During the past two days the front room was painted and I made a pop song. That’s right, my tone poems are, above all else, for the people. Jingles for just folks. Melodies for the masses. Ditties for the denizens.
Beats for the peeps. Wow, how ecumenical. Right.
I’m getting ahead of my pronouncedly atonal loving self. I’m a big fan of the discordant that somehow sums…resolves… and does so when one would least expect it. But that takes skills I’ll never have, and running out of time to even come close to those understandings.
So I’m gonna have to settle for taking some of my recherché poesy, emulsify the stanzas into a pretend lyrical structure, give it some kick drum, cowbell, and 80eights and call it a warble fit to share.
And I’m staring at early December of this year as the drop dead date to compose the holler. Oh Hell.
So, the self imposed rules for the pop song exercise was find the samples, find a semi-structure of no more than three minutes, sorta mix it, and then slam it up on the site within 48 hours. I didn’t make the three minutes. It’s 3:02.
Have a listen.
But before that here’s one of the few poems of mine that I would consider a “POP” poem. It was written a long time ago.
Well, this absence of tiny red hearts,
with a presence of snow salted gray,
and battling middle-age meltdown,
has allowed for some bittersweet work.
A seasoned relationship
dines on life’s rechauffe
unique to the union,
relishing the table talk,
always fresh, often saucy.
Shy the treacly desert.