Blue Collar Schizophrenias
If I could live forever somehow
Rectified as a psalm,
It really wouldn’t matter that all my
Best friends are dogs,
And that my latest complexions scribble worry
On my belly,
The stillbirth of my isolated karmas,
And that my poetic images are really not
Much more than blue collar
Schizophrenias:
I love you, I love you-
Isn’t that what I was supposed to sing,
To pull up next to her and rev these engines,
To put my eyes on the cherry sport of her
Jogging legs:
Her name is Erin, and sometimes there are
Storm clouds in the afternoon,
Which wet the equine bodies between the trees,
And I should have my own house sometime
Soon after July 4th,
Where I will begin to daydream beneath the
Stain-glass alders of a new classroom;
And isn’t that absolutely strange: That I should
Be thirty-one and going back to school
For a Ph.D. in Saint Louis, Missouri; and how long
Should I make it before they call me out,
And smell the cheap liquors on my breath,
And find out that I can barely even spell,
That I might be the real reason for the holocaust;
But these lines aren’t nearly even publishable-
They are the sad infatuations I’ve carried on since
Junior high- They are cheap grape soda the fox
Drinks, plump bellied under the broken school bus-
They are her eyes carving caracoles
Like pulling tricks through the despotic cumulus
Over the thorny heads of the grinning reptiles:
This is my thing, my little sport of lines casting into
The freeway’s river: and her name is Erin,
And this is all about her, even as the traffic crowds
And better faces turn to meet hers: These lines
I remember,
And recite just as one of my ancestors getting off
The boat under the burning torch of
Lady Liberty in New York Harbor- Only but the
Freedom of alliterate; and yet I boastfully remember,
Riding a new bicycle through the distended ghettos
Of the reawakened suburbia,
My chief lines- Her name is Erin,
And I am cheaply drunk, but it is love.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Related quotes
The Pallet Of Your Burning Sun
The horses this time sleep standing up, Erin;
And my scars have switched sides once again like girls
Skipping rope,
Sending fibrillose and vibrant shadows once again over
The estuaries of their deep and rich
Graveyards: The sky above them is first blue and then purple,
The same way I saw you out taming your yards:
I saw you jogging like an angel floating like a fish beside my
Car, Erin; and it doesn’t matter if you do not love me,
Erin: I am not a boy to be employed by your love:
I am a vagrant and truant of love. While I have tasted the lips of
One of my muses, that’s all that she allowed me while
She returned from my swingset to her husband, and now where
Do you think I am standing, Erin, but out in the burning
Opulence of your son:
I am down in your opulent grotto with my toy gun, Erin:
And I don’t want to go empty handed on Halloween or Valentines
And you are the only one, E- E-
You are the only one and the sky is first blue and then purple
Underneath the pallet of your burning sun.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Solidarity In Lines
unemployment lines
lines of books
Lines of cocaine
Food stamp lines
Theater lines
Grocery store
car wash
school children
Soup kitchen
club
abortion clinic
Delicatessen
traffic lines
crosswalks
Traffic Jam
Lines on a map
Jules gets home and un-loads his rucksack
Gods laziness
Because of the machines and computers we will all end up lonely human beings
poem by Jerome Moore
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Read Between The Lines
Uh hu
You got to read between the lines
You got to read between the lines
You got to read between the lines
Ah ah ah ah
Late afternoon
Its the sun going down
A call on the cell
Why is he in such a hurry
Leaving the room
Hes mumbling too
Now look what hes doing
Hes leaving out the room
No explanation
No ask for location
Just watching him pacing
Wonder who hes chasing
Looks like versation
The end of debation
Hed love to go swing and
(chorus)
You better open your mind
And read between the lines
Got to read between the lines
Got to read between the lines
Got to read between the lines
Hot in the morning
Im up waiting for breakfast
Know your getting restless
This fool is full of questions
Little replying
Whole lot of denying
Instead I feel life in
So why do you keep on trying
Touch for the median
Now hes a comedian
Thats all the more reason
Its changing like the season
Are you still pleasing
How soon youll be leaving
Which one hell be creeping
(chorus)
(bridge)
Your replies are getting old
Its in his eyes
Youve got to read between the lines
Your replies again told
Look in his eyes
Youve got to read between the lines
Your replies are getting old
Its in his eyes
Youve got to read between the lines
Your replies again told
Look in his eyes
Youve got to read between the lines
Dont really think your pulling one over me
Cause i
I know whats going on
Dont hope you wont be planning on running me
Cause ah cause ah
Ill be gone
Dont really think your pulling one over me
Cause i
I know whats going on
Dont hope you wont be planning on runing me
Cause ah cause ah
Ill be gone
Cause youre thinking
Your ___ aint mistaken
My temperatures peaking
Now why is you barely speaking
Busting his bubble
And he knows hes in trouble
Hes talking in doubles
I listen to him hardly believing
Changing the story
And trying to ignore me
Still reaching out for me
Still aint no point in reaching
Give me a reason
To put you back on the line
You wasted enough time
I had to open my mind
And read between the lines
Got to read between the lines
Got to read between the lines
Got to read between the lines
(bridge repete 2xs)
song performed by by Aaliyah
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Still Want To Go Down On You, ...., Oh Well
What wonderfully warm suppliant:
Now that I am drunk, and probably shouldn’t
Be writing anything. Yes, I should shut up,
And look at pictures of you, down the well
Of high school, with your tawny legs,
Shaved and brown like the elbows of trees;
But, as you can see, I am writing anyways,
Even if you or anyone else is reading this.
If you do, it will make me laugh, now that everything
Is thoroughly maudlin: I am neither as ugly as I
Fear, nor as handsome as your drunken expectations
Might have hopes. I am drunk, and it is Halloween,
And I am thirty; and I am published, by the great
Philanthropic arm of the queen’s navy, and undoubtedly
You are making lovely eyes with your patrons, or
Whoever you are with. I love you, and I thought
About writing you and telling you that, but
I am not as stupid as you might hope, nor am I
Emily Dickenson holding to the arm of her newly
Procured husband as they are floating down the Nile,
Or anywhere else: My great uncle made fun of my thesis,
But he is a liberal judge, and a c*nt; and now I am
Published: yahoo, and anyway, and anyway, like I said:
I am drunk, and not as handsome as you might expect,
And now I am listening to Jack White spew extemporaneously:
And he is rather quite good, given all the possibilities,
And even if we grew up in Wellington, we loved the true
Happenstance of sunrise of bankruptcy and exports:
Now that I’ve said that, I should laugh and play a video game.
I am only 1/64th Jewish, so I don’t mind where I park:
Today, a woman came with a summons for my father,
Because he has too many horses, but what do you expect?
I’m bone broke, but that is a lie, because I have $150,000,
And I want to go down on you, Erin: I want to go down on
You, Erin, because you are the only thing which is real.
Now pay attention, because I love you,
And you shall survive forever in my voice, if it should
Survive forever; and I want to buy you a house and live with
You for sometime in it, if you should still have the eyes which fancy
A kiss from me:
But like I said, I am drunk, so I do not know if
This is true, but I know who you are, because I
Have painted you in my novels like a salacious virgin,
And let you swim in my grottoes,
Because I love you, or the theory of your thighs
Opening like heavenly doors:
But what now should I write, in order to procure you,
Except that I love you, and when I look at pictures
Of you it makes me swell:
I love you, or the theory of your impermanence;
And I am sure I always will
(Which makes a rhyming couplet.)
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Time Lines
i have said nothing for time wont allow me.
time lines... time lines... time lines, what i felt for you has turned to confusion.
as time lines up our times together worry overshadows my 'influenced' judgement.
time lines..
our future perfectly sealed for i filled my heart with your promises.
time outlined your feelings for me..
times we spent together seem so far away like the times of the early bud.
our love has lost its will to florish like juliets rose.
time has outlined my affection for you.
time lines.. time lines..
the memories we once cherished together, the lines that have been put between us by time have destroyed the love once shared by you and me.
time has been thought to mend broken hearts ALAS, it has made matters worse.
time lines me and you. time lined our fate through spectatr critiques.
we possess souls joint together by time, YET its time that divides us.
time took its tole on our love.
is this forbidden love? that time has outlined
time lines my emotions of love for you..
time lines my emtions.
time lines.... time lines
poem by Njube Nangamso
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Emotional Geography 70
BROKEN lines, with a crazy smile,
eyes pointed up, towards the
burning sun.IS this it, you yell
at GOD, or just another bad trip.
BROKEN lines with some happy dust,
a woman sits by herself, with her
pipe, and drugs, is this it, she
yells at GOD, or just another bad
trip.
BROKEN lines mend as one, they
wash there bodies in the water
of GOD, is this it, they both yell,
yes says the king, now go back
home.
BROKEN lines, with crazy smiles...
poem by David Gerardino
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To Erin On The Death Of Her Pony
Erin will remember when others have forgot
Her lovely Shetland pony Camelot
Loose on the road and luck not on his side
Struck by a car near Belgrave Heights he died.
Life can be cruel it's always been that way
And for damage done to car poor Erin has to pay
She lost her pony that not bad enough
And huge damage bill makes it that much more tough.
A pony's just a pony some people might say
And they cost a lot to keep on corn and hay
But those who love horses don't look at cost
And when their equine die they grieve for friendship lost.
In cards her friends have sent their sympathy
They know how hard for her this has to be
And though sympathy won't recover her loss
Her friends are there for to help her bear her cross.
And long after all the others have forgot
Poor Erin will remember Camelot
Her little horse who died on the Roadway
Near Birdsland where his bigger horse friends stay.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Pull Out The Pin
Just as we hit the green,
Ive never been so happy to be alive.
Only seven miles behind
You could smell the child,
The smell of the front lines survival.
With my silver buddha
And my silver bullet,
(I pull the pin.)
You learn to ride the earth,
When youre living on your belly and the enemy are city-births.
Who need radar? we use scent.
They stink of the west, stink of sweat.
Stink of cologne and baccy, and all their yankee hash.
With my silver buddha
And my silver bullet,
(Im pulling on the pin,)
Ooh, I pull out, pull out the pin.
(pulling on the pin, oh...)
Just one thing in it:
Me or him.
Just one thing in it:
Me or him.
And I love life!
Just one thing in it:
Me or him.
And I love life!
I love life!
I love life!
Ive seen the coat for me.
Ill track him til he drops,
Then Ill pop him one he wont see.
Hes big and pink, and not like me.
He sees no light.
He sees no reason for the fighting
With my silver buddha
And my silver bullet.
(Im pulling on the pin,)
Ooh, I pull out, pull out the pin.
(pulling on the pin, oh...)
I had not seen his face,
til Im only feet away
Unbeknown to my prey.
I look in american eyes.
I see little life,
See little wife.
Hes striking violence up in me.
With my silver buddha
And my silver bullet.
Just one thing in it:
Me or him.
Just one thing in it:
Me or him.
And I love life!
Just one thing in it:
Me or him.
And I love life!
I love life!
I love life!
Just one thing in it:
Me or him.
And I love life!
Just one thing in it:
Me or him.
And I love life!
Just one thing in it:
Me or him.
And I love life!
I love life!
I love life!
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Erin, Oh Erin
Like the bright lamp, that shone in Kildare's holy fane,
And burn'd through long ages of darkness and storm,
Is the heart that sorrows have frown'd on in vain,
Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm.
Erin, oh Erin, thus bright through the tears
Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears.
The nations have fallen, and thou still art young,
Thy sun is but rising, when others are set;
And though slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung,
The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet.
Erin, oh Erin, though long in the shade,
Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade.
Unchill'd by the rain, and unwaked by the wind,
The lily lies sleeping through winter's cold hour,
Till Spring's light touch her fetters unbind,
And daylight and liberty bless the young flower.
Thus Erin, oh Erin, thy winter is past,
And the hope that lived through it shall blossom at last.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Suicidal Munchkin
Watching the Wizard of Oz,
I dream of Tyco Brahe’s nose, and serious
Fights between scientists and their
Dwarfs;
And map paintings of stars and their hills;
And sadly, ever so sadly,
Erin- of dryads who have no love for mortal men:
Her busts are a ballad of a perfectly nippled
Power plant;
Her perfume the rich streams of auburn kelp
The gold fish show off through until they
Are scooped out and made for prizes
Of redneck lovers at the fair;
But she does not need to worry, because I am
Too uneasy for Occam’s Razor, Erin:
For easy love:
I am not beautiful Erin, and whoever you are loving
Right now,
It is a better love than I could return to you, if
My face was a mirror for your vanity-
Tesla never made love to a woman, but he lived in
Fancy hotels in Colorado Springs;
And he invented electricity until it was stolen away,
And I am left hanging;
And I only went away from you to find new inventions of
Tender muses,
Of other high school valleys too beautiful to ever have
Stopped romancing about, I suppose; Erin,
But do not feel uneasy; these are your dreams the laboratory
Mice are spinning,
And maybe I will buy a house under my imperfect
Angle underneath the distant Pleiades;
But please, please don’t ever come to visit me.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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My Twenty Lines
I just read this poem about using just twenty lines,
and it brought these words to my mind.
Who are they to tell us how many lines we should use to speak?
This is America where we have a law known as freedom of speech.
Just twenty lines tell you something about my life in words.
To me that seem completely absurd.
My life is much more than just twenty lines.
Hell I am thirty nine.
And if they except me to sum up thirty nine years in twenty lines
They are complete outside their minds.
How am I suppose to tell you how I nearly died when I was child?
Or how my mother harsh words took away my smile:
In just twenty lines?
Like I said they must be out of their minds.
I guest I can do if I shorten my life.
I don't have to talk about how much I love my future wife.
But her love is the inspiration for a lot of my poems.
So to not talk about her would be wrong.
I have a lot more to say but I'm out of time.
I reach my limit of my twenty lines.
The Unabashed Bouquets
Upon the higher back of the albatross
It rains, it floods;
And if I am not beautiful by now,
I will be beautiful by then: I can see by the lights
That my father put in
As he whipped me, as I wrote the novels that no one
Reads,
I killed the dragon by which my friends were sewn
But never fed:
Beautiful irony of the butterfly crushed on the super
Fine roadway;
But I am no longer afraid: I still have my dreams,
By my scars,
By my liquor glass- I still have my friends,
Even if I should have died high up on the wild
Back of the buffalo,
Never read, by the red lips of wild flowers, the unabashed
Bouquets the dead Indians dead in the gutters
Of the old fashioned roadways: Again, I loved you,
Erin, but you are too busy serving the truancies of your
Highwaymen to understand my love,
Unabashed and unbred- Aren’t you, Erin;
Yet still my sweet love, my dead light bulb by which
I got to bed every night- Erin,
Amen.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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And then the paper is dirty
You start with a clean sheet of paper
Write some words, scribble, draw some lines
Some curves, sharp lines, tangent to bold
Lines, and rough sketches of faces and
Bodies, thin lines that get crooked from
End to end of this limited space,
You doodle, you get wild with so
Many lines unimaginable, senseless,
The paper finally looks dirty,
And you do not like it, you crumple
It and throw it in a waste basket,
You get another clean sheet,
And this time, you think what is
It really that you want to make
Out of this new clean sheet of paper.
You think, you ponder, and you need
More time this time not to waste
This clean, glossy sheet of paper.
I think you are doing well with your life.
You see you are supposed to be careful
Every word is delicate and every paper
Is actually accounted.
Never mind guilt, set it aside for a while.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The tempest
I saw the Lord God fishing
while we were sailing
on a stormy sea
and gigantic waves were crashing
while He cast His lines in
landing here and there
and later landing almost everywhere.
The lines of God were blue-white
hitting the ocean and some the boat
and while the storm ripped, tossed us
to and fro
that ship almost came apart.
His lines thundered in sizzling the water
where they fell
running up through the pitch black clouds
and no gale force wind, no raging storm sea
could deny His will
while His lines
with thundering flame came in
and I looked up into that howling sky
with rain bashing against me,
wanting to see Him
and heard the sea scream
in its anger, saw the torrent wind
ripping the sails to shreds
and the storm died down instead
with a great rainbow
against the horizon up ahead
and His lines were all gone
and I didn’t see one more
and the boat set a new course
to reach the shore.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The King of Erin's Daughter
THE King of Erin's Daughter had wind-blown hair and bright,
The King of Erin's Daughter, her eyes were like the sea;
(O Rose of all the roses, have you forgotten quite
The story of the days of old that once you told to me?)
The King of Erin's Daughter went up the mountain side
And who but she was singing as she went upon her way,
'O somewhere waits a King's Son and I shall be his bride,
And tall he is and fair he is and none shall say him nay.'
The King of Erin's Daughter–O fair was she and sweet–
Went laughing up the mountain without a look behind
Till on the lofty summit that lay beneath her feet
She found a King's Son waiting there, his brows with poppies twined.
O tall was he and fair was he. He looked into her face
And whispered in her ear a word un-named of mortal breath
And very still she rested, clasped close in his embrace,
The King of Erin's Daughter, for the bridegroom's name was Death.
poem by Norah M. Holland
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History And More!
tis the buttered squash,
the chipped plate that whispers.
the dumpster box the cat sleeps in.
the scar on the hand,
and you cant remember when.
the blow to the face
of the child born in poverty.
the overthrow of the kingdom,
leaving mice to run amuck.
the broken key on the typewriter,
the cricket trapped in the bathtub.
mold around the window,
the stack of old tires.
the strange feel of love's body,
too long distant and gone.
the hands on the clock,
that stopped too long ago.
the place just beyond thoughts,
where stars breathe and have bodies.
the smell of the soul,
and the taste of eternity.
the heaving breasts of the darkness,
the dirge of the trees.
the kiss of the clouds,
that would steal the moon.
the crackle of the fire,
and conversation without words...
the lines beneath the eyes,
that sing of history and more!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Who You Are To Me
if you read these lines this morning
these lines that miss you
these lines that say i love you
these lines are dying to touch you
to hug and kiss you
these lines that know every inch of you
if you read these lines well enough
then you know who i am
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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If You Read These Lines This Morning
if you read these lines this morning
these lines that miss you
these lines that say i love you
these lines that are dying to touch you
to hug and kiss you
these lines that know every inch of you
if you read these lines well enough
then you know who i am
i, who is nothing to you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sublime Was the Warning
Sublime was the warning that liberty spoke,
And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke
Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain.
Oh, Liberty! let not this spirit have rest,
Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west --
Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot,
Nor, oh, be the Shamrock of Erin forgot
While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain.
If the fame of our fathers, bequeathed with their rights,
Give to country its charm, and to home its delights;
If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain,
Then, ye men of Iberia, our cause is the same!
And oh! may his tomb want a tear and a name,
Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death,
Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath,
For the Shamrock of Erin and the Olive of Spain!
Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resign'd
The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find
That repose which, at home, they had sigh'd for in vain,
Join, join in our hope that the flame, which you light,
May be felt yet in Erin, as calm and as bright,
And forgive even Albion while blushing she draws,
Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause
Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!
God prosper the cause! -- oh, it cannot but thrive,
While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive,
Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain;
Then, how sainted by sorrow its martyrs will die!
The finger of Glory shall point where they lie;
While, far from the footstep of coward or slave,
The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave,
Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain!
poem by Thomas Moore
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The 'budding' Poets
The 'budding' poets in early teens
Pen down here lyrics on love!
They write lines on ravishing beauty and craving eyes!
The 'budding' poets here flee from care
And embrace the images silhouetted
On the canvas of their dime-heroines of infatuations!
My past asks me, ' What about your lines in my times? '
I keep my eyes closed for some time and answer him,
' I was innocent of course, but a coward too then'.
I see the budding poets marching ahead
Enchanting the magic of sweet love and nectar
And I applaud them for their courage.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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