Sound Lounge in Mississauga
Dear Alice,
Rob was being a drunken ass tonight. He was hitting Andrew over the head while he was driving. He hit him, like, twenty-six times. So, when Andrew stopped the car at Laura's, Andrew went kung-fu on his ass (or so I gather - I was tinkling at a distance). Anyway, I wrote this in the ast ten/fifteen minutes. It's too disconnected as a whole, IMO, but maybe something can be tweaked.
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Two slaps to the head while you're driving,
And I don't know why you're so mad.
Deal me my future of failures,
Or do I (get) but one hand to hold?
A foreign affair for the living,
A favour to share for the dead.
Two slaps to the head while you're driving,
And I don't know why you're so mad.
You'd best be avoiding my presense
Before you believe that I'm there
Already I'm throwing out pleasants
In song and in tongue and in tear
It's good to not know of the greaters
So the simple won't drive you to gold.
Can you deal me my future of failures,
Or have I (got) my one hand to hold?
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Interpret as you wish. I wrote it with one intention, but funny enough it makes sense in several others, as any poetry should.
Would you believe that people don't respond to me at 2am, when I make random MSN messages? Weird.
The show in Mississauga, by the way, was odd. They didn't tell us of the lacking drum kit, so we had an acoustic set. Laura made do with holding her symbols in her hand, and we found out that a beer pitcher sounds close to a bongo. That, and that I can cut my forehead open when I try to headbutt the pitcher.
I don't know why I'm doing it, but I'm programming this Texas Hold 'Em game as if my life depends on it. This is the fifth day in a row that I've done nothing but program. My priorities are screwed up. I need to be locked up or have some sense knocked into me or something.
Rob was being a drunken ass tonight. He was hitting Andrew over the head while he was driving. He hit him, like, twenty-six times. So, when Andrew stopped the car at Laura's, Andrew went kung-fu on his ass (or so I gather - I was tinkling at a distance). Anyway, I wrote this in the ast ten/fifteen minutes. It's too disconnected as a whole, IMO, but maybe something can be tweaked.
------------------------------------------
Two slaps to the head while you're driving,
And I don't know why you're so mad.
Deal me my future of failures,
Or do I (get) but one hand to hold?
A foreign affair for the living,
A favour to share for the dead.
Two slaps to the head while you're driving,
And I don't know why you're so mad.
You'd best be avoiding my presense
Before you believe that I'm there
Already I'm throwing out pleasants
In song and in tongue and in tear
It's good to not know of the greaters
So the simple won't drive you to gold.
Can you deal me my future of failures,
Or have I (got) my one hand to hold?
------------------------------------
Interpret as you wish. I wrote it with one intention, but funny enough it makes sense in several others, as any poetry should.
Would you believe that people don't respond to me at 2am, when I make random MSN messages? Weird.
The show in Mississauga, by the way, was odd. They didn't tell us of the lacking drum kit, so we had an acoustic set. Laura made do with holding her symbols in her hand, and we found out that a beer pitcher sounds close to a bongo. That, and that I can cut my forehead open when I try to headbutt the pitcher.
I don't know why I'm doing it, but I'm programming this Texas Hold 'Em game as if my life depends on it. This is the fifth day in a row that I've done nothing but program. My priorities are screwed up. I need to be locked up or have some sense knocked into me or something.