H
"the beige hole"
-
hester_prynne
- Posts: 2363
- Joined: June 26th, 2006, 12:35 am
- Location: Seattle, Washington
- Contact:
thanks hesty. I think I'll leave this one alone now . . .
Character simmers in grunge and grime of urban deserts far below sleek condos and swaying financial serpents, in broken bottles and ancient rivets next to the clubs, hipster alleys, hideouts and insomnia. You saw Scratch Perry one time doing his goof dub thunder, and he mocked the walls, took you beyond them in a puff, and Jello Biafra in all his snarling tremolo contempt, no worse for wear years after his scrape with the Moral Majority, backed by some quiet lads who played folksy sludge metal named the Melvins, and that one drumbeat thrashed your skull like a caged wolverine for days, steady as a world war hammer, wore the drummer out. But that’s another story, the kids and their rock n’ roll.
Grunge hip-haze flows out to foothills where flung-burbs materialize in its path like a beige hole. Safe colors, flimsy lumber and double garages to no end. They used to splash a bit, Victorian spires and lace, a craftsman’s detailed obsessions, even Cold War solid brick and oak, aircraft carrier plate glass. Fill those places with art, and fill beige with laundry. Flung-burbs are full of poets however, flooding the net, and you may click on countless gushings of angst. Get it out! Never had such a thing back in the day. Poets were either beat, or dead. The city is going a little beige at the edges.
Welcome to insipid lips, where image pales and quatrains fail, sextets are sterile and metaphors, puerile, where the floor is cold and beer is warm, paint is fresh and the chips are stale. Write poems of sprawl and broken shards of my soul. However, not all is budding cliché in the beige; it is brilliance and pure love, boredom and spray paint disease, the gamut. Pray for the kids as they go to war, ten blocks on the other side of oceans. You hardly know those people. Build a million double garages; they will tag you, check your story.
It’s all random funk, confiscated, venerated, truncated; the innocence of baldheaded tattoos, dandelions pushed up at telephone pole no. 14002 under soft kiss of chemical sun, first love and recitals, gifted minds and death metal, spray painted stucco, hampers and ice cream, smart bombs unfurled like grainy white petals before the couch, images bouncing off neutral walls, the next wave, destiny and conviction, idealism and corruption. Won’t let them harm this place.
Some of the sprawl sits empty; money doesn’t come in like it used to. The Irvings lost their house. The Jensens lost their son. Paper said some kids went on a shooting spree, but that’s the exception; facing lost loves and embattled parents more the rule. “My tears are raindrops on your dusty moon.” Brush dog hair off the keyboard and write a poem, some way out of the maddening neutrality. It won’t be easy. Every day weapons trade for blood profit, fine art is born, a mother’s love hungrily received; battles that make no sense in safe colors. Tap out a poem. You never know.
Character simmers in grunge and grime of urban deserts far below sleek condos and swaying financial serpents, in broken bottles and ancient rivets next to the clubs, hipster alleys, hideouts and insomnia. You saw Scratch Perry one time doing his goof dub thunder, and he mocked the walls, took you beyond them in a puff, and Jello Biafra in all his snarling tremolo contempt, no worse for wear years after his scrape with the Moral Majority, backed by some quiet lads who played folksy sludge metal named the Melvins, and that one drumbeat thrashed your skull like a caged wolverine for days, steady as a world war hammer, wore the drummer out. But that’s another story, the kids and their rock n’ roll.
Grunge hip-haze flows out to foothills where flung-burbs materialize in its path like a beige hole. Safe colors, flimsy lumber and double garages to no end. They used to splash a bit, Victorian spires and lace, a craftsman’s detailed obsessions, even Cold War solid brick and oak, aircraft carrier plate glass. Fill those places with art, and fill beige with laundry. Flung-burbs are full of poets however, flooding the net, and you may click on countless gushings of angst. Get it out! Never had such a thing back in the day. Poets were either beat, or dead. The city is going a little beige at the edges.
Welcome to insipid lips, where image pales and quatrains fail, sextets are sterile and metaphors, puerile, where the floor is cold and beer is warm, paint is fresh and the chips are stale. Write poems of sprawl and broken shards of my soul. However, not all is budding cliché in the beige; it is brilliance and pure love, boredom and spray paint disease, the gamut. Pray for the kids as they go to war, ten blocks on the other side of oceans. You hardly know those people. Build a million double garages; they will tag you, check your story.
It’s all random funk, confiscated, venerated, truncated; the innocence of baldheaded tattoos, dandelions pushed up at telephone pole no. 14002 under soft kiss of chemical sun, first love and recitals, gifted minds and death metal, spray painted stucco, hampers and ice cream, smart bombs unfurled like grainy white petals before the couch, images bouncing off neutral walls, the next wave, destiny and conviction, idealism and corruption. Won’t let them harm this place.
Some of the sprawl sits empty; money doesn’t come in like it used to. The Irvings lost their house. The Jensens lost their son. Paper said some kids went on a shooting spree, but that’s the exception; facing lost loves and embattled parents more the rule. “My tears are raindrops on your dusty moon.” Brush dog hair off the keyboard and write a poem, some way out of the maddening neutrality. It won’t be easy. Every day weapons trade for blood profit, fine art is born, a mother’s love hungrily received; battles that make no sense in safe colors. Tap out a poem. You never know.
-
stilltrucking
- Posts: 20646
- Joined: October 24th, 2004, 12:29 pm
- Location: Oz or somepLace like Kansas
-
Doreen Peri
- Site Admin
- Posts: 14598
- Joined: July 10th, 2004, 3:30 pm
- Location: Virginia
- Contact:
-
Doreen Peri
- Site Admin
- Posts: 14598
- Joined: July 10th, 2004, 3:30 pm
- Location: Virginia
- Contact:
yeh, just me being odd. .
ok, I lied. forgot to throw in some stuff about the housing crash and stuff . . .
Character simmers in urban deserts, in grunge and grime below sleek condos and swaying serpents, in broken bottles and ancient rivets next to the clubs, hipster alleys, hideouts and insomnia. You saw Scratch Perry one time doing his goof dub thunder and he mocked the walls, took you beyond them in a puff, and Jello Biafra in all his tremolo contempt, snarl intact all these years later despite his scrapes with the Moral Majority, backed by quiet lads who played folk sludge metal named the Melvins, and that one drumbeat thrashed in your skull for days, hammered inside world war machines in grinding, disconnected anti-horror, and wore out the drummer. The kids and their rock n’ roll.
Grunge hip-haze flows out to foothills where flung-burbs materialize in its path like a beige hole. Safe colors and double garages to no end. The city is going beige; needs hair coloring. They used to splash a little art, Victorian spires and lace, a craftsman’s detailed obsessions, even Cold War solid brick and oak, aircraft carrier plate glass. Fill those places with art; fill the beige with laundry. However, flung-burbs are filled with poets too, flooding the net, and you may click on countless gushings of angst. More poems were written in the last two years than the entire balance of history. Get it out! Never had such a thing back in the day. Poets were either beat, or dead.
Welcome to insipid lips, where image pales and quatrains fail, sextets are sterile and metaphors, puerile, where the floor is cold and beer is warm, paint is fresh and chips are stale. Write poems of sprawl and broken shards of my soul. However, not all is budding cliché in the beige; it is pure love and brilliance, boredom and spray paint disease, the gamut. Pray for the kids as they go to war, ten blocks on the other side of oceans. You hardly know those people. Build a million double garages; the kids will tag you. It’s random funk, confiscated, venerated, truncated, genius of innocence and baldheaded tattoos, dandelions pushed up at telephone pole no. 14002 under soft kiss of chemical sun, first love and recitals, death metal and hampers, spray painted stucco and gifted minds, smart bombs unfurled like grainy white petals before the couch, images bouncing off off-white, the next wave of destiny and duty, conviction and corruption. Fertile ground.
Seemed familiar passing through, not at all like downtown, though hard to find open road from either. Look for foothills. Except a sea of beige washes over foothills in mishmash, nonsensical blacktop loops and mazes with whimsical names like Whispering Sands Drive, or Whistling Swan Court, and some folks say that long rows of stucco from the boom years sit empty as ghost towns, nothing but tumbleweed, heat pumps, abandoned tools and foreclosure notices jammed in mail slots. Quiet out there except for wind-driven sand. And those terrible teenage rituals. And wild dogs, don’t forget wild dogs, like Detroit. But it’s hearsay and speculation. No one’s made it out that far, or at least managed to return.
Some of the beige sits empty; we know that much. The feed comes in sharper but money doesn’t come in like it used to. The Irvings lost their house. The Jensens lost their son. The paper said some kids went on a shooting spree but that’s the exception; facing lost love and math is the rule. “My tears are raindrops on your dusty moon.” Brush dog hair off the keyboard and write a poem. Must be some way out of this maddening neutrality, and it won’t be easy. Every day weapons trade for blood profit, fine art is born, a mother’s love is hungrily received. Some battles make no sense in safe colors, so tap out a poem. You never know.
ok, I lied. forgot to throw in some stuff about the housing crash and stuff . . .
Character simmers in urban deserts, in grunge and grime below sleek condos and swaying serpents, in broken bottles and ancient rivets next to the clubs, hipster alleys, hideouts and insomnia. You saw Scratch Perry one time doing his goof dub thunder and he mocked the walls, took you beyond them in a puff, and Jello Biafra in all his tremolo contempt, snarl intact all these years later despite his scrapes with the Moral Majority, backed by quiet lads who played folk sludge metal named the Melvins, and that one drumbeat thrashed in your skull for days, hammered inside world war machines in grinding, disconnected anti-horror, and wore out the drummer. The kids and their rock n’ roll.
Grunge hip-haze flows out to foothills where flung-burbs materialize in its path like a beige hole. Safe colors and double garages to no end. The city is going beige; needs hair coloring. They used to splash a little art, Victorian spires and lace, a craftsman’s detailed obsessions, even Cold War solid brick and oak, aircraft carrier plate glass. Fill those places with art; fill the beige with laundry. However, flung-burbs are filled with poets too, flooding the net, and you may click on countless gushings of angst. More poems were written in the last two years than the entire balance of history. Get it out! Never had such a thing back in the day. Poets were either beat, or dead.
Welcome to insipid lips, where image pales and quatrains fail, sextets are sterile and metaphors, puerile, where the floor is cold and beer is warm, paint is fresh and chips are stale. Write poems of sprawl and broken shards of my soul. However, not all is budding cliché in the beige; it is pure love and brilliance, boredom and spray paint disease, the gamut. Pray for the kids as they go to war, ten blocks on the other side of oceans. You hardly know those people. Build a million double garages; the kids will tag you. It’s random funk, confiscated, venerated, truncated, genius of innocence and baldheaded tattoos, dandelions pushed up at telephone pole no. 14002 under soft kiss of chemical sun, first love and recitals, death metal and hampers, spray painted stucco and gifted minds, smart bombs unfurled like grainy white petals before the couch, images bouncing off off-white, the next wave of destiny and duty, conviction and corruption. Fertile ground.
Seemed familiar passing through, not at all like downtown, though hard to find open road from either. Look for foothills. Except a sea of beige washes over foothills in mishmash, nonsensical blacktop loops and mazes with whimsical names like Whispering Sands Drive, or Whistling Swan Court, and some folks say that long rows of stucco from the boom years sit empty as ghost towns, nothing but tumbleweed, heat pumps, abandoned tools and foreclosure notices jammed in mail slots. Quiet out there except for wind-driven sand. And those terrible teenage rituals. And wild dogs, don’t forget wild dogs, like Detroit. But it’s hearsay and speculation. No one’s made it out that far, or at least managed to return.
Some of the beige sits empty; we know that much. The feed comes in sharper but money doesn’t come in like it used to. The Irvings lost their house. The Jensens lost their son. The paper said some kids went on a shooting spree but that’s the exception; facing lost love and math is the rule. “My tears are raindrops on your dusty moon.” Brush dog hair off the keyboard and write a poem. Must be some way out of this maddening neutrality, and it won’t be easy. Every day weapons trade for blood profit, fine art is born, a mother’s love is hungrily received. Some battles make no sense in safe colors, so tap out a poem. You never know.
Who is online
Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 0 guests