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Last year we had so many people coming in and out they didn't bother to sew their names on the backs of the uniforms. They just put them there with Velcro.
quote by Andy Van Slyke
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Your modern teenager is not about to listen to advice from an old person, defined as a person who remembers when there was no Velcro.
quote by Dave Barry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Everything Is Broken
Glue, super glue, Elmer's glue
Duct tape, Scotch tape,
New, Coup deville, Elmer Fudd
strut late, Scotch hop
Industry Velcro, molten steel,
cement and plaster-of-Paris.
Gwyneth Kate Paltrow, bolt-on wheels,
repent and master Pari passu.
Adhesive binding, bonding agents,
sticky, clingy, gummy, tacky,
Cohesive windings, wonder patents,
quickie, swinging, chummy, wacky.
Fixed!
Inventions
'What's the greatest ever invention
the best the world has ever known?
some say it has to be the wheel
while others reckon it's the Telephone '
But a lot of people love their Television
then again we all like to listen to the radio
let's not forget everyday material though
like Nylon, Plastic, and good old Velcro.
Where would we be without transport?
for a start we wouldn't go very far
so how about the Steam Engine
or the Bicycle, Helicopter, or the Motor Car?
In our kitchens we have many appliances
like a freezer where we store food to save
also an Electric or a Gas Cooker
and where would we be without the Microwave?
But there's been hundreds of inventions
from a Paper Clip, Safety Pin, a Telescope,
Computers and the modern wonder of the Internet
down to Toothpaste, and a little bar of Soap.
So I decided to ask my elderly neighbour
while she stood chatting smoking her fag
'Elsie, what's the greatest ever invention? '
she replied: ' Cigarettes, and a Tetley Tea Bag! '
poem by Kevin Halls
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Clever Fella, My Fold Up Umbrella
Work here has been slow of late
I'm a fair weather recluse
The other hand bag 'hang outs'
get an awful lot more use
My canopy's been folded
Held in place by Velcro strap
I lost my cover long ago
(an unfortunate mishap)
I long to stretch my metal ribs
And lock my tiny joints
My fabric is a wondrous sight
With nippled ferrule point
The sound of pitter patter
Excites my buttoned springs
They'll nip you like a playful pup
They're temperamental things!
When I can be made use of
To catch and steer cloud bursts
I wish the rains be generous
To quench the grounds great thirst
I'm not good on a blust'ry storm
It's a skill you have to learn
to keep me pushed into the wind
Or inside out I'll turn
But I'll make no apologies
In showers I'm ok!
For wind proof reinforcement
A lot more you will pay
And generally they don't fold up
They are so cumbersome
But me, I'm with you all the time
And not just sat at home.
And when you shake the excess off
As to the door you get
With out the shelter that I give
You'd be a lot more wet!
poem by Stevie Taite
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ecstasy
They call you ecstasy
Nothing ever sticks to you
Not velcro, not scotch tape
Not my arms dipped in glue
Not if I wrap myself in nylon
A piece of duct tape down my back
Love pierced the arrow with the twelve
And I cant get you back
Ah, ecstasy
Ecstasy
Ah, ecstasy
Across the streets an old ford, they took off its wheels
The engine is gone
In its seat sits a box
With a note that says, goodbye charlie, thanks a lot
I see a child through a window with a bib
And I think of us and what we almost did
The hudson rocketing with light
The ships pass the statue of liberty at night
They call it ecstasy, ah
Ecstasy
Ecstasy, ah
Ecstasy
Some men call me st. ivory
Some call me st. maurice
Im smooth as alabaster
With white veins runnin through my cheeks
A big stud through my eyebrow
A scar on my arm that says, domain
I put it over the tattoo
That contained your name
They called you ecstasy, ecstasy
Ecstasy
They call you ecstasy, ecstasy
Ecstasy
The moon passing through a cloud
A body facing up is floating towards a crowd
And I think of a time and what I couldnt do
I couldnt hold you close, I couldnt, I couldnt become you
They call you ecstasy, I cant hold you down
I cant hold you up
I feel like that car that I saw today, no radio
No engine, no hood
Im going to the cafe, I hope theyve got music
And I hope that they can play
But if we have to part
Ill have a new scar right over my heart
Ill call it ecstasy
Oh, ecstasy, ecstasy
Ecstasy
Ecstasy, ecstasy
Ecstasy
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Quirks and eccentricities
Quirks and eccentricities (I’ll show you mine if you show me yours)
I have my favorite fork and spoon
Also gotta drink from my favorite glass
Never fasten top button or tuck shirt in
Guess that shows a definite lack of class
Never fold pages in books to mark places
Only one food item on plate at a time
Buy shoes that fasten with Velcro, never laces
And when thinking, try to make my thoughts ryhme
Arrange used creamers with lids in flower petal form
Always sit in a booth, never at a table
Read funnies first, in the paper, in the morn
Sniff every flower, whenever I’m able
When out for a walk,
I never step on a crack
I always pick up pennies for luck,
heads up is good, tails put them back
I never have blankets tucked in on my bed
Acknowledge everyone with a smile and a greetin’
Can’t pass my dog without patting his head
I talk to pigeons, which makes people think I’m a cretin
Pennies have to go in my left rear pocket
Silver has to go in the right front
I walk whenever possible (it’s healthy, don’t knock it)
Mustard only on hot dogs, cause that’s what I want
I must count every swallow of liquid I drink
I see long lost loved ones faces in crowds and buses passing by
I bite my lower lip whenever I think
Do all three letter words first in crosswords (at least I try)
Except for roaches, I never kill a bug
Tho’ I think I could be a mean kung fu fighter
Always seem to yearn for a big friendly ol’ hug
Have delusions of becoming a meaningful writer
I shave my face in exact same sequence each night
I expect loyalty and truth from people around me
In my quirks and eccentricities, I truly delight
And in some of mine, yourself you might see
poem by David Whalen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stuck In A Closet With Vanna White
Doctor, every night I have the strangest dreams
Doctor, listen to me, tell me what this means
First Im goin shoppin in my underwear
Then all of sudden Im floating in mid air
My lips fall off and everybody starts to stare
Donuts and hot dogs are flying everywhere
Now doctor, wait a minute, you aint heard nothin yet
Next comes the part that I wont ever forget
Now Im bein followed by these russian spies
They give me some velcro, and an order of fries
Suddenly Im bowling on the starship enterprise
I fall down a hole and thats when I realize
I am stuck in a closet with vanna white
Im stuck in a closet with vanna white
Night after night after night after night
All right!
Doctor, wont you tell me, am I going insane
Was it something I ate or something wrong with my brain
See, Im naked in church when I meet a dinosaur
Try to run, but my feet have been nailed to the floor
Then a midget pushes me through a revolving door
And Im back in the very same place I was before
Now Im stuck in a closet with vanna white
Im stuck in a closet with vanna white
Night after night after night after night
And I cant bust out and I cant break free
And its gettin just a little too stuffy here for me
And I cant go home and I cant get loose
And I try to escape but its just no use
And I cant ever leave and I cant ever win
And were runnin outta air and the walls are closin in
And I cant go back and I cant get through
But vanna since youre here, why dont you let me buy a vowel from you
Come on vanna, come on!
Ow, buhhh
Doctor, all those crazy dreams have started again
Thats right, I even wake up screaming now and then
See, Im coming home from work but I forgot my address
Im half an hour late for my algebra test
Then some slimy alien jumps out of my chest
And Im falling and falling and I guess you know the rest
I am stuck in a closet with vanna white
Im stuck in a closet with vanna white
Night after night after night after night
I am stuck in a closet with vanna white
Stuck in a closet with vanna white
N-n-n-night after night after night night night
Then Im stuck in a closet with vanna white (ya-ya ya-ya, ya-ya, ya, ya-ya)
Im stuck in a closet with vanna white
Night after night after night after night
I am stuck in a closet with vanna white (ya-ya ya-ya ya-ya ya-ya)
I am stuck in a closet with vanna white
song performed by by Weird Al Yankovic
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When My Heart Isn't A Hummingbird
When my heart isn't a hummingbird on a keyboard,
it's a spider on a guitar. The long fingers of a surgeon
my mother used to say, the air bright with potential
and the creature with a purpose, a future it meant,
a destiny it was born to fulfil like a chain reaction.
Now it's an error of evolution just to make it through another day.
And nights, sidereal ballerinas leaping like Cygnus at zenith
over the toxic wavelengths in this snakepit of street life.
Blessings on everyone's head, I've shed a few lives of my own,
but I mean the nights, sometimes the nights,
scatter my own ashes over my head in mourning
like a nuclear winter that won't let me forget.
Now there's nothing perennial about my paradigms
and the flowers don't grow as imperial as they used to.
Ferocious weeds spring up among the downtrodden
and swarm the gardens of the sun-king, the cattails
impaled, and the heads of the poppies on pikes by the gate.
I'm looking for new moons in the calendars of chaos
to sow the teeth of a dragon under. Soil made vintage
by the dissolution of the dead who are buried in me
as I keep on living their deaths like an impossible ending
to a recurring dream I haven't woken up from in years.
Red alert. Don't climb higher than the mountain is tall
unless you've got a star in your eye you're going to follow
for the rest of your denatured life. But no one's listening.
They're all taking polls of bad examples on talent shows.
Can't stand the artificial lights or the trained hilarity
of the audience defrocking sacred clowns at a cult ritual.
But I found a flap at the back of the circus tent
I like to slip out through and let the darkness
wash the patina of blazing out of my eyes
and encounter six thousand stars whose shining
ease the mind by enlightening its unique insignificance.
I like to blunder my way into places alone
where who I am is nobody's business but the willows
and they're not saying anything to the wind
that's heard it all before. One moment you're the canvas
and the next you're a paint rag up to your alligators
in muddy oils trying to save an orchid from its own hysteria.
If there's any rafter of my life left standing
it's as fragile as a compass needle wobbling on a thorn.
One moment you're teaching spiders to play the guitar
without barring their chords, and get rid of
those old harps of theirs that have been collecting in the corner
like dreamcatchers they couldn't hold a note
if it were a velcro butterfly, and the next
you're boiling strings like spinal cords in a bird bath.
But alone, where there's no assent or denial,
and the false redeemers are orphaned
in their baskets and mangers among the hay and bull rushes,
I can juggle the crazy wisdom of myriad worlds
bubbling up in my blood like a playful multiverse
without dropping one of them, and swallow the swords
the moon lays down on the lake in tribute.
No blackboards in my freedom. No chalk fossils
among my crayons, I have been schooled
in the ghettos and still life studios of my solitude.
Here where the river emerges from a larynx of dead trees
I can think my way into the most open-minded modes of death
without having to turn around and go home again
or forget I'm just an organ of light that makes things visible
for anyone with an eye to spare, or the time
to listen to the picture-music where their senses meet
like parallel lives that have suddenly come into focus.
poem by Patrick White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Get These Golden Nets, These Chains, Off Me
Get these golden nets, these chains, off me,
these dreamcatchers, cobwebs, suspension bridges
swaying like sticky spinal cords across the shoreless abyss.
I'm smothering under these pillows of sunset
you keep pushing in my face to soften
the impact of my meteoric heart
trying to induce a new species
out of my own extinction
that might accord me a retroactive purpose
for having lived like a root
in the dirt of their flowering.
More compassion spent on lies
than truths, the sun might come up
in the morning and pour honey
all over its head like bees in the dawn,
but it isn't the same for active volcanoes.
Half the world waiting to receive
what the other half wants to take from them,
via positiva, via negativa, sure
all roads lead to Rome eventually
like most rivers make the sea
but haven't you noticed the mystic path
is cobbled like a calendar with the lunar skulls
of birds and gurus all along the way
who mistook the windows of opportunity
in their third eye, for the real sky up ahead?
I know you believe time heals all things,
and day after day, this implacable pace
can be construed as some kind of advance,
and even the dust on the windowsill
will be redeemed as the pollen of windblown stars,
if someone would only give love a fighting chance.
May it be so, sweet one, but life isn't
the agenda of the blossoms, it's in
the corporate boardrooms of the roots
trying to put a good spin on death
like the propaganda of decay. But even
castigation has lost its joy in life
and the sages that might have saved us
yesterday, are muttering like madmen to themselves
in murderous alleys that end
in cul de sacs of laughing children
without any idea of how absurd
it really all is for them as well as the homeless
they stab in the back in their sleep
for ratting life out like the black plague of their dreams.
Even if I had no legs, I wouldn't want to spend
the twenty or less autumns and springs of life
I have left, if that, walking on water with golden crutches
like the principles of the dilemma I stand on,
I stole like oars from a lifeboat on a shipwreck
that had no more use for hope. I don't
want to cook the books of my cosmic home recipes
and make a diet a messianic way of life
that greets the moneylenders at the door of the temple
and feeds the people the tongues of doves.
I was born into life raw as a new wound.
The same insights that touched your eyes like fireflies
were runically striated across mine
by surgical glaciers without any anaesthetic.
A street gang flashing its smile
like an iconic switchblade of moonlight
trying to leave its mark on life like scar tissue.
I've seen diamonds on the fingers of adamantine saints
turn back into infernal coal bins of ungratified desire
as soon as someone blew the candles out like photo-ops.
I'm wary of good people these days.
I've mythically inflated the illusion of my isolation
up into a rogue planet of habitable solitude
where nothing's ever wrong or right
but endlessly intriguing in an interstitial kind of way
like a fish that swam out of the sea
or a bird that flew out of the sky
to adapt myself to the inchoate spaciousness
of a new medium of transformational events.
I've jumped the synaptic gap
between the earth and the heavens,
like the sound of one hand clapping
at its own performance, the sonic boom
that ruptures the eardrum of the sky
like a clown shot out of a cannon
without a safety net to disqualify the risk.
Whether I'm Zen duelling in the snake pit of the Id,
or studying the logic of the lightning
in the mirrors of prima donnas putting on their make-up,
to let the trees in the open fields know
where it's going to strike their nervous systems next,
I don't cling to things like a bat in the burdock
or a monk enduring the earthly ordeals
of his immaculate detachment like spiritual velcro.
I live in a world without handles, where the atoms
free associate into elements of their own choosing
and base metal can as easily be seen
as the grey dawn of gold, rather than
the long, hard discipline of learning how to be
self-destructive creatively and calling it a sacrifice
to the new moon on the altars of occult learning.
I don't sail my poems down river like
paper-mache swans in a labyrinth of locks
trying to make their way gracefully to the sea
without waiting for a gate to swing open
like a crane on a backwater loading dock.
I shed them like the blossoms of the moon on a lake.
I can't dance to engineered versions of this lunar ballet
that can't walk on water without
feeling vertiginously out of its depths
whenever the road leads through a black hole
like the easiest way around the mountain of the world.
Slavic enough to take the whole burden
of the integrity of pain upon myself
as one of the eventualities of suffering
it's as crucial to live through as it is not to,
I still reserve the right to shake my fist at the sky
like an extra gang railroad lineman
at four every afternoon before I fling a shovel
like an inkwell at the decapitated sun,
all the fruits of my labour you shall know me by
surrealistically Sisyphean as the tracks I'm laying
keep on decoupling my thought trains in the wilderness
as if this were as good a place as any to jump off.
poem by Patrick White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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