Another Across the Great Divide Moment

[Erthona]

Another Across the Great Divide Moment

Pick-up over pepperoni pizza:
a pitcher of darkish beer—
half pack of reds—
at the local pizza place.
Across the booth —waiting— to follow me down
is a little mousy, hip-hugging, bell bottom wearing,
hairy underarms, limp-chest, dirty dishwater
pseudo blonde feminist easy to bed hippy-chick.
Moderately warm,
Moderately stoned,
Moderately lost—not looking for home,
Moderately ill-informed,
Moderately born!
She’s standing on the dock of the bay
—an idiot wind that is blowing as the times they are a changing—
every time she opines her mouth
as though she’s heading south,
or somewhere, down there, or there somewhere ‘round about.
Pretending she’s pretending to be on the bus;
afraid to take the acid test, needing more time to study first,
but that kind of knowledge just brings a cool-aid thirst,
never getting better, only getting worse.
You know the rules: you can’t stay on,
unless you turn on, tune in…
drop and give me fifty you shaved long haired dope head.
Don’t matter though, you’ll most likely be dead
—in a year—
if not they’ll get you when you get back.
Utilizing the correct attack plan of the man,
to kill those vampire Vets from Vee-eet-nam;
—get ‘em—
right through the heart with mis-in-formed
acid hate—toxic sharpened—Fonda stakes.

Right there, In the darkness, on the edge of town,
everybody’s getting funky, getting dead or getting down.
Everyone, daughter and son, is turning Japanese,
or whatever for the moment passes as commercial sleeve,
while falling in a lust-love scented breeze with my Sharona!
She’s getting big and round, a big round drown,
as Billy Joe goes face down
into the river without a sound, in my little town.
Till the factory shuts down, and moves outta town
leaving us with debts no honest man could slay,
and still trying, trying, trying, to do as we please:
trying to run while standing on our knees!
We’re looking out for number one,
cause girl’s just wanna have fun,
by putting things on the Great America lay
away to get a foot in and a hand from
the looking for Mr. Goodbar disillusionment plan,
so that whatever anyone did we’d have our say,
like political statements by King Kong and Faye Wray…

“Mikhail, play ball!
Tear down this god-damned wall!”

…and let the terrorist fall
wherever it is that they may.
It’s a fiber bran, brand new day
coming, then going, but never slowing;
and you can see it if you try,
and if your Dendrites aren’t acid fried,
with a slice of RK or colored contacts:

talking ‘bout peace—talking ‘bout love,
talking ‘bout…Haute Couture…

Talking about needing a bigger closet
for all this stuff just purchased @ 19.36%
per centrist rate of compounding disinterest,
to keep the ‘merican, I have a dream-sickle cell bohemian
alive or at least a reasonable “just the-facts-simile”
or metaphor, if you’ve been there once, but not before,
the names have been changed to protect the insouciant
font of Courier & I’ve fallen down, and I can’t get passed,
these de-partied desktop icons of dead iconoclasts;
Flash in the pannus Janis Jimmy nonaspirate, and Jim more or less,
never mastered, who were cut and plastered,
In this cut and dried, paste and past, “two score years ago-go,
we really had no desire and we didn’t start the fire;
regardless we’re now depending on “Dobie the UN
House Elf,” or anyone but whythefuckus to put it out.
Cause we don’t want to get our paltrier hands dirty,
because there are just some things that:

–Dawn can’t take grease out of
–Mr. Whipple can’t stack
–Madge can’t soften…
and Mrs. Butterworth can’t sweet–
sixteen anymore the way it use to be…

…because

“Things today are really serious man!
Two score and two years ago
we only had nuclear annihilation,
and mass human extinction
to–why me–worry about.”

But in the…

“I survived the Y2K” millennium,
you’ve got big–ass–shit–stuff:
the—red/blue, thesis/antithesis split
the—you can’t call Muslim-terrorist, terrorist
the—war we’re mired in as quagmire—
as our life blood slowly ebbs away,
while we’re only half a percentage point away
from being owned by the “Paper Tiger”.

Today, today, today:

you can—be dying for sex
you can—be dying to have sex
you can—be dying from having had sex

as Gabriel’s trumpet is pealing,
for lack of Gaye sexual healing.

“I don’t want to die, but…I really want to
do I want to really do, to do what I want to do.”

“Yeah man, do your own thing!”

“I want to do what I want, when I want and as I want,
and be given approval and praise as well!”

“Far out man, power to the people—totally groovy”

“Well I don’t know about groovy?

But!
I know what I want,
and I should be able to have it,
because it’s my right,
and I have a right to what I want,
because it says so in the con-stay-two-shun.”

“Right on Brother! Totally disestablishmentarianism.”

“You’re kind of weird, you know?”

“I’m your brother, man, and you are mine! I’m in you and you’re in me, I am the Walrus, coo-coo-ahchoo”

“Yeah… uh, sure man, whateveryousay. Guess I’ll
see you at the next peace march! Seeyoulaterthen”

“Own word to the dog! Amoeba! Turn off, tune up…aw Man, damn short term Kool-Aid acid memory test loss!

–Erthona


©2000-2011

[Wjames]

Interestingly enough I'm in the midst of reading the Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test right now. I don't know if this things totally out front man, but it's all your movie.

I like some parts, it's too long for me to give an in-depth crit right now (I'm on vacation using my phone without access to a computer). It's definitely bold, I don't have the balls to write shit half this length. Every moment since the sixties is a whirlwind of across the great divide moments for this cat seems to be what I take away. I'll try and give you a full critique once I'm home.

[cidermaid]

Hi dale,
I don't have a prob with this one being long - either a poem grabs my attention in the first stanz or I am bored and wonder off...short or long.
Your first stanza hooked me. I started off thinking WTF dale has gone all cliche on me but then by the time I had digested what the mousy blond represented I was locked into the read.
In some places you nearly lost me with overdoing it. I think you could trim out a couple of the lines. In particular the bigger closet stanza lost my interest. imo you could loose quite a lot from there, but perhaps this is just showing my ignorance... whereas the rest of the poem i thought spoke across the divide...but I like the Dobbie bit and the dream-sickle cell bohemian line - so might as well say it's a keeper.
This reads like the B side of a life cover where the A side would be called "Get your PC on" and the B side is "Life is like a box of recycled trash" availible as a boxed set and neatly filed on a shelf alphabetically under L for life lite.

I like this but the only thing was I wanted to find more punch in the conclusion.
thanks for the read
AJ.

[ellajam]

Heeey, baaaaby,

For me it kept a beautiful pace right through. Lotta buttons hit here. I know I have favorite bits and am not sure yet if there's something to cut. I wanna give it a few more reads to see if the same things stick and if anything falls, but a fun, touching and cutting read. That's a lotta years to cover but ain't that the way it is.

Be back soon.

[Pink_Bunny]

Wow! It was long but it didn't drag on I actually was kind of into it. It seemed a little irrational but your rambling ways struck a chord. Part way through I just had to wonder if my intentions are good with posting on this website or if I am trying to destroy this community. Your darkness reached me. I questioned my own.

and still trying, trying, trying, to do as we please:

It sounds like there is a lot of effort and desire in achieving what is desired, one would have to imagine.

Right there, In the darkness, on the edge of town,
everybody’s getting funky, getting dead or getting down.

In a world with no sun, it certainly would seem like there are really only two options. Die with the brave who are trying to uphold their lanterns or become absorbed into pitch black.

I am the Walrus

Find your carpenter and Alice will live to dream another dream. Maybe this time about precious.

Kisses!

[Erthona]

TE, I agree with you, I was thinking of going to en dash for something like "waiting", and many of the rest are not parenthetical, just something I wanted to emphasize.

Thanks

____________________________________________________________________________________________________
Wjames, thanks for your comments and your thoughts. Stuff this long and longer is my normal mode. I generally try not to post my longer poems too often. People get too drained if you have to read long poetry all the time, and people will quite giving feedback because they are3 burned out. Thanks again.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________
AJ, Yeah I have to agree with you that it ends a little weak, although I have no clue at the moment what I could use to strengthen that. As far as cutting stuff, I don't know how to do that with this (although I am not opposed to it) as it kind of piles on top of each other. Sometimes I'll think, I can remove this, and then I read what is around it and realize I can't. This is sort like a weave, and although you might want to remove a particular part of the weave because it is ugly, but doing so causes the whole thing to fall apart. However I will check the section you referenced and see if there is something I can change.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
bellajam,

As i said to AJ, I know there are things that need to be changed, but I don't really know how to do it here. So any specific suggestions would be welcome.
mwah baby
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
PB,

"It sounds like there is a lot of effort and desire in achieving what is desired, one would have to imagine."

there are eras through time that rise to the surface and pop like bubbles. This particular bubble is the "Looking out for #1", which is proceeded by the "looking for mister Goodbar" era. That is hedonism followed by pure self-centeredness and so on. Some things in this are used ironically, such as the Billy Joel song "we didn't start the fire".

Anyway, thanks for taking your time to read this and comment on it. Welcome to the site,

Dale


_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

[cidermaid]

Hi Dale ,
my crit was a bit of a mixed message...I had originally thought there was a need to trim some lines, but then even as I was writing this comment and re-reading to make suggestions of what specifically to cut...like you I came to the conclusion that each was needed to balance the whole. (hence the comment --Might as well say it's a keeper).
so basically I am currently no help at all - Sorry being a waste of space.
Will be back to re-read and think some more on specifics.
AJ

[Erthona]

A.J.,

I just glad to not be in this sinking boat alone. No, the truth is, when I wrote this I was mentally at a very high energy level. Now that I am not... It's kind of like what Elizabeth Browning said about her husband Robert, when someone asked her what did her husband's poetry mean. She responded, "Only God and Mr. Browning know that, and sometime I wonder about Mr. Browning."

Anyway, I appreciate the effort, it takes time and energy for someone to do that, and it is always to some degree beneficial.

Thanks,

Dale

[cidermaid]

Thought i would slack off from work and indulge myself in poetry so back again.

This is one that has got under my skin because it is striking such a chord of resonance. (from the other comments i think i am not alone in this and you have managed to capture something in this one).
I know everyone will get different things from this. I am reading it as a self depreciating grumble against the banality of life. I got a very strong picture of life being sold as an "A" side, No 1 experiance but the reality is definiatly "B" side.

Another Across the Great Divide Moment

Pick-up over pepperoni pizza: I get what the Pick up is meant to convey but it gets lost in the first line rush to get into the poem so that initially I was thinking why "over" - this reads odd.
a pitcher of darkish beer— I am not sure about how you have set this out re-punctuation (em dash thing ...I know every one is keen to try out the new key we have found but perhaps a and between the two lines would serve as well)
half pack of reds—
at the local pizza place. Not sure I needed the repitition of pizza for this line and just local would strengthen the image of low rent for me.
Across the booth —waiting— to follow me down I love all of the next 8 lines, I think they would stand as a stanza. Only thought would be to change the first line order round to read Waiting - accross the booth - to follow me down. just a suggestion.
is a little mousy, hip-hugging, bell bottom wearing,
hairy underarms, limp-chest, dirty dishwater
pseudo blonde feminist easy to bed hippy-chick.
Moderately warm,
Moderately stoned,
Moderately lost—not looking for home,
Moderately ill-informed,
Moderately born!
She’s standing on the dock of the bay love the song line but as she was in her booth a moment ago it made me stumble. but as with other comment when i think how it could be changed i get nothing and as it pluggs me so strongly into that whole era of sound and images i think it needs to stay...but just mentioning it did make me stumble and want to re-read to check where she was in the narrative
—an idiot wind that is blowing as the times they are a changing—
every time she opines her mouth Is this a typo and should read opens or did you mean her opines as in her thoughts opinions? If the latter is is an odd read.
as though she’s heading south, Also think the following lines are a second reason to break the two segments down. It is all on the level as a read up to moderatly born and then the write takes a dive into the acid test experiance (down to fonda stakes). It works well as a read - makes me want to shake my head to try and clear my thinking to make sense of what I'm reading.
or somewhere, down there, or there somewhere ‘round about.
Pretending she’s pretending to be on the bus;
afraid to take the acid test, needing more time to study first,
but that kind of knowledge just brings a cool-aid thirst,
never getting better, only getting worse.
You know the rules: you can’t stay on,
unless you turn on, tune in…
drop and give me fifty you shaved long haired dope head.
Don’t matter though, you’ll most likely be dead
—in a year—
if not they’ll get you when you get back.
Utilizing the correct attack plan of the man,
to kill those vampire Vets from Vee-eet-nam;
—get ‘em—
right through the heart with mis-in-formed
acid hate—toxic sharpened—Fonda stakes.

Right there, In the darkness, on the edge of town,
everybody’s getting funky, getting dead or getting down.
Everyone, daughter and son, is turning Japanese,
or whatever for the moment passes as commercial sleeve,
while falling in a lust-love scented breeze with my Sharona!
She’s getting big and round, a big round drown,
as Billy Joe goes face down
into the river without a sound, in my little town.
Till the factory shuts down, and moves outta town
leaving us with debts no honest man could slay,
and still trying, trying, trying, to do as we please:
trying to run while standing on our knees!
We’re looking out for number one,
cause girl’s just wanna have fun,
by putting things on the Great America lay
away to get a foot in and a hand from
the looking for Mr. Goodbar disillusionment plan,
so that whatever anyone did we’d have our say,
like political statements by King Kong and Faye Wray… no comments on this for now. it works but feels a bit long - but again ? what could be cut. It is strong in the convenance of the predictable tedium and the banality of a pop culture in a PC world. Well this is what I read in this

“Mikhail, play ball!
Tear down this god-damned wall!” A curve ball from the East...like it and god is demoted to a lower case g (intentional or happy typo - it works for me to underline a second message "From whence comes my help?" --not the Lord ...but from my old foe...everything is arse backwards!)

…and let the terrorist fall
wherever it is that they may.
It’s a fiber bran, brand new day
coming, then going, but never slowing;
and you can see it if you try,
and if your Dendrites aren’t acid fried,
with a slice of RK or colored contacts:

talking ‘bout peace—talking ‘bout love,
talking ‘bout…Haute Couture… The above lines feel like the meat of the subject - no crit

Talking about needing a bigger closet
for all this stuff just purchased @ 19.36%
per centrist rate of compounding disinterest,
to keep the ‘merican, I have a dream-sickle cell bohemian
alive or at least a reasonable “just the-facts-simile”
or metaphor, if you’ve been there once, but not before,
the names have been changed to protect the insouciant
font of Courier & I’ve fallen down, and I can’t get passed,
these de-partied desktop icons of dead iconoclasts;
Flash in the pannus Janis Jimmy nonaspirate, and Jim more or less,
never mastered, who were cut and plastered,
In this cut and dried, paste and past, “two score years ago-go,
we really had no desire and we didn’t start the fire;
regardless we’re now depending on “Dobie the UN
House Elf,” or anyone but whythefuckus to put it out.
Cause we don’t want to get our paltrier hands dirty,
because there are just some things that:

–Dawn can’t take grease out of
–Mr. Whipple can’t stack
–Madge can’t soften…
and Mrs. Butterworth can’t sweet–
sixteen anymore the way it use to be…

…because

“Things today are really serious man!
Two score and two years ago
we only had nuclear annihilation,
and mass human extinction
to–why me–worry about.”

But in the…

“I survived the Y2K” millennium,
you’ve got big–ass–shit–stuff:
the—red/blue, thesis/antithesis split
the—you can’t call Muslim-terrorist, terrorist
the—war we’re mired in as quagmire—
as our life blood slowly ebbs away,
while we’re only half a percentage point away
from being owned by the “Paper Tiger”. from the bigger closet line down to here I am hanging on to my read. i get lost in some of the referances which are probably just me being slow. What I do get is the grumble becoming a rant of frustration at what is going on in the world, thinly disguised as a humerous poke...it works well on both levels i think. I still have no suggestions of whar to edit but still feel it is not quite there.
Today, today, today:

you can—be dying for sex
you can—be dying to have sex
you can—be dying from having had sex

as Gabriel’s trumpet is pealing,
for lack of Gaye sexual healing.

“I don’t want to die, but…I really want to
do I want to really do, to do what I want to do.”

“Yeah man, do your own thing!”

“I want to do what I want, when I want and as I want,
and be given approval and praise as well!”

“Far out man, power to the people—totally groovy”

“Well I don’t know about groovy?

But!
I know what I want,
and I should be able to have it,
because it’s my right,
and I have a right to what I want,
because it says so in the con-stay-two-shun.”

“Right on Brother! Totally disestablishmentarianism.”

“You’re kind of weird, you know?”

“I’m your brother, man, and you are mine! I’m in you and you’re in me, I am the Walrus, coo-coo-ahchoo”

“Yeah… uh, sure man, whateveryousay. Guess I’ll
see you at the next peace march! Seeyoulaterthen”

“Own word to the dog! Amoeba! Turn off, tune up…aw Man, damn short term Kool-Aid acid memory test loss!

–Erthona


©2000-2011

sorry Dale still not much to help with any suggestions to trim lines.
Stick with it - there is a lot in here that is really good.

[Wjames]

Another Across the Great Divide Moment

Pick-up over pepperoni pizza:
a pitcher of darkish beer—
half pack of reds—
at the local pizza place.
Across the booth —waiting— to follow me down
is a little mousy, hip-hugging, bell bottom wearing,
hairy underarms, limp-chest, dirty dishwater
pseudo blonde feminist easy to bed hippy-chick.
Moderately warm,
Moderately stoned,
Moderately lost—not looking for home,
Moderately ill-informed,
Moderately born! I really like this moderate list.
She’s standing on the dock of the bay
—an idiot wind that is blowing as the times they are a changing— I don't think the times they are a changing reference is needed. You already have idiot wind and follow me down (if the second one was a reference).
every time she opines her mouth
as though she’s heading south,
or somewhere, down there, or there somewhere ‘round about. I don't get anything from the last two lines of the sentence.
Pretending she’s pretending to be on the bus;
afraid to take the acid test, needing more time to study first,
but that kind of knowledge just brings a cool-aid thirst,
never getting better, only getting worse.
You know the rules: you can’t stay on,
unless you turn on, tune in…
drop and give me fifty you shaved long haired dope head.
Don’t matter though, you’ll most likely be dead
—in a year—
if not they’ll get you when you get back.
Utilizing the correct attack plan of the man,
to kill those vampire Vets from Vee-eet-nam;
—get ‘em—
right through the heart with mis-in-formed
acid hate—toxic sharpened—Fonda stakes.

Right there, In the darkness, on the edge of town,
everybody’s getting funky, getting dead or getting down.
Everyone, daughter and son, is turning Japanese,
or whatever for the moment passes as commercial sleeve,
while falling in a lust-love scented breeze with my Sharona!
She’s getting big and round, a big round drown,
as Billy Joe goes face down
into the river without a sound, in my little town.
Till the factory shuts down, and moves outta town
leaving us with debts no honest man could slay,
and still trying, trying, trying, to do as we please:
trying to run while standing on our knees!
We’re looking out for number one,
cause girl’s just wanna have fun,
by putting things on the Great America lay
away to get a foot in and a hand from
the looking for Mr. Goodbar disillusionment plan,
so that whatever anyone did we’d have our say,
like political statements by King Kong and Faye Wray…

“Mikhail, play ball!
Tear down this god-damned wall!”

…and let the terrorist fall
wherever it is that they may.
It’s a fiber bran, brand new day
coming, then going, but never slowing;
and you can see it if you try,
and if your Dendrites aren’t acid fried,
with a slice of RK or colored contacts:

talking ‘bout peace—talking ‘bout love,
talking ‘bout…Haute Couture…

Talking about needing a bigger closet
for all this stuff just purchased @ 19.36%
per centrist rate of compounding disinterest, nice.
to keep the ‘merican, I have a dream-sickle cell bohemian
alive or at least a reasonable “just the-facts-simile”
or metaphor, if you’ve been there once, but not before,
the names have been changed to protect the insouciant
font of Courier & I’ve fallen down, and I can’t get passed,
these de-partied desktop icons of dead iconoclasts;
Flash in the pannus Janis Jimmy nonaspirate, and Jim more or less,
never mastered, who were cut and plastered,
In this cut and dried, paste and past, “two score years ago-go,
we really had no desire and we didn’t start the fire;
regardless we’re now depending on “Dobie the UN
House Elf,” or anyone but whythefuckus to put it out.
Cause we don’t want to get our paltrier hands dirty,
because there are just some things that:

–Dawn can’t take grease out of
–Mr. Whipple can’t stack
–Madge can’t soften…
and Mrs. Butterworth can’t sweet–
sixteen anymore the way it use to be…

…because

“Things today are really serious man!
Two score and two years ago
we only had nuclear annihilation,
and mass human extinction
to–why me–worry about.”

But in the…

“I survived the Y2K” millennium,
you’ve got big–ass–shit–stuff:
the—red/blue, thesis/antithesis split
the—you can’t call Muslim-terrorist, terrorist
the—war we’re mired in as quagmire—
as our life blood slowly ebbs away,
while we’re only half a percentage point away
from being owned by the “Paper Tiger”.

Today, today, today:

you can—be dying for sex
you can—be dying to have sex
you can—be dying from having had sex

as Gabriel’s trumpet is pealing,
for lack of Gaye sexual healing.

“I don’t want to die, but…I really want to
do I want to really do, to do what I want to do.”

“Yeah man, do your own thing!” At first I didn't like the mind-loop of the first quotation, but I really liked the ironic hippyism the more I thought on it.

“I want to do what I want, when I want and as I want,
and be given approval and praise as well!”

“Far out man, power to the people—totally groovy”

“Well I don’t know about groovy?

But!
I know what I want,
and I should be able to have it,
because it’s my right,
and I have a right to what I want,
because it says so in the con-stay-two-shun.”

“Right on Brother! Totally disestablishmentarianism.”

“You’re kind of weird, you know?”

“I’m your brother, man, and you are mine! I’m in you and you’re in me, I am the Walrus, coo-coo-ahchoo”

“Yeah… uh, sure man, whateveryousay. Guess I’ll
see you at the next peace march! Seeyoulaterthen”

“Own word to the dog! Amoeba! Turn off, tune up…aw Man, damn short term Kool-Aid acid memory test loss!

The ending is too much ironic hippyisim for me, I'd cut some of it out of the poem. I like all the bits of ironic hippyism individually, but it's just too much one after the other after the other.

–Erthona


©2000-2011

After my first read through I thought I would have more to offer, but most of it works for me in the rambling nature of the poem. There's lots that could be trimmed - but that wouldn't necessarily make it any better - just shorter. I like the poem, hopefully this was of some help.

[billy]

this is a big one and in mild too.
first things first; i'm not keen the = minus signs. maybe an odd one but visually they're too challenging.


i stopped with the feedback, the nits i pointed out can be seen in other places but in truth, i'm not sure i'd out and out change the thing. it's a fast paced ramble though the music scene of the time. the era is captured with short busts of names and facts or half facts and ads.

i'm sure most in my age group will have an affinity for this rambling step back through time, i'm sure the title is part of a music show though i can't remember which one. (i'm english)
if not is it a famous book i've not read?

i'm sure lots will hate or dislike this but i think it's rather fuckin' hip

Another Across the Great Divide Moment

Pick-up over pepperoni pizza: love the p's; is pizza needed as you mention it again on the fourth line, pepperoni would end the line just as well
a pitcher of darkish beer— i mentioned the hyphens above;
half pack of reds—
at the local pizza place.
Across the booth —waiting— to follow me down
is a little mousy, hip-hugging, bell bottom wearing, it's just a suggestion; would [bell-bottemed, hairy underarmed, limp-chested,] help do away with [wearing and a couple of [ings]] i like the run ons, reminds me of the coke or pepsi lip=smacking ads.
hairy underarms, limp-chest, dirty dishwater
pseudo blonde feminist easy to bed hippy-chick.
Moderately warm,
Moderately stoned,
Moderately lost—not looking for home, this a good break up line that stops the list being monotonous.
Moderately ill-informed,
Moderately born!
She’s standing on the dock of the bay (who can forget otis redding (almost))
—an idiot wind that is blowing as the times they are a changing— and dylan which gives the poem a time frame.
every time she opines her mouth
as though she’s heading south,
or somewhere, down there, or there somewhere ‘round about.
Pretending she’s pretending to be on the bus;
afraid to take the acid test, needing more time to study first,
but that kind of knowledge just brings a cool-aid thirst,
never getting better, only getting worse.
You know the rules: you can’t stay on,
unless you turn on, tune in…
drop and give me fifty you shaved long haired dope head.
Don’t matter though, you’ll most likely be dead
—in a year— fast. [/b]
if not they’ll get you when you get back.
Utilizing the correct attack plan of the man,
to kill those vampire Vets from Vee-eet-nam;
—get ‘em—
right through the heart with mis-in-formed
acid hate—toxic sharpened—Fonda stakes.the above feels like a a divergence and more of a train of thought section, the pace of the thing is fast but not too

Right there, In the darkness, on the edge of town,
everybody’s getting funky, getting dead or getting down.
Everyone, daughter and son, is turning Japanese, [b]another song title,
or whatever for the moment passes as commercial sleeve,
while falling in a lust-love scented breeze with my Sharona! here the song title weakens and interferes with what was up til now a solid write.
She’s getting big and round, a big round drown,
as Billy Joe goes face down
into the river without a sound, in my little town.
Till the factory shuts down, and moves outta town
leaving us with debts no honest man could slay,
and still trying, trying, trying, to do as we please:
trying to run while standing on our knees!
We’re looking out for number one,
cause girl’s just wanna have fun,
by putting things on the Great America lay
away to get a foot in and a hand from
the looking for Mr. Goodbar disillusionment plan,
so that whatever anyone did we’d have our say,
like political statements by King Kong and Faye Wray…

“Mikhail, play ball!
Tear down this god-damned wall!”

…and let the terrorist fall
wherever it is that they may.
It’s a fiber bran, brand new day no idea why but i love this line.
coming, then going, but never slowing;
and you can see it if you try,
and if your Dendrites aren’t acid fried,
with a slice of RK or colored contacts:

talking ‘bout peace—talking ‘bout love,
talking ‘bout…Haute Couture…

Talking about needing a bigger closet
for all this stuff just purchased @ 19.36%
per centrist rate of compounding disinterest, the percents feel a bit overdone.
to keep the ‘merican, I have a dream-sickle cell bohemian
alive or at least a reasonable “just the-facts-simile”
or metaphor, if you’ve been there once, but not before,
the names have been changed to protect the insouciant
font of Courier & I’ve fallen down, and I can’t get passed,
these de-partied desktop icons of dead iconoclasts;
Flash in the pannus Janis Jimmy nonaspirate, and Jim more or less,
never mastered, who were cut and plastered,
In this cut and dried, paste and past, “two score years ago-go,
we really had no desire and we didn’t start the fire;
regardless we’re now depending on “Dobie the UN
House Elf,” or anyone but whythefuckus to put it out.
Cause we don’t want to get our paltrier hands dirty,
because there are just some things that:

–Dawn can’t take grease out of
–Mr. Whipple can’t stack
–Madge can’t soften…
and Mrs. Butterworth can’t sweet–
sixteen anymore the way it use to be…

…because

“Things today are really serious man!
Two score and two years ago
we only had nuclear annihilation,
and mass human extinction
to–why me–worry about.”

But in the…

“I survived the Y2K” millennium,
you’ve got big–ass–shit–stuff:
the—red/blue, thesis/antithesis split
the—you can’t call Muslim-terrorist, terrorist
the—war we’re mired in as quagmire—
as our life blood slowly ebbs away,
while we’re only half a percentage point away
from being owned by the “Paper Tiger”.

Today, today, today:

you can—be dying for sex
you can—be dying to have sex
you can—be dying from having had sex

as Gabriel’s trumpet is pealing,
for lack of Gaye sexual healing.

“I don’t want to die, but…I really want to
do I want to really do, to do what I want to do.”

“Yeah man, do your own thing!”

“I want to do what I want, when I want and as I want,
and be given approval and praise as well!”

“Far out man, power to the people—totally groovy”

“Well I don’t know about groovy?

But!
I know what I want,
and I should be able to have it,
because it’s my right,
and I have a right to what I want,
because it says so in the con-stay-two-shun.”

“Right on Brother! Totally disestablishmentarianism.”

“You’re kind of weird, you know?”

“I’m your brother, man, and you are mine! I’m in you and you’re in me, I am the Walrus, coo-coo-ahchoo”

“Yeah… uh, sure man, whateveryousay. Guess I’ll
see you at the next peace march! Seeyoulaterthen”

“Own word to the dog! Amoeba! Turn off, tune up…aw Man, damn short term Kool-Aid acid memory test loss!

–Erthona


©2000-2011

[Erthona]

Thanks guys,

I've been ill, and still am not up to really making a good response to your critique, although I appreaciate all of them.

The one thing I do feel up to commenting on is AJ's comment about

"—an idiot wind that is blowing as the times they are a changing—
every time she opines her mouth"

The idea is she is not very bright, actually just a propaganda spouter with no original thoughts in her head. When she opines her mouth, i.e., she just spouts propaganda, thus she is an idiot wind. All of this, as Billing pointed out has music of the time (Otis Redding, Dock of the Bay) that moves the history along. I will attempt to come back latter when my mind is clearer and follow up on your comments.

Thanks much,

Dale

[bena]

Where the hell have you been (off topic)

I think you should set this on the back burner for the moment. Soon enough it will come back around. (required comment on the poem)

[Erthona]

On the Dogma of Perfection -Salivating Dalie

Condemning those who do oppose,
with empty rhetoric.
Dogma condemns, all of them
as nothing less than heretics.
Since when has man created God,
and for God does he speak,
clothed in his own self-righteousness,
deciding for the meek?

Have they no minds to reason with,
no way to understand,
no knowledge from experience,
no touch of God to man?
Have they no hearts to feel the pulse,
of spirits pervading grace,
must single men, the channel be,
for all the human race?

Throw down the spears of heaven,
let them pierce through every heart,
for God will speak right to you,
his will to you impart.
No need then for the leader,
who thinks he knows what’s true,
it’s power which he really craves,
to tell you what to do.

So cast off external bondage,
self-will is bondage enough,
God’s will, will be the razor’s edge,
to shape material rough.
For progress towards the light of day,
dispels the dark’s delusions,
embrace with love all that you are,
perfection is illusion.


circa 1967
-------------------------------------------------------------
Can't you do anything with this animal, it keeps peeing on my rug.

Well it's your dogma!

[billy]

get well soon dale. x