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Talesinger
28 June 2007 @ 06:19 pm

This muse..this muse

That the insane worship

And genius lament

Much like the hottest chick in school

I just don’t get

I don’t visited in epiphany

Like Joan of Arc being whispered to victory at Orlean

By the voice of her god

I don’t get assaulted and chained to my pen til night bleeds

To dawn, writing my bail bond onto page after page

Me and the muse..we’re casual

Fuck buddies.

Sometimes it’s a messy weekend with

Upended booze bottles and holes in the wall,

Paintings knocked askew on the wall

Sometimes it’s a nooner

Where a dirty man with dirty hands

Sits with pen and paper in hand

While other men contemplate the beauty

In steel erection and dangling six stories in the air by their balls

One of these things..is not like the others.

 
 
Talesinger

Chapbooks? I don’t write no fucking chapbooks!

I possess not the talent nor the quanitity.

There’s only the write here, write now.

I don’t aspire for Godhood,

I’m not that arrogant.

I aspire to turn a phrase that makes jaws drop

And people whisper, “Fuuuuuuck!”

That aspiration, I –am- arrogant enough for.

I haven’t suffered enough

 to make you think.

And I don’t hurt enough

To touch your soul.

Write about heartbreak

I forgot about heartache.

The minute I stuck my cock in someone new.

Sadness?

A joke that evaporates in the punchline of my laugh.

I don’t stand behind this mic to spit truth,

Or blood

Or pain.

I recite to entertain.

Because –THAT’S- in my blood.

For in every hall of tears,

There’s always a court jester.

 
 
Talesinger
28 June 2007 @ 06:18 pm

Wind rustles the leaves of a tree

Like uffling the fur of a great green beast

Spring embraces summer

Like two old friends greeting each other outside a busy store.

Pomp and Circumstance

Is played off-key in a sweltering gym

Introducing off-balance young adults

To an off-balanced world

 
 
Talesinger
28 June 2007 @ 06:18 pm

I don’t deliver like a slam poet

With a soul that rages and eyes

That see every layer of dirt and and grime

That the driving rain can’t wash away and

A mouth that spits words like fully automatic clips

I don’t paint pictures in dreamy watercolours and pastels

And put form to abstracts

I don’t harness Non Sequitir and make it my bitch

As I stand and scream every word traveling mile

After endless mile ghost hunting Jack Kerouac.

My Style is No Style

Technique? Non Existant.

I don’t tweak, coddle, revise or draft.

What you hear is what you get

Raw and unfiltered like your grandad’s pall mall.

And I might not deliver like a sleek, shiny, pro

But I deliver like the mail, baby –

Any time, any where, any circumstance

Cuz this is open mic night-

No justifications

No clarifications

No regrets

No problem.

 
 
Talesinger
28 June 2007 @ 06:17 pm

The magic in these rooms

It surrounds you

The art on the walls

Let it wash over you

The fellowship surrounding you

Let them comfort you

The balls it takes to get behind the mic

Let it inspire you

The pen on the page

Let it free you

Every eye watching you

Flying buttresses

Holding up each crystal castle spoken

 
 
 
Talesinger
28 June 2007 @ 06:16 pm

It’s been a long time

Since I had the chance

To breathe fresh air again

Without the acrid stench of industry

Refinery, and progress

Instead of the smell of

Breathing plants, living animals

And humidity filling my nose,

Taking me back to the days

I could walk through fields

Stick-sword in hand

Slaying countless acres

Of evil tall grass

Youth’s knight errant on

Another fool’s quest

Saving a princess or two

Looking back along the way

I wish I would’ve saved myself instead.

 
 
Talesinger
28 June 2007 @ 06:15 pm

This habit will break you

It will eat you soul

From the inside out

And resurrect you wholly.

Change your perception

Sharpen your purpose

Expand your mind to take in

The entire horizion

But your hands shake

When you don’t have your gear

You will become a junkie

With a gorilla on your back

When you realize the power

Of the written word – your word

The pen ceases to be for writing,

Becomes the spike

Paper becomes your vein

The words become your smack –

The habit that you can’t break

 
 
Talesinger
28 June 2007 @ 06:14 pm

Combat scribe

Wartime poet

Casting my spells on the fly

The best ideas

At the worst possible times

Writing while others read

Like pulling in transmissions from alternate dimensions

Transcribing message

From planet X

Can’t stop it

Don’t even try

Moving at the speed of thought

My consciousness turns on a dime

If you got the bit-rate

I got the crime

 
 
Talesinger
28 June 2007 @ 06:13 pm

Anonymous Girl

Doesn’t want to be known

Cares not to be found

Just wishes you’d leave her alone

Without a single glance

Or a care

For what she says

Or thinks

Or feels

Because it’s more for herself, really

Than for you to know

What goes on inside her head

Or her heart

She’s worth more

Than she thinks she is

And if she could see what I do

In every smile and every word

she would share herself with the world

 
 
Talesinger
28 June 2007 @ 06:12 pm

You said “I think musicians are hot because of how they show emotion when they play”.

And I just kinda sighed and said, “I’m not much of a musician. I’m just an actor.”

Just. A fuckin’. Actor.

Which is why I know exactly how to nod

And exactly what to say

And look into your eyes or look at the table real quick and pretend I’m being bashful.

I know the perfect laugh, the one that’ll make you look at me and wonder

“Are you for real?”

And I look over at you and reply in that DJ EZ Dick, FM Jazz Station voice and say

“Why don’t you pinch me and find out?”

And that pinch turns to a touch

That turns to a caress

That turns to a kiss

That through loosened thoughts you think

“But I promised myself I wouldn’t do this again ‘til I married!” but through loosened lips comes out “I’ve only done this a couple of times, but I wanna do it with you…”

minutes later, after we’re naked and you’re looking up at me from between my legs

and your face is a Jackson Pollock study in white and you’re asking me if that was okay

and I lie through my fucking teeth because you used yours too much and say “Baby, that was the best I ever had.”

Because I’m. A fuckin’. Actor.

Which is when you take me home to meet your parents and your dad receives me like a long lost friend and your mother believes Im the son she wishes she could’ve had.

And I work them in the living room, working them like a sports agent works the parents of a top ten draft pick. Because, baby, you are—you could. Go. Pro.

And after the coffee’s done and off to bed the ygo, I work in you in the dining room,

The kitchen, and your bedroom. On your desk, bent you overw your hope chest where you used to keep your hopes and dreams, and there are dreams in your eyes and hopes escape from your lips in a fountain of sighs, while all MY hopes and dreams are running down your thighs…

I make you feel like my leading lady, like a superstar.

Because I’m. A fuckin’. Actor

And all your friends ask you if know know how lucky you are

To have a guy that looks me like

Talks like me

Moves like me

Fucks like me

They’re all in my fanclub now.

But alas all good things must come to and end and every show’s run must close and this one’s no different’. As I build up to my escape velocity I tell you look baby I gotsta go that it’s not you, it’s me, it’s always me, I’m no good, I’m damaged goods, ya see.

Your family’s disgusted (How could you blow it with this guy?)

Your friends are pissed (Why this guy, this time, why’d you fuck around? You’re such a slut, you’re slime.)

And you sit on your couch switching between

Cheap wine

Nicotine

Bitter tears

Haagen daasz

Kleenex and visine

You let your fingers do the walking in the yellow pages look for your friendly neighborhood therapist

When it hits you

It hits you

I say it hits you

Like an 80 proof moment of clarity

You see through my glamour of slick words and depravity

The realization of what I am, and what you were to me

Makes you fall to your knees

And my words haunt you like an October breeze

Long after the credits have rolled the curtains have close, and I’ve made my exit from the stage left door,

“I’m not much of a musician, I’m just an actor.”

Just. A fuckin’. Actor.

And you played the part of my two bit call girl whore.