what kind of bass did he play along with it? i might be interested in doing some stuff like that...:)

it was a fender p-bass, and he was just playing some jazzy stuff, i think, but im not quite exactly sure, it was in the key of D minor...it was kind of like stray cat strut

yeah, i meant the style of playing :)

thanks though. i am guessing that you just do some nice walking improv.

he played a jazzy walk, i think halfway he just started hitting a d over and over, then went back to the walk

he was definatly feeling the vibe...(does funky hand motions)

awesome.

i figured one could do some little fast fills at the end of certain lines, for emphasis. :)

I'm going to buy mongos for micious' idea:)

mongos? you mean bongos? i play bongos/djembe in a band. i love ethnic percussion. would go great at a poetry reading too :)

i begged the music teachers to let me borrow bongos for my presenatation, but the cool music teacher (a jazz artist) wasnt there and so she wouldnt let me use them. :upset: I thought trail was talking about mangos, not bongos, goes to show how tired and blind i am. :p

...although mangos likely could be used as an instrument..hm..... :rolleyes:

^ A guy in my Extension English class used bongos in his presentation :lol:.

He read a few lines then would hit them, and at the end went nuts hitting the bongos and the whiteboard.

great great fun, my friends :)

bongos, huh?

I feel so stupid:(

Anyone have anymore?

I promise I'll have another by late tomorrow:)

Sure I'll bust another out tonight or something, in 12 hours or so :).

Viva la this thread.

i have some more i just have to rewrite them, after trail and gaslight post theirs, I will put up my own

Just post 'em, man, doesn't look like I'll be getting mine up soon.

[I]Written in the place of a young, depressed child.[/I]

I can't stay in the lines with this worn down crayon when you're not around.
I begin to sweat and worry and my hand starts to shake.
I drew a pretty picture for you today.
Of a child drowing in a lake.
Look how happy he is holding his breath and not even trying to live.
His face matches the color of the water, and look, I stayed in the lines.
Sometimes I feel like this boy and just want someone to cover my mouth.
Or kidnap me and then hang me outside with their laundry.
You and daddy just keep hollering and smashing things and I can't sleep.
My eyes are so heavy that I want to just duct tape them down.
And duct tape my mouth and nostrils and sleep my final sleep.
This final picture that you see. Will be the last you see of me.
I'm so young and have seen too much.

awesome trail! i'll go look for mine and post 'em...

here is version of some of mine, i tried writing while my friend played bass and found it coming out easier, you should all try

sly and tampered, small empty eyes bubbled over
the edge, rising in disfigurement to the surface
the embience of quiry.

It sits shyly out at sea, where it recoils from the dashes of sand
under umbrellas, the suburbs sit,
a vacation of unhappiness, and wandering eyes, that
find the new sight of young flesh

of these many eyes, only few are open, others
dorment of their colour, sit in peach, or light brown
and allow puppets to dance in an odd off black
the few alive look out across the world, held to high above

the unspoken anger spoils as drifting oil, crushing
strangling the ugly birds that traipse the soft waves
only two eyes wonder, they shake and arouse the
others, who roll back over

confidence grows, and yet in sinks weeping under the sea
pulling the sea into a dynamic swirl,
where the twisted mind is straightened

the few eyes, the lonely gray, and the light blues
are disillusioned, aren't they.
come back to sanity, the water is still fine
and you may swim once more

but the sea is a shallow grave
she holds the shadow in her depths,
and it smiles, and shakes with the awesome presence
it remarks, murmers, whispering, over and over:
[I]I will be here. I will always wait. [/I]

(waiting for gaslight's..........)

*stands up and claps*

That is by far, micious, your best piece yet. It was truly beautiful.

[I]but the sea is a shallow grave
she holds the shadow in her depths,
and it smiles, and shakes with the awesome presence
it remarks, murmers, over and over:
I will be here. I will always wait. [/I]

[I]where the twisted mind is straightened[/I]

This thread isn't even a month old, but you can definitely see a change in your work. And its a change for the better:)

well i have english this semester, so i have been changing my poetry, i like post modern alot now (not much typing, <--i am lazy) and that reflects in my longer prosey poetry...anyway

thanks a lot man! ( i did mean to put the last line in italics, i think i will do that now...)

I hate thinking of you.
(I hate trying to analyze you.)
I hate premonitions.
(I hate trying to analyze this.)
a dog is barking, and who knows what has happened to disturb the silence.
(the silence is maddening)
something is out of place.
(I am out of place.)
I wonder if dogs have a sense about when something is going to happen?
(that would make two of us.)
what if I was to die tonight?
(except, I am really just alone, and waiting.)
am I ready?
(waiting for nothing.)
am I afraid?
(something’s growing in the back of my mind.)
who would be the last person I thought about?
(You don’t deserve my last thoughts.)
what would be my last words?
(you don’t deserve my last words.)
but after all, my last words would fall and soak into the ground.
(my last words would seep into the ground with my tears.)
have I done all I want?
(I wish I didn’t feel like apologizing again to you.)
of course not.
(you will just strike me down again.)
how could I ever prepare for an end that is so final and so defining of myself?
(that’s right. go to sleep.)
what would I be remembered as?
(it doesn’t mater, you wouldn’t remember.)
the stuttering kid who can't think straight or look you in the eye?
(the one who tried, but you shot through the heart.)
is that really wrong?
(and now I’m dead.)
If I were to die tonight, would you come to my funeral?
(I don’t want you at my funeral.)
Would you even cry?
(I can’t see you wasting your breath on the likes of me.)
Why do you hate me so much?
(you don’t even know my name anymore.)
I hate premonitions.
I hate thinking of you.

I'm not sure if this would be considered beat poetry....?
but I just kind of....wrote it.
I liked yours, Thevermicious :thumb:
-bek

whatilivefor's reply marked the 100th in this thread, i think its celebration time! :D

(dances for awhile until he realizes he's an idiot and that no one riverdances anymore)

but half of the posts aren't even poems.

Hey! Like this bump!

thats true, more posting of poems, less bumping!
(quietly)
bumping...
(softer)
bumping...
(merely a whisper)
bumping...

might be an echo in here?

[I]here's one i just thought up, i pray it isnt too bad.....[/I]pour little dots,

for the old kings
he is now lined himself up for yet
another go, he's just as cracked and faded as the last match
yet the sun strip plaza has taken his children
and so he's batting for the moonlight

a popped thumb forms
the tiny creases for him
as he wars with the creaking box

two other queens line his
basement, where he keeps his court
he'll choose their tap dance
so that
under his tiled floor they can swing

wallpapered grafting rays
are the final dashes of light,
before he slams the screen with defeated fists

-the knid

im guessing this can be classed as beat poetry?

[I]Echoing footsteps rung out.
No-one was there,
The pain was all yours now.

Given by one man and received by another,
Where did it all begin?
Lie there and wonder.

Wading through smoky air, take a look at your watch.
Too early for some, too late for others.
Too late for you.

Not far now.
Street lights and shattered glass paved the way.
The door was in view, but in view is all it will ever be.

From the night came another.
His shadow painting the wall in black.
He will break you to make it for himself.

It had treated him unfairly.
Morality a thing of his twisted past.
Now it is time for you to become a part of that past.

He had followed you. And he had you now.
Cracked up against the wall,
Shout out. Nothing.

Slide to the ground,
Look down at yourself.
Its all seeping away.

Even if you had them, they would mean nothing to you now.
Pockets and insides turned out,
Your dying vision is the door.
Can't even watch as it fades to black.


[/I]

[I]I know a lot of my work has to do with murder/suicide/love/hate/etc. And this isn't any different. But this my best example of poetry, me thinks. And I also feel it is my best work.[/I]

I sit here and describe my epitaph to the poet to my right
I tell her I want to be remembered for who I was not what I am
"Lie," I say if it allows but one person to remember my eyes
Or the smile I always wore, or the words I always spoke
I believe in mine own heart, this poet will write a great epitaph for me
Her eyes glint a glistening gold and her fingers move with such fluidity
For a split second I imagine how beautiful it would be for her to die with me
I dissolve the image from my mind, and allow her to keep writing
Writing and smiling, smiling and writing, she's so beautiful
"I must lie to her," I think to myself, "I must!"
I build myself up, build myself more than the highest king
I build myself up more than the most divine thing
I continue talking, and she continues writing
Her hair looks so lovely in the candle light and smells of summer
A breath of fresh air in this torrid, desolate winter
The way her eyes scroll the page and the way the pen glides
I realize this is the last person I want to see me before I die
I place my hand upon hers, and I lift her to chin so our eyes meet
I whisper, "no poet has ever graced me as you have"
She returns, "it could never be, you have such little time left"
I smile, "then won't you join me with a bullet in your head?"
She reveals the derrenger from beneath the table and kisses my hand sweetly
"I thought you'd never ask," she hinted and then killed herself discreetly

:) -- bump

ECCLESIASTES OF THE NEW GENERATION

I want to be a patriotic American
But my faith in the flag has been shattered
Because I see the truth, which does not coincide
With the newspapers and history books.
I want to be a member of the Beat Generation
But even though they were my literary peers
They did not live the way I believe is right
Though I agree with their politics.
I want to be a Buddhist
But I cannot believe in the absence of a soul,
Or a God, or a reason for living.
I want to be a Christian
But even though I agree with the theology,
I do not agree with the spokesmen
For they have sold their souls to the world.
I want to be a transcendentalist
But I cannot believe that I could be God
Or that all men are good.
I want to be an Indian or a Jew or a Black
In order to share with their pain
But I discovered my life was depressing enough.
I want to be a Rastafarian,
But Haile Selassie is not God
Nor will he ever be.
I want to be a Yuppie,
Because I was born in a small hick-town
But the love of money holds no lure to me.
I want to sit underneath a green tree
Underneath cloudy/cloudless/sunny/wet skies
And wonder how many angels can dance
On the pin of a defused hand grenade
But such a life is wasted
I have dipped my toe into every lifestyle
But they were all acidic to my tender heart.
But look! A tear from each pool drop
And created a new pool.
I shall call it Golnaptiod
And it shall be the new generation.
Golnapitoids at heart, unite
Those who understand what I say
Those who feel the sorrow I feel
Those who are sick of the world
And seek a haven until heaven
Unite.
Enter Golnaptiod.
You will not be turned away.
No discrimination

yes someone has resurrected the the sleeping beast, let the beat boys/girls reign again!

okay so the last attempt didn't work out so well, but no one seems to care. Anyway, joshmay advised me to find this and bring it back...so i brought it back
(bring it back)
(bring it back)
-the knid
(ps gaslight, and trail need to help keep it alive, where are you o gaslight...?)

Shuffling like skeletons buried under autumn leaves
Between red bricks, huddled and watching,
Terrified of change and judgement
And of lines in the sky that spell out in their infancy;
"[i]Happiness and confidence are the most common of all human delusion,
Speak now before you sentence yourself to peace
While wars are waged around you,
And the only sign of conflict is when you trip your own devices
To trigger your demise and sink among the drowning.[/i]"

Creaking again they are the floorboards in their own hallway,
Walls that witness nothing and hold perfect conversations;
Speaking only when spoken to with silence.
In a way none of their makers have ever conceived because
[b]In the transition of architecture to monuments everything is but
A casualty in the pursuit of beauty and the denial that perfection
Is beyond the works of man, who is only capable of facilitating destruction.
(However slow it may be )
You cannot build stillness, and that is where it all went wrong.[/b]

And standing still under skies of tinted glass,
Veiled in the reciprocity of seasons
They are still waiting and watching in fear of cause and effect
Beneath lines in the sky that spell out in their death;
"[i]The conclusions you are so proud of are what we told you along,
When you were so proud not to listen, and wasted your lives
Trying to arrive back where you started.,
If only you could have been happy with being anything less than your own God.[/i]"

And only in death will they realise their own cause and
Be still, witness nothing, hold perfect conversations of silence;
The last casualties of the war they waged against themselves,
Which could only win itself;
( however slow it may have been)
You cannot build stillness, it can only build itself
And all attempts failed before they began.

Icaruslotff I thought yours was real cool mate. Made me smile.

Gaslight your beat poetry pwns! :)

he returns and brings back wonderment

Ok, so I had a go even though I'm not sure yet, what exactly qualifies as beat poetry. This is straight from the heart any way. So straight in fact that I'm not sure what the **** thing is about. Anyway, here goes.

Ramble ramble ramble on
Can't seem to stop when I look into your eyes
Your perception pierces my most primitive of desires
Your eyes recollect the falling of the tide
When and why or what and who
All I've ever seen fades into oblivion
Patterns form without any thought as though consequence was non-existent
The tunnel that stretches out, concoction of trail and light
I walk I run I crawl, if only to experience
Crimson, the colour of our time
Lips part and air escapes. forming words and speaking truth
I loose myself in this mysterious slumber as if calmed by the planets
Speaking more for the sake of noise
Speaking more without any choice
Decision has been made and comes from your throat
When it hits me I start to melt
Finding out an answer to the question I never dared to ask

[QUOTE=Thevermiciousknid]one I used for my english project (my teacher brought in his bass and played it while i read, too cool :thumb: )


whispering through cocaine, to dribble
slurred, unheard words on the mushrooms
that sprout from the
dark moss that litters the said rocks

or had they been said, or chalked into places
where the beady eyes of a inquiring wander can look

"by god! he has no feet!"

[I]thats right,[/I] says the man with no heart
and they ponder, swirls of their own pain
rise into a crushing waze, thats slides
out, into a sea of contempt

he can only lie, binded with his lacking
while a blue reminds him who led to his
death, one that was also held into place
but not yet by the chock

"how can these skyscrapers hold themselves up?"

[I]well they don't[/I], its the borrowed money and
ashes, that stirred will be a cloud
one we rememeber as fish n chips

unallowed, when pieces of coloured glass, shatters,
lines the bowels of the empty heart
they will replace life
so that our feetless shapes, curved
shall rely on our growing
enthusiasm

for our lovely mushrooms


good day :wave:[/QUOTE]



Jesus. That blew me away.

Just read "On The Road" by Jack Keurac. Inspiring to say the least.

Cedric Bixler is a great beat lyricist. Read the lyrics to Invalid Litter Dept. and you'll se what I mean.

[QUOTE=jimmy_hall]Jesus. That blew me away.

Just read "On The Road" by Jack Keurac. Inspiring to say the least.[/QUOTE]


that blew me away too. AMAZING. i would SO want to hear a recording of this! is there ANYWAY AT ALL you could do that for me? i'd be eternally indebted to you.

and what is that book like? i just might have to get it.

geez, its off like a rocket this thread,

here's one thats a different version of a four stanza style poem I did:
( I dont know what to really think of it)

as a penalty and a judge,
the cardboard phantasm breaks
spiraled ultimatum at hand, a pearl spike falls
in waning the peaks are tainted with thrill
the silvery hills wed in laughter

feverish, in factory lines, an heiress of archives
this junta of industral October rain,
dwells
malleable soul of dissonant camps
first blush will reject itself to pass
perennial, but thin, air is toxic
with the memoirs of last fog
it’s ridiculous, that
razor call of a messenger past,
roaring can less of a genocide than the
lazy blades of dull, soft steel

gravitas and hefty, acceptance is
windows choke with London air
dead air quickens, albeit its end
archaic mines have eroded south
caressed gently, by cavern embankments
forage for angelic savor of generous cups
levy for exotic luxury shunned in neo-ore
decipher said voguish bedlam
we can skip as we meander around empty phone lines

enveloping, drifts ecstasy
billowing haze ascends cellophane head trips
irenic stones roll in dazzling,
sunshine
from shoulders
when melody steps lightly, corrodes blissfully the earth

the astrol cavorting mime, and his child/son anchor
are left to pray to the wind
and I get to stand parallel,
and shatter them with a soliloquy and a hammer