Fan

Another interesting conjunction of prose into poetry?

The rebel reviewer petrified by rock’s raw beat and easy listening whips out dreamy pop, the sounds of cotton wool and sheepskin a cushy pillow to lay his head on. He drifts into soft-pop dreaming, as the disturbing subtleties of quiet angst pass through idealized and romanticized in pleasing lyrical covers, he thinks he is not a fan.

Drive

This is supposed to be a poem. I do not think it is. It does not look like a poem to me. More like an interesting conjunction of prose turned into poetry. From a review which sort of captures how I felt about a product.

Sad, melancholy, nothing that distinguishes itself, imagine listening to this driving, makes me feel dreamy and laid-back, but do lyrics ever resonant?  

Plastic

I was real in the last post, this post is being eloquent, even experimental.

Plastic means to me as far as I can tell, it is not poignancy, does not sound well. Artificiality false image. Not a sense of irony in kind of dynamo-echo, does not raise a smile and what comes through is not very much a synth-pop ambiance or art pop. Punk roots are obvious, though, clean pop art chorus synth bridge. Tends to tail off into a slow descent, but The Plastic Island merges with synth-pop exotica, a bit of reggae as well, not quite soulish enough, but ambiance indicates something more translucent. Represents 1980’s focus on surface images but is hollow and not transparent not being the most soulful. Something I did not see coming. It is plastic.-

Notes on an album transformed into freestyle poetical form or transformed into Plastic.

All right

He held the card and read it,

“Not her again” and threw it in the neighbour’s garden patch.

She was Deborah.

Who loved him,

And sent him a Christmas card, hoping to be his girl.

They were young.

He was fine, she was lovely,

Yet his silence. Yes, his silence was ripping her apart.

And the hurt went deep down inside.

She had a choice, in how she would reply,

To react or respond.

The way she goes could shape her entire life.

Wondering how she would be later on.

And if the same thoughts would still be there.

And if she would be free?

But Deborah stopped by the pavement

And her eyes brightened up.

Singers were there.

For her?

A bit of beauty.

The crisp, fresh, silent night spoke to her senses,

The song on their lips filled her soul,

The people who listened with an ear for hope.

This she knew, would stay, with her, inside her heart.

And the rhymes and rhythms of the night would remind her:

Life goes on.

She clung tightly to the thought that everything is all right.

Balance

It was a long year.

All that thinking,

The ins and outs of precision,

Measured as it was.

All for what?

A tidy result at the end,

But somehow empty,

Not fulfilling,

But lacking that sense of ACCOMLISHMENT.

The year ended down a notch,

But with two more DVDs to go,

To even things up a bit.

Knowing it wouldn’t be enough,

Even with everything on my lap,

And the likes of the world to own.

Nothing else is what I need,

But PERFECTION.

What will I do when I don’t find it?

I’m left with you,

Designated to me.

And how I should pray for you.

To come up to the standard.

For I want you a certain way, and

My vision is not complete yet.

But for the balance I didn’t want,

I would rule for you.

But would I rule for me?

Thankfully, my friend, balance is a slip of my destiny,

A straightening of what should have been,

Overseen by the watchful, good Lord.