Get Money

Get MOney, Get Money, dats how a nigga eat/
hustle fast, hustle hard, its how its gotta b/
n da office or da block, niggas gotta get it/
hustle socks, hustle rocks, its how niggas live it/

once upon a time, i ran into dis cat/
mike showed me his life, how it fade to blak/

Dat D-boy hustle was da only thing he saw/
hit da curb, flip a bird, nigga's sellin raw/

my mann had role models...dem ones wit da riches/
dey was ridin on blades and a flock a bitches/

wit da shine in his vision, dat life so exsqusite/
da game had him gassed up afta a couple visits/

he was ready 2 prove mann/ dat he was dat dude mann/
da numba 1 hustla, so he got on da move mann/

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poem by Dis Guy.... His name is Clif
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Fugazi

(fish / marillion)
Vodka intimate, an affair with isolation in a blackheath cell
Extinguishing the fires in a private hell
Provoking the heartache to renew the licence
Of a bleeding heart poet in a fragile capsule
Propping up the crust of the glitter conscience
Wrapped in the christening shawl of a hangover
Baptised in the tears from the real
Tears from the real
Drowning in the liquid seize on the piccadilly line, rat race
Scuttling through the damp electric labyrinth
Caress ophelias hand with breathstroke ambition
An albatross in the marrytime tradition
Sheathed within the walkman wear the halo of distortion
Aural contraceptive aborting pregnant conversation
She turned the harpoon and it pierced my heart
She hung herself around my neck
From the time-life-guardians in their conscience bubbles
Safe and dry in my sea of troubles
Nine to five with suitable ties

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song performed by Marillion
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Shepheardes Calender: December

December: Ægloga Duodecima.

He gentle shepheard satte beside a springe,
All in the shadowe of a bushy brere,
That Colin hight, which wel could pype and singe,
For he of Tityrus his songs did lere.
There as he satte in secreate shade alone,
Thus gan he make of loue his piteous mone.
O soueraigne Pan thou God of shepheards all,
Which of our tender Lambkins takest keepe:
And when our flocks into mischaunce mought fall,
Doest save from mischeife the vnwary sheepe:
Als of their maisters hast no lesse regarde,
Then of the flocks, which thou doest watch and ward:

I thee beseche (so be thou deigne to heare,
Rude ditties tund to shepheards Oaten reede,
Or if I euer sonet song so cleare,
As it with pleasaunce mought thy fancie feede)
Hearken awhile from thy greene cabinet,

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poem by Edmund Spenser
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Verse

Friends
The old word is dead.
The old books are dead.
Our speech with holes like worn-out shoes is dead.
Dead is the mind that led to defeat.

2
Our poetry has gone sour.
Women's hair, nights, curtains and sofas
Have gone sour.
Everything has gone sour.

3
My grieved country,
In a flash
You changed me from a poet who wrote love poems
To a poet who writes with a knife

4
What we feel is beyond words:

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poem by Nizar Qabbani
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Sermon in a Churchyard

Let pious Damon take his seat,
With mincing step and languid smile,
And scatter from his 'kerchief sweet,
Sabaean odours o'er the aisle;
And spread his little jewelled hand,
And smile round all the parish beauties,
And pat his curls, and smooth his band,
Meet prelude to his saintly duties.

Let the thronged audience press and stare,
Let stifled maidens ply the fan,
Admire his doctrines, and his hair,
And whisper, "What a good young man!"
While he explains what seems most clear,
So clearly that it seems perplexed,
I'll stay and read my sermon here;
And skulls, and bones, shall be the text.

Art thou the jilted dupe of fame?
Dost thou with jealous anger pine

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poem by Thomas Babbington Macaulay
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The Coming Of Winter

_Stanzas from 'Onegin'_

Our Northern Winter's fickle Summer,
Than Southern Winter scarce more bland--
Is undeniably withdrawing
On fleeting footsteps from the land.
Soon will the Autumn dim the heavens,
The light of sunbeams rarer grown--
Already every day is shorter,
While with a smitten hollow tone
The forest drops its shadow leafage;
Upon the fields the mists lie white,
In lusty caravans the wild geese
Now to the milder South take flight;
Seasons of tedium draw near,
Before the door November drear!

From shivering mist ascends the morning,
The bustle, of the fields declines,
The wolf walks now upon the highway,

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poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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Who Isn't Trying To Live

Who isn't trying to live
as they vaguely hope they are
whatever extremes of moderation they've gone to
behind all the masks and fraud?
Crosswalks and bridges of fire
trying to get to the other side of themselves
like the promised land, or God,
ladders up to heaven
like vertebrae and ribs,
and ropes like spinal cords
down a well on the moon
that hasn't enthroned hell in her depths yet,
everyone's trying to put a face on chaos
they remotely hope is their own.
One by one the plum blossoms
fall to the nightstream
like loveletters
from the branch of the tree
that read them once and then let go.
No one knows where they're from

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poem by Patrick White
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Caprice [Bad Poetry]

Caprice
or Capricious,
I'm ferocious
not delicious
taste me
I bet you want to spit me
kiss me
I'm salty
not funky
that's miss duckie.
I hate sundays
hypocrites all over the places
I prefer mondays,
my workdays.
Who's Becky
just too freaky for my liking.
Merlin;
apprientice magic
could have killed Mogana
but that would end the drama

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poem by Efe Benjamin
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Freakin It

Im bout to freak this
Ha ha ha ha
What what what what
Uh big will uh Im bout to freak this
What you want me to freak this
Just peep it while I freak this
Aiight aiight
Im bout to freak this full out the king of the hill
Big will keepin it real knees to the grill
The whole set on lock down making you flock down
To where Im at to hear my rap
I be that cat that set trends
Where yall at
On the corner with your freinds
Heard you screamin about cream in your rap kid
Yo my last check for wild wild west came on a flat bed
Once and for all lets get this straight
How you measure a rapper what make an mc great
Is it the sales 20mill
Is it the cars bentlys

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song performed by Will Smith
Added by Lucian Velea
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I Did The Kind Of Good A Storm Does

I did the kind of good a storm does.
I may have broken some tree limbs
and downed some powerlines along the way
but I cleared the air of its festering
and from top to bottom
we got down to the roots of things
like lightning and rain
like real radicals
free-basing the ideological ions
addicted to their brains
like razorblades.
O ya
I remember now
we were going to save the world from itself.
I gave up trying
when I realized
that if we did that
there would be no one left
to save the world from us.
Trying to justify yourself in retrospect

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poem by Patrick White
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Charlie Mack

Artist: dj jazzy jeff and the fresh prince
[fresh prince]
Everywhere we go, downtown or to a show
We have two necessities, charlie mack and our limo
He's feared by suckers yet he's loved by kids
Pay attention and let me tell you who charlie mack
He is our homeboy from around the block
He's regarded through the city as the hip-hop cop
Height about 6'6", weight about 290
Everywhere i go, charlie mack is right behind me
He never laughs, never smiles nor sweats
He doesn't breaks arms or legs, only spines or necks
He once killed a man cause he would not let go of his eggo
Apollo creed is a sucker, charlie mack could beat drago
He could bench about three-hundred pounds
The cops all take a vacation, when charlie's in town
He's the toughest around, so everywhere that i go, he goes
He's charlie mack and he's the first out the limo
[fresh prince]
I guess you're wonderin why he's the first out

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song performed by Will Smith
Added by Lucian Velea
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Playing Chess With Mundanity To Survive To Write

Playing chess with mundanity to survive to write.
Evading destroyers disguised as Everyman
who hates what I do because he thinks he can't
and ignores it, forgetting I've been trained for oblivion
and writing poetry is the only way you can breathe
when you're swimming in it and the moon is in the corals
trying to grow gills. All the useful functions I serve
I had to make up for myself. I express things
with no regard to having a useful function
though things shape themselves around me as a result.

Let them. I'm as supple as space on a balance beam.
Younger, I sought a name in the fountain mouths of humans
to actualize the pretension of what I hoped I was,
real carrot, real stick, real donkey, by consensus,
like reality, until I began to smell the methane,
and the swarms of squabbly seagulls, and uncover corpses,
and realized the pursuit of fame was just trying
to be something shiny in the garbage dumps
of other peoples' mouths and minds, and any thought

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poem by Patrick White
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Willow-Minded Friend Of Mine

Willow-minded friend of mine
you're the star of Isis in the palm of my hand
that keeps me from drowning in a sea of glass.
How often have I been washed ashore
on the coasts of your flesh
like a naked sailor in an icestorm
of breaking chandeliers
and been taken to see the king
by a princess doing laundry?

A firefly in the distance
might be a great star up close
and your every breath
seed the whirlwind
with golden drops of rain
after the tempest has exorcised its pain
and you grow more beautiful picture by picture
like someone who wants to be redeemed
in her own eyes
for things that only she could be.

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
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A Koan Catalogue

A new catalogue has arrived. It sells everything in even numbers
from hampers to visors to worry stones. Da-Ren moves
his thumb across the face of the angel carved into his jadeite piece.
That was a birthday present from the curator with the cellist.
Da-Ren wrote him a masnavi in return, about a mythic river
that had dried up into a periglacial lake. It’s now retrofitted,
a parking lot, where the maroon and mango-yellow Volvo resides.
“It comes in other colours, ” Da-Ren recalls the other cellist saying,
afraid the chess master wouldn’t like the brown-tinged green.
But Da-Ren sees the tree of life in it like a forest in India
and all the bloodstone it can afford, the martyrs within forgotten.
“Take this Caravaggio and follow the splash zone, ” Da-Ren says.
“Reach the foot of the water-logged mountain in Montenegro,
and there, a box poem at page bottom, left and right of centre.”

Author's Note:

This poem's earlier version was one installment within a chapbook sequence chosen by Mary Jo Bang as one of six finalists in the Noemi Press Poetry Chapbook Award. The poem is the premise of a hand-sewn 'Da-Ren' Kelu, a soft sculpture created by plush artist Nana Pong of Roomism. 'Da-Ren' Kelu was given its own micro e-chapbook at Roomism with its own backstory: 'This fruitarian microbat lives in the Tree of Life, and only leaves its roost on the first full moon of every leap year. Little more is known of this mythical-mystical bat. On its last sighting, tourists said it now has the tree emblazoned on its tiny lips, in criss-crossing band-aids, as if to offer an eternal apology for its self-imposed seclusion. Sometimes, it manages to speak. When that happens, the utterance sounds something like 'différance' in soft and cooing echoes.' Other limited edition items based on the character including a pouch, badge, and handmade silver chain have been created, to be exhibited at Fab Fibe Show 2009, an exhibition that brings together showpieces of fabric and paper artists from around the world.

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poem by Desmond Kon Zhicheng Mingdé
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Crossing The River On Thin Ice

Crossing the river on thin ice, the next step
the beginning, and the one after that
the end and the whole of the rest of your life.
I’m listening for cracks in a mirror.
I’m jumping from rock to rock
like prophetic skulls
cobbling the yellow brick road
with glacial i.e.d.s
playing chess with my nerves
like the wicked witch of the east
laying bets against my afterlife
should I break through
and be swept under
to look at the stars as I used to do
on summer nights flat on my back
when I was young
only to find, older, I still do,
through a broken window in a palace of ice
like an acid flashback of my whole life
seen through an ice-age cataract

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poem by Patrick White
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Tam Lin

O I forbid you, maidens a',
That wear gowd on your hair,
To come or gae by Carterhaugh,
For young Tam Lin is there.

There's nane that gaes by Carterhaugh
But they leave him a wad,
Either their rings, or green mantles,
Or else their maidenhead.

Janet has kilted her green kirtle
A little aboon her knee,
And she has braided her yellow hair
A little aboon her bree,
And she's awa' to Carterhaugh,
As fast as she can hie.

When she came to Carterhaugh
Tam Lin was at the well,
And there she fand his steed standing,

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poem by Andrew Lang
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Tam Lin

O I forbid you, maidens a',
That wear gowd on your hair,
To come or gae by Carterhaugh,
For young Tam Lin is there.

There's nane that gaes by Carterhaugh
But they leave him a wad,
Either their rings, or green mantles,
Or else their maidenhead.

Janet has kilted her green kirtle
A little aboon her knee,
And she has broded her yellow hair
A little aboon her bree,
And she's awa to Carterhaugh
As fast as she can hie.

When she came to carterhaugh
Tam Lin was at the well,
And there she fand his steed standing,

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poem by Anonymous
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Tam Lin

O I forbid you, maidens a',
That wear gowd on your hair,
To come or gae by Carterhaugh,
For young Tam Lin is there.

There's nane that gaes by Carterhaugh
But they leave him a wad,
Either their rings, or green mantles,
Or else their maidenhead.

Janet has kilted her green kirtle
A little aboon her knee,
And she has broded her yellow hair
A little aboon her bree,
And she's awa to Carterhaugh
As fast as she can hie.

When she came to carterhaugh
Tam Lin was at the well,
And there she fand his steed standing,

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Americas
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Veterinary Camps

vocal music camps michigan
vocal performance camps missouri
vocal quartet camp august 2007 ohio
vocational assessment at hendon camp
vocational rehab camps michigan
vogel singer soccer camp brochure
vogel singer soccer camps
vogel singing hills baptist camp
vogel singing hills baptist camp book
vogelkop bower
vogelkop bower courtship
vogelsang camp germany
vogelsang high sierra camp
vogelsinger camp
vogelsinger camp 2007
vogelsinger camps
vogelsinger soccer camp
vogelsinger soccer camp brochure
vogelsinger soccer camp hubert
vogelsinger soccer camps

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poem by Caasder Fronds
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Near Perigord

I
You'd have men's hearts up from the dust
And tell their secrets, Messire Cino,
Rigkt enough? Then read between the lines of Uc St. Circ,
Solve me the riddle, for you know the tale.

Bertrans, En Bertrans, left a fine canzone:
6Maent, I love you, you have turned me out.
The voice at Montfort, Lady Agnes' hair,
Bel Miral's stature, the viscountess' throat,
Set all together, are not worthy of you. . . .'
And all the while you sing out that canzone,
Think you that Maent lived at Montaignac,
One at Chalais, another at Malemort
Hard over Brive for every lady a castle,
Each place strong.

Oh, is it easy enough?
Tairiran held hall in Montaignac,
His brother-in-law was all there was of power

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poem by Ezra Pound
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