Encapsulated inside lyrics that glow,
fire this hot will never be assuaged.
Love insists on the beat of drums
backed up by solid electric guitar.
Fire this hot will never be assuaged,
turned on and turned up to purple
every speaker sticks to your blood.
Love insists on the beat of drums
to drown what sits inside so thick.
Once its held can it ever truly fade?
Backed up by solid electric guitar,
our story shines for a crowd to feel.
In the burning ballad hides its soul.
Broken heart like broken bones
Life is hard from a broken home
Amplify my feelings I cry alone
Cat in me reeling black cat moan
Kicking my habits except guitar
Cat has to have it near not far
A rock song stronger than my heart
Tell me you’re over the hard part
Maybe I’ll see you again someday
Only crazy men can understand my ways
An electric guitar screams heart ache
Neon charge and scars why I play
In appreciation of Jimi Hendrix and Mary Shelley
I am sick of minor authorities,
and my boring life, and those stupid fools -
of my job, order, and priorities.
Strike this mundane existence and these rules.
Rise, Jimi, with your electric guitar.
Ghost of your wild, psychedelic flower -
flash stirring midnight lightning from afar.
Jolt me with true, tempestuous power.
Nature, release me from the doldrums' grip,
Blast away, these cloudless, temperate days.
Come on baby, bring it. Now, let 'er rip.
Light up this flesh, these bones through purple haze,
Like Frankenstein and his beautiful wife,
the lightning and thunder bring this beast life.
t is characterized by a low-register brass melody, a fast chromatic guitar riff, and mood
surf-style electric guitar (played on a 1939 Clifford Essex Paragon) brass (trumpets, trombones), seven saxophones, and a rhythm section (upright bass, drums, piano a synthesizer
I
Kegal before me
Might then I'll love
You
We as one
Kegal before me
To intise my need
of suckegal
Kegal
Kegal
Your strength
Your wisdom
Kegal
Kegal
Kegal
My need for
Such
The hizzdom
Longful yearning
Your kegaling thrust
A need in your optimism
Kegal me as much
Yeah, that's you
Yeah it's me
Kegal me lady
Take the time for me
__________________________
Kegal Yosef
Kegal Yosef
Kegal me lady
Kegal me all night long
The Vik Flick Remix
---------------------------
Time used to be gentle
like bike bells singing harmony
with a summer breeze.
Time seems to be picking up speed.
A freight train without an engineer.
A Hendrix electric guitar on amphetamines.
When did time become a runaway brute?
A trickster, a taker-a mass grave maker.
The shell game player. Raper of dreams.
Whisking everything you love to the far away...
Putting your cries on mute.
Time is picking up speed.
Withering things but never planting seeds.
Plucking the shriveled blossoms of memory.
Dumping them in a landfill.
With broken dolls, rusted 5 speeds, black lantern dreams.
Time is yellow rings of selfishness.
Forever hungry- lacks any empathy.
It devours the cream of life.
Turns the radiance of innocents into junkyard eyes.
Splashing gray onto the temple.
Welding bent hand to crooked cane.
Smashing everything in its greasy path.
Time is endless clownish-black comedy- a careen off a cliff.
A vintage violin at the bottom of a winter stream.
Time blasts into celebration when you're down to your last breath.
In a thriving city a boy was born,
growing up melancholy and forlorn,
thoughtful, with a poet's sensitive soul,
he knew he was different and unwhole.
His life would be both rose and piercing thorn.
He took to the road, and he travelled far.
In the Summer of Love, he found his star,
and for the first time, he felt happiness.
a strange new world felt like a warm caress,
San Francisco and electric guitar.
His smile, like the sun, would light up the sky,
but that California Sunshine high
would almost break him and lay him down low.
But those days are gone, and so long ago.
Now, we can only cry, and wonder - "why?"
Rorie the rock star mouse ordered a big electric guitar
He was in a band in Wisconsin, but was Minnesota far?
Many begged him to join them, was one band enough?
Rorie’s head exploded with pride, he felt like hot stuff.
I was a late arrival
born in nineteen fifty-eight,
during the folk revival.
As a kid, music was survival.
Records then sounded great
on a platter or a plate,
like Peter, Paul, and Mary,
and Puff on a seventy-eight.
Later, having no place to go
and no one to meet,
Mr. Tambourine man would show
a wonder I did not know.
In my consciousness, he took a seat,
I listened o'er and o'er.
I put it on repeat -
something worth living for.
Chase dreams, he would entreat.
How I remember, in the park,
I heard my first live electric guitar.
At the sound of that spark,
something in me, no longer dark,
like fusion in a star,
with electricity instilled,
from where I was, it took me far.
Everything inside me thrilled.
That was only just the start.
There are too many bands to name,
who created musical art
to expand the mind and heart,
no two of them the same,
like the Airplane and Grateful Dead,
peace and love, they would proclaim,
and those sentiments would spread.
Newport 1965
(Or Dylan Goes Electric)
This was the dream concert
folk was at its peak
Pete Seeger, Joan Baez,
Odetta, Peter, Paul and Mary
Bill Monroe, Johnny Cash,
Gordon Lightfoot, Ian and Sylvia
But the prize, the dream was
to see Dylan play Blowin’ In the Wind
acoustically.
The folkie purists were shocked,
the dream had died.
Dylan played Maggie’s Farm with an
electric guitar and their world came
to an end.
Happiness is scattering herbs of kindness,
watering weathered willows in the wilderness.
Happiness is following lavender streaks of twilight~
gliding across cerulean skies, so bright.
Happiness, a synonymous noun for my precious son,
his lyrical laughter, mirrors the rose moon and sun.
Happiness is wildflower wishes that free flow~
woven with sunflower syllables, amidst inked woe.
Happiness is the dahlia sanctuary of my beloved’s heartbeat,
as home is a frangipani feeling in his poetic retreat.
Happiness is reminiscing magic within violet vapors,
recoloring mauve meadows on watercolor wallpapers.
Happiness is walking away from deceptive witches,
alone, wearing cashmere cardigans with no lethal stitches.
Happiness is indulging in the chocolate flavor, so sweet,
when my cousin bakes hearty muffins, together we eat.
Happiness soars from magnetic melodies of an electric guitar,
harmonizing diamond serenades of my twin-star.
Happiness is an endless emotion of peaceful purification,
when soul feels warmth through internal perfection.
My Muse awoke me,
I had been listening to a thunderstorm
from my warm bedroom.
She wanted me to write about
the storm.
The morning came fine and fair,
she was still pressing me
to talk about the thunderstorm,
but I am done retouching
and tweaking
dusty old images
that cannot be verified
in this very moment.
The present is a fact checker
and a sunny sky don't lie.
If you must know
there are peaches in the orchard
Squirrels are nibbling away the windfalls.
My son is almost playing a tune
on his electric guitar,
the smell of bacon
is pulling me toward the kitchen.
I turn on the TV
but all the shows are reruns.
The room which haven't opened in years,
Seen the light today,
In the old,dusty trunk,
Found an old guitar,
The memories flooded back again,
Near the lily yard,
A cute little instrument shop,
In which the electric guitar fell in love with a simple wooden one,
Its was like the thunder found a home in vintage heart,
But the faith wasn't in their hand,
Parting way was all they can,
Now may its not the same,
But
"I am old guitar with broken strings,lost in the hope that I will be still be called as yours"
~Riya?
(political tongue-in-cheek humor) (no political sense of humor...pass this one up)
Artificial Intelligence has been around a long time: before Biden invented the wheel, was first man to step foot on the moon...before he crossed the Delaware to rout out the British, thus saving the colonies. Before Pete Buttigieg made safe the railways of the US. Before Barack Obama ended Racial Injustice. Before my first wife said that I was an experiment failed (what did she know!?) – before my parents hated the electric guitar (hmm...) – before the Natural High of God was replaced by formaldehyde laced weed. Before Clinton invented bleach. Before Harris saved the Southern Border from invasion, and is now headed to our Northern Border by flatulence filled balloon to make her explosive presence felt there as well (reader, please feel free to comment with your own be-fores)....
Thank You For Comimg
I like it under these shady walnut trees
It is a restful spot where Time can sit and pause
And maybe breathe a little too
The casket is a beauty; alabaster and golden cream
My friends are here and I appreciate their presence
They are sitting in folding chairs in front of my coffin
Their silent heads are respectfully bowed as if in fervent prayer
Or maybe they are listening to the ghost music soaring in the trees,
Like electric guitar birds seeking shade with the night blooms
Maybe they are waiting for me to rise up from there with my song
But it is just a sad madrigal for strings and a prepared-piano—
My choice to share—as these dead leaves descend like lost stars—
Exploding with fire and memories and used-up words
Is my funeral finished now?
How nice of my friends to strew forget-me-nots upon my grave
If only I were truly dead and not standing over here alone
Then I could at last taste the discarded crumbs of life again
What a feast of bones and teeth and dust that would be!
I wanted to be
an electric guitar,
to vibrantly run my screams in
melodically riffs and solos...
Turning my pains into art...
But I'm just that... lone cello
how bitter and silent
dies of thirst in a corner
without performing any blues.... !
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