Small Change
Now that all the unpleasantness is quite over with, 3raser has made a couple of requests for posts of a loftier nature. Thank you 3 for the inspiration. I wrote this in the last two days, at your suggestion. You want passion?
This is a love poem for my greatest inspiration, my artistic hero and idol, whose brilliant work has been an integral part of shaping my approach to poetry, music and theatre, and whose songs i love to sing more than any others.
This is a love poem for my greatest inspiration, my artistic hero and idol, whose brilliant work has been an integral part of shaping my approach to poetry, music and theatre, and whose songs i love to sing more than any others.
*
Tom
your goddamn
fearless weirdness
fills me with a wild delight
and comfort
crazy Tom
who digs
the beauty in the dirt
night streetwalker ballad maker
loves the hawkers and the hustlers
loves the two bit hard luck gangsters
freaks and ordinary monsters
rusty chains old hats and roses
the ocean and the sailors
and the whores
are all his muses
tattoo parlor poetry
graffitti in an alleyway
ground up in the gravel
of his voice
he makes the devil sing
his gritty soul
plays kick the can
with God
and with the garbageman
unwashed hangdog fallen angels weep
and he can brew a potion from their tears
a splash of bourbon
and the sweet reverberation
of a lonely guitar howling/grinding
and an old piss tank piano
with the prayers of ugly circus children
cursing God before they sleep
distil it in a bucket
serve it in a skull
I listen till I’m drunk
I drink till I am full
I sing till i can laugh
I laugh until I fall
deep
under the dancing spell
of an old man
whistling through hell
merrily, so merrily
rattling the bars and chains
setting all the sinners free
setting music to the painful
dirty sweet reality
dirty streets beneath a grinning moon
old cynic hollering
his ancient tunes
and Tom can hear
the music in the rumble of a train
the voice of broken men
and women lying
underneath the dogpile
smiling killers slyly sidle up
and stab the fragile
your goddamn
fearless weirdness
fills me with a wild delight
and comfort
crazy Tom
who digs
the beauty in the dirt
night streetwalker ballad maker
loves the hawkers and the hustlers
loves the two bit hard luck gangsters
freaks and ordinary monsters
rusty chains old hats and roses
the ocean and the sailors
and the whores
are all his muses
tattoo parlor poetry
graffitti in an alleyway
ground up in the gravel
of his voice
he makes the devil sing
his gritty soul
plays kick the can
with God
and with the garbageman
unwashed hangdog fallen angels weep
and he can brew a potion from their tears
a splash of bourbon
and the sweet reverberation
of a lonely guitar howling/grinding
and an old piss tank piano
with the prayers of ugly circus children
cursing God before they sleep
distil it in a bucket
serve it in a skull
I listen till I’m drunk
I drink till I am full
I sing till i can laugh
I laugh until I fall
deep
under the dancing spell
of an old man
whistling through hell
merrily, so merrily
rattling the bars and chains
setting all the sinners free
setting music to the painful
dirty sweet reality
dirty streets beneath a grinning moon
old cynic hollering
his ancient tunes
and Tom can hear
the music in the rumble of a train
the voice of broken men
and women lying
underneath the dogpile
smiling killers slyly sidle up
and stab the fragile
notes
full of holes
and Tom just smiles
right at me through the tattered shroud
full of holes
and Tom just smiles
right at me through the tattered shroud
his eyes laugh out loud
he clearly sees the human soul
he clearly sees the human soul
posted by idnami @ 10:38 AM
5 Comments:
No prayers for poets,
to linger longer
Stick your pen to the page,
You'll slaughter them all.
So write on my dear,
it ain't no sin.
And never you fear,
emerge from thy skin.
Lay us down,
in the web of the Spider.
Give us death,
or give us a Black Rider.
Write the prose we like so well
Picture us an old saloon
It's Midnight under a dixie moon
Thirdisite, I'll be there.
Sing for us a song,
sixpence and the rye.
at Midnight on the windowsill..
hush a bye
hush a bye....
In case that wasn't explicit enough..."I really dug your poem!"
r, i will forgive your snotty-snotface showoffy remark about getting to see tom not once but twice (bitch) because you said my poem was genius, and i am a sucker for flattery. it wasnt of course, it was just clever, tom is a genius, i am a copycat, but i like being clever too. thanks r. thanks d also.
Personally, I'm with R on this one.
I thought it was, in fact, genius.
of course you think that, d.
r, why dont YOU write some tom homage? you are, afetr all, the great big super fan that went to see him at the orpheum twice. gee, i bet you could write a GREAT tom poem. give it a try!
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