Long Muzak Poems
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i am not a savant
but an idiot for
sure for what
some would
say was a
god made
gift but
the word
"gift" in German
translates to the
word "poison" so
let me wake to take
another dose that will
eventually carry over in
to my sleep where the
soundtrack seems to
never end or praise
be to god for this
elevator door to
never open
so that
the continu
ous muzak may
fill my head at every
chosen not my choice
moment with these words
i but not
me write but possibly it
might be did i hear a
tritone i must go to
the cross road and
try to tune in to it
not forgetting
that this is a gift
Form:
Ever get the run-around?
It’s really most annoying
And ruins any stress-free time
You might have been enjoying.
You go online or make a call
And then they start you bouncing
From site to site or man or woman,
All of them announcing…
“I’ll be right back. Can you please hold?”
And then they’re disappearing,
While muzak of the most obnoxious type
You sit there hearing.
The minutes tick away and then
Your pressure gets to boiling,
While language leaves your mouth that has
All listeners recoiling.
At last the problem gets resolved
Or that’s what you are hoping,
‘Cause you’ve exhausted all the tricks
Which you employ for coping.
At the fair, they’d beckon us in, tell us that we’d see a girl become a gorilla. They’d chant, “Girl, girl, girl, girlilla, gorilla…”
Monkeying Around
gorillas dressed in leopard suits, climbing
the so-called “ladder of success”
hopping onto
tiger-rings of oak
they may be gorillas
but to each other, they’re monkeys
kids in monkey suits
paid in daily rocks
white-collar players
sans elevator music
back in time
trinkets laid out on twin beds
muzak orchestra plays
as we shop
or we scrawl up a menu
making sure the sister’s choice
is the special
always a crazy conglomeration
we were never mean
we just laughed as the other
threw the pillow
and it landed on the flame
oops
you can recoup
if that happens in virtual reality
or stop the action
before a catastrophe happens
no wonder parents like
their kids
to sit still
i tried dressing in a leopard suit
but i’m too old to climb the ladder
yesteryear, i was paid in “Parcheesi”
today’s chromecast: “Say cheese”
returning to the present
i tap the gorilla on the shoulder
“Stop monkeying around,” I say,
“Throw your grandma a great big kiss.”
THE STORES ARE ALIVE
(To the tune of “The Hills Are Alive” From The Sound of Music)
The stores are alive with the sound of Muzak;
With carols they play every Christmas time.
The stores fill my ears with the sound of Muzak;
My heart wants to sing every song sublime..
My heart beats with joy at The First Noel
as its harmonies fill the air
My heart wants to sing as we hear sleigh bells ring
and it seems that Santa’s there.
To sing with the choir as it tells
what the Herald Angels say.
The message rings clear, that Christmas is well on its way
I go to the stores when Yuletide approaches.
I know I will hear what I’ve heard before.
My ears will be filled with the sound of Muzak
Ringing through the store
30th November 2021
To The Tune Of --- Musicals --- Part 1 Poetry Contest
Sponsor Natasha L Scragg
Walked into a door frame and battered my shoulder
Felt I’d done battle with some kind of boulder
I thought I’d need more than a dollop of ointment
So I rang the doctor to book an appointment
The clock told me it was fifteen after nine
And kling klangy muzak assaulted my mind
It took a few minutes but then I was told
My call was important… please hold
At one point she said I was eighth in the queue
I watched a fly circling for something to do
Don’t say I’m important and then make me hold
Just answer my phone call before I get old
At thirty five minutes a strange sudden silence
Left me inclined towards uncontrolled violence
My mood was nosediving my demeanour, black
I splatted the fly when the muzak came back
I grumbled as I felt my impatience climb
And pulled out my finger nails one at a time
And as a makeshift agitation reliever
I bashed my own head with the handheld receiver
Well maybe my call’s not important but then
She told me it was… again… and again
I got really angry, I felt at a loss
And then I said I’m gonna show her who’s boss
So when a voice said, “Can I be of assistance?”
I answered, “No,” with a spiteful insistence
I slammed the phone down and it jolted my shoulder
My wife grinned and said, “Well, that really told her!”
[The average wait for an answer when calling
my doctor’s surgery is 45 minutes]
On a grassy verge above the surging rill
she stood fair haired and proud,
three leaf clover substrate at her toes.
Clutching saline bouquets I had plucked
from my neighbours walk-in green house.
Woman of resplendent peerage cast a
pearlescent glance among the swirl-frond
waves that prey on fractured fjords.
At a distance, in her mind.
But not for long before we fled like butterfly
escapees over marshes, mounds and meads.
Shriek from sun-dried swallow as we stumble
awkwardly upon their woodbine nest.
Noonday train fire iron to the fossil
fuel bled caterpillar plain,
rural muzak for a pinpoint tip toe dash
through barren fodder,
spiny thistle scald on insect bitten arch,
splashes are a symbol on our craft
stitch needle knitwear.
Yet I struggled to keep pace on
raw earth sand stone,
crab apple briar tangles by the dozen
hung like plastic refuse obstacle,
but nothing now could halt this headlong
sprint to who knows where.
Date written; 23rd Of December 2020
Date posted to contest ; First Of October 2022
Contest name ; 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 15
Sponsor ; Mark Toney
A 26 line poem
Anti-Poem – “Prom Night At LAX 1973”
(Poet’s Instruction: Before reading this anti-poem, kindly go to YouTube and play Muzak: “Stimulus Progression.” Music can also be heard at my Facebook page under Stark Hunter. If possible, kindly play it in the background as you read.)
nine flags cologne boy
gunning a green ’71 ford torino
lapping up black asphalt dreams
cruising on deaf aviation boulevard
Ignoring the roaring jet monsters wheeze by
looking for pineapples and mouse ears
his date dressed in pink formal attire
sniffing a blood red corsage
ahead of them —
the flying saucer made of steel and space
mecca for their zipped-up prom dreams—
teenage reveries of lust and blue lace
now inside the circular restaurant
its glass windows vibrating with lights
another silver boeing beast lands nearby
with tornado voices howling in the wind
she says to her date—
‘how lovely the view is from our table—‘
‘people coming and going like mice from water’
‘it is exhilarating’
a tall waitress in jetson uniform brings iced tea
she tells cologne boy ‘bow ties are righteously cool’
now soul-numbing muzak is playing inside the restaurant
it seeps and drips and hovers like a funeral fog—
oozing through invisible space age loudspeakers
‘i just love this music,’ his date says
‘it is so romantic’
presently another 727 roars by
ascending like magic to the descending sun
The neighborly thing to do would be
to ask them over for a drink, those
four lovely blondes living next door.
But I know they would refuse - it
may not be Christian of them to
drink alcohol. Perhaps I should offer
them lemonade. No Kool Ade, thank you;
ever since Jim Jones I never mix it
with religion.
Anyway, they look
more like the Perrier types. I'll
put out my Bible and tune the radio
to the inoffensive Muzak station.
As long as the conversation on
religion stays generic, it might actually
go ok. I may get on quite well with
the flour blonde-haired Jesus girls.
I doubt there will be any real close
encounters between the sinner
and the saints, but you never know.
I'm gold God works in mysterious ways.
Place parsed pennies, purposely upon pretty porcelain palms.
The wanderer, restrained her raised ranting wrists!
She fell to her Humpty Dumpty position,
unable to ever be put back together again...
Each of us witnessed her fall,
yet we failed to gather those colourful leaves.
I believe we could have laid them at the base of her wall.
She sees the trees as he increases her diseases.
Deepening predatory penetrations as he pleases!
Cracking, fracking, hating, taking, and breaking.
Bringing about disappearing, as pain stains, her shamed awakening!
If we could have, would we have, mournfully watched?
Or instead, would we have held her wrists,
pulled at reddened panties, excruciated her sufferings?
Instead, we placated horrific tugged observations,
waited, pretended to see nothing,
drank our mocha-chino from starry cups!
we sat and licked our lips to the calming sound of muzak,
preferring voyeuristic aristocracy.
Oh how she cursed his kissing and biting,
the sucking of her Texan black gold!
All the while he praised her caged loins,
filling a billion barrels with her oil...
Until the time her flame set fire to his cursed wanting!
Until she summoned the winds from the east.
It was time to birth the spawn of his treachery.
Lava poured forth from mountainous risings!
He must suckle upon her displeasure,
until like creosol, his noxious presence,
combines with his own wasted wood.
Thus preserving his monumental failures,
encasing them within layers of his strangled death!
A voice called out from the West, "Where is the foolish man?
Who is left to sing about his great accomplishments?
His peculiar monuments have been laid to waste,
not a single brick remains in it's place."
No one is left to excavate the woeful forgotten.
She "Mother" seeps into the soil to reclaim his blood,
her womb is once again fertile.
She asks "Do we wish to begin again?"
The start of a great pause stings her ears!
She looks and understands,
"It is no longer good.”
And America became a culture in requiem,
cranky, fearful accustomed to the ambient muzak of decay.
A nation in retreat - uninformed, cowed, confused,
or sadly - too tired to care..
and thus..
The sons and daughters of liberty
prayed for a corrupt President
a tacky, loutish and apoplectic
leader of thieves
to bring hopelessness to the masses
to hide old crimes and invent new ones
demolish treasured symbols
or rename them in his own tacky honor
and put our freedoms and safeties on ICE
to turn markets into frontlines
erode the trust and affection of allies
openly steal from the poorest
and promote literal disease by eliminating vaccines
to eradicate the insured and the employed,
whimsically skew markets to chaos
and strain, past breaking, blind justice.
Ironically, said prayers, like fabled wishes
were answered and the people rushed,
as if running with scissors,
most trustingly, into his sticky arms.
.
.
Songs for this:
The End of the Innocence - Don Henley
Obladi Oblada - Serena Zee
.
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Doesnt that clip of Trump and Epstein leering at young cheerleaders at a Mar-a-Lago party - with Ghislaine Maxwell right behind them - look more like the Zapruder film every day?
daweb.us/bg/Jeffrey.Epstein.Trump.mp4