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Dr. Bob is Robert Hsiung, MD,
bob@dr-bob.orgShown: posts 1 to 2 of 2. This is the beginning of the thread.
Posted by Atticus on July 20, 2005, at 14:09:54
Slink through a doorway
Into the dark noise,
Punkers sweat black ink,
Eyes flash ebon joys,
Girls pierced like martyrs,
Spiked hair crowns the boys,
Bobbing sea of spines,
Crystal meth wind-up toys,
The band bleeds sound,
Goth goddess deploys
Ripped fish-net stockings
And vampiric poise,
We glide to the mosh
Slam-dancing envoys
From the city’s underside,
The part this pack enjoys.
Posted by cockeyed on July 22, 2005, at 0:55:14
In reply to Into the Dark Noise, posted by Atticus on July 20, 2005, at 14:09:54
hey, atticus, but you got me again. I think I'm a 3rd grader everytime I read you again. This must seem a joke but sometimes a I watch fuse, Just for Misstress Julia...the goddamn music sucks. I'm from the I wanna be happy generation, then I read you. Is this Mike Tyson's "obliviation"? The reason I ask, I suspect I'm way older than you, but I lost my beloved step-son. f*ckin 15 years ago and when I read you it's, not new, but what he hit the road for.
You can tell I haven't a clue. Well, maybe a song...David Byrne...Can't recall the name of his group. Went into my cellar...but couldn't find what I can't find in memory. So, this crap has to do..."I remember the coastline,...something with maps, I remeber the
beaches and the white caps. A baseball diamond, nice weather down there....Well I can play the song on slide guitar but I can't remember it here.
But I know Glenn lived in the place that you put into words, and I can still see his face. truth be told, you'd never catch me in there. I'm too damn mutch the upright guy...Hey, shoulda wrote the straight guy. But, and but, and but, again...that stuff scares me.
Not being there but when, something happens, I never know which way I'm going, 'cept it's violence. Then I plunge in.
Sometimes I wonder why I can think at all, when it's mayhem I'm wanting..tho I deny it all..There's to much something in
violence's call..who cares if it's just symbolic
something in me doesn't care at all.
the other nite, kicked a pathetic drunk in the ribs. Of course I explained it...just trying to help him up. Yeah, and do a job on him...I'm real good at fibs. trouble is, I'm not sure what is; me the guy who types this lament, or me, if no one's looking, will...
take out his anger. Hell, I did it to you.
Mybe too many creative writing courses...
but what you write, I see, and you're rhythm..it's like a right-on drummer. Well, to hell with this rant. cockeyed
This is the end of the thread.
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