Jazz Night at the Hot House

Jazz Night at the Hot House

Low lights dimming
Small talk chatter
Gotta be cool,
Gotta be cool

Bass starts running
Drummer gets gunning
Gotta be cool
Gotta be cool

Horns get blowing
Chords are throwing
Gotta be cool 
Gotta be cool

One two, One two
Stand up for you
Gotta be cool
Gotta be cool

Dwee do dwee do
Bop bop be de bop
Gotta be cool 
Gotta be cool

Horn up
Deep breath
Gotta be cool 
Gotta be cool

-Skat solo-

Tunes flowing
I’m going
Gotta be cool 
Gotta be cool

Change Pace
New Face
Gotta be cool 
Gotta be cool

-Whistle Solo-

Keep drumming
Keep strumming
Gotta be cool
Gotta be cool

Keep humming
That bumming
Gotta be cool
Gotta be cool

One two
One two
Gotta be cool
Gotta be cool

Gotta Be

You exist in unnamed colours,
with which I dream of painting the midnight canvas
of your smokey eyelids, framed in inky symmetrical lines.
Sweeping curtains of deep wooden hues seen only in the 
deepest of forests, 
Secret springs, reaching and plunging deep into the earth like my heart into my throat
solemn orbs a visage of visceral vision 

You never mind the way we don’t speak much,
but feel more connected each time.
As though our thoughts are tuned into 89.1FM 
sequencing each frequency to each other
Wave and beam.
soundless compression’s and oscillations without touch.

I learned morse code for you
To see if the batting of your eyes was anything more,
than a wisp of dust
unlike the taps of my fingers upon your skin
inscribing Aramaic verses of enamoration.

to watch the way you laugh
stifling your snorts, between each half
of breath you let out to me, or so i seem
however it may be you leave me beam;
ing. with a galaxy in each eye and marimba in my veins
striking each high and low with spiraling expansive fury a lions mane
of prominance and providence to prove to this moment
a greeting, or passage, warm deltoids embrace dreaming of neverwinter nights

America the Beautiful

Star spangled eyes
      and Red striped arms
Blue splotched guise
       on a Saturdays charms
Pledge allegiance to this blanket

Pulled and stretched over tender skin to fake it
      red rows of tended farms
white marks upraised admit
      tally marks don’t cause alarms
One nation, under debt, hiding flaws, with ignorance, and lies for all


rufiozuko:

Things We Say by Dante Basco (by Dante Basco)

Oh god people are liking my Tav poem!

I have more xD …

I might post.

I revert to Tavros so easily!

lOWBLOODS ARE RED,
mY FIRES ARE MAROON,
tHE HORNS ON YOUR HEAD„ 
sAY GET IN MY RECUPERACOON, 

featherstonehaugh:

cisbender:

when an artist wants to show you their art

or a writer wants you to read what they’ve written

it’s quite often an expression of trust

because a poem or a story or a painting are often things that come from the heart

little pieces of the artists themselves

and if they’re willing to share it with you

you should appreciate it

Take note. Because we’re typically NOT fishing for compliments on our work, contrary to popular belief.

(Source: lesbianino)

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. 

Write, for instance: “The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.” 

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

Pablo Neruda.

holycrapacupcake:

A poem for my mad(d) friend.
Written instead of Anthropology notes.
Enjoy.

Wrote this…a day or so ago. but just typed it.

I KNOW it needs work.

-minor adjustment

Of Pride & Paragons

lovekyla:

It is not a question of pride or paragons,
But more a matter of preference.

I’ve walked and seen through Haze’s walls,
Twice over, if you’d expect it.
And sauntered down its toll-filled halls,
And window watched; eyes hectic.

Point A was strong, its hearth was bright.
Point B was soft, Keeper’s safe at night.
But influence was the toxin of choice,
So I drank until I lost my all voice.

It spilled and trickled down the vine,
Into the cup of Ms. Serpentine.
She licked the rim, then licked her lips,
Then gazed across, hands on her hips.

Within that moment the equinox bent,
But one was used to it, the other spent.
It spilled again, and trickled some more,
Then complications knocked on the door.

Sitting back, humbled and quiet,
Eyes like daggers, heart is ignited.
Silent and waiting,
The days they were dating?
                      Well, they never got over her.

But in the end it is not a question of pride or paragons,
Oh no -
It is more a matter of preference.


What Do You Say - Chris Buck

Read By Chris Buck


Ugh. I need to practice reading my work. I got nervous.