, 1:11 pm

maybe john was right
happiness is a warm gun
was that his reward, his Strawberry Field
on the sidewalk in front of the Dakota?

When Yoko said, "oh, no."
was that a fond benediction?
I donno
Goo Goo Ga Joob
"These words don't make me a poet, these Eyes make me a poet."

The Poet's Eye

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Post by tinkerjack » December 10th, 2005, 1:19 pm

HATRED AND JEALOUSY, GONNA BE THE DEATH OF ME,
I GUESS YOU KNEW IT RIGHT FROM THE START.
SING A LOT ABOUT LOVE AND PEACE,
DON'T WANNA SEE THE RED RAW MEAT,
THE GREEN EYED GODDAMN STRAIGHT FROM THE HEART.
December 8 is the new christmas, in the year 5766 kids will go to sunday school and hear how a bright star appeared over Liverpool
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Post by Lightning Rod » December 10th, 2005, 2:05 pm

the fascination
when mythology mutates
and shrines go from Lourdes to Graceland

Is Tom Cruise the messiah?
Ron Hubbard god?
on the internet you can invent
cyber-gods
MyGod.com

In my panoply
Lennon would be St. John
of the sly-eyed vision
"These words don't make me a poet, these Eyes make me a poet."

The Poet's Eye

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Post by tinkerjack » December 10th, 2005, 2:13 pm

something in the title of this jam about enlightenment.

COme holy spirit enlighten me.

St John was an enlighten-er

I met Jesus Christ on a bus one morning in Anacostia, he was trying to get to St Elizabeth's asylum for the criminally insane. This was before the Salinger reading assassin moved in. Jesus did not have any money. The bus driver would not let him ride. So I paid his fair, cause if I was Jesus Christ I would have wanted to go there too.

I wasn't talking about god

I was thinking about mothers and their children
But this string is about enlightenment
so lets bring it on you sons of bitches

added after the fact.

HEY RUBE
Was Jesus a mama’s boy?
Was he a son of a bitch?

I do not think this mythological metaphor for a hero was a liar

It seems ludicrous to curse a fig tree. Just goes to prove he was human edited line
I have so many veterans as sleeper birth partners

Happy was probably the best. The salt of the earth. Korea/Viet Nan. He decked a foreman at a warehouse around LA. Later when the suits came down to see what hell was going on. Happy said, he did not mind being called a son of bitch. But it was the kind of son of bitch he called him. “A lying son of a bitch.”
Last edited by tinkerjack on December 11th, 2005, 9:38 am, edited 2 times in total.
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