Classic Rock from the 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s and Today

WXYZ

Run, baby, run
through all the clichés

when I’m not
with you. Mid-morning

sunshine and blank
breeze, go on and curtail

the smoky refrain
I used to know, the haze

that eloped to
my conscience from your

figure. You live
through pictures, come

alive in tints on
a screen almost beheld

by my hands, but
your scent is gone, baby

gone, and just
fragments of your voice

when I intone
my thought in C do I

evoke. Yeah, lady,
you were pop, 4|4 time,

like a Beatles’
early song, just as much

of an earworm,
after one play on the stereo,

still humming la
ti da, making up the lyrics

as I go along
with your transmission from

a distant station,
full of static on the radio.

i was too embarrassed to show this to its intended reader, so I'll share with the rest of the world

Lieber Frau

I wish you’d light the way
just a little bit brighter,
maybe the Ungeziefer in my
mind would shy away then;
such a prolonged stay bugs
me. A naked twist of your
waist, my toes feeling the
velvet kiss of your feet, naked
brushes, all in all the fertility
of your touch upon my conscience
flying home to your touch,
which never happened. Shine
a little bit shinier, so my old
alloyed heart beats and beams
one more sad happening, an
entry gone, written up and
expelled from the noise in my
brain (a hallowed hall, where
I let my notebooks lay to see
the smile beyond your skirt an
autumn day, if you’d only
let it happen). Black on plaid
wool on silk, I can’t forget
the wooden desk, which wasn’t
a part of the package: Freiheit
dear, liberty. At the clang
of the bells before our noon I
thought you thought you found me.

repository

To The Core

The use and waste
The waste and use
The isle of man
The man of isle
And
For on we go
to no enough
to nothing good
for all the bad
All the sad
And the green
Algae
Upon the seas
Upon oceans
That warm the
Water and
Wind the air:
The moon
Pulls
and Pulls
and Ebbs and
wells
Upon the Land.

(It’s just all the
Sun’s fucking
fault)

ya me he acostumbrado a este crecer

Azules

Cuando cazábamos
avispas lanzábamos
los sacos al
avispal

Certeros de nuestra
fechoría una muestra
práctica de manía
a la que se escondía

Venus discutía mientras
Marte hacía de esas tras
florcitas y lomitas
de futuras mamacitas

Desamores desde
Letras derramadas
En el lecho
De futuros inciertos;
"No"
A lo largo de
los hechos
"No"
A juveniles
infortunios
"No"
Al placer
De hasta la muerte.