here are the contributions to my challenge, thanks to everyone who participated All rights reserved to the original authors: Nepenthes[x2], Christian Lanciai, Kathy Lockhart, Rob Graber

if i missed anyone, just send me a message, and i'll put you in

beatle challenge results

still there on the hippie trail...

for Andrea's Beatle challenge
Two of them are dead, one murdered,
the other was their only intellectual
with some serious interest in the classical.
Paul is entertaining still and less pathetic than the Rolling Stones,
who never knew their limits where to stop
with some romantic flair kept intact
they just kept on wasting everything on nothing
and especially on drugs they all did that,
Sid Vicious and the Sex Pistols, Brian Jones,
the monster of vulgarity, king Elvis Presley,
while Cliff Richard and flamboyant Tommy Steele still have some style;
but almost all the others wasted everything on going down the drain
by drugs or alcoholism, like all jazz musicians;
and the question is, as it was put by that old king of rakes
George Jung in prison: Was it worth it?
He felt it was almost worth it, although he lost everything.
Even such endowed and ordered talents as the Beatles
went on drugs as they earned millions every day,
and Moody Blues were worshipping Tim Leary,
dead of aids, the freaked out drugs professor
who kept professing extreme liberalism until the end
and never had regrets or ceased to keep it up,
that totally absurd ecstatic exaltation about living just for trips,
as if life's meaning was complete detachment from it,
any means allowed for any kind of drastical escape,
as if hysteria was the truth and only happiness.
That whole concept was fantastic
and a kind of cult of pure phantasmagoria,
and however mad that universal craze was,
and how totally insane much of that music was,
I can but quietly agree, that all that waste,
and every single moment of it,
was completely worth it.

by Christian Lanciai


Walruses ...

Please, please me;
I'm a yellow submarine.

Love, love me, do;
Don't let us twist and shout!

Long and winding roads
Hate the taxman.

Rubber souls love revolvers;
But, when it comes to a long tall sally,

The lanes are full of pennies
And strawberry fields,

Forever. Never leave us ...

By Nepenthes

"i don't believe in beatles"

(who am i to argue with the master)

here comes my nineteenth nervous breakdown
a siamese cat of a girl, sweetest pet in the world
lost in the jails in south america, keep it all out of sight
go ahead, go ahead, and light up the town
and, baby, do everything your heart desires
stick around st. petersburg, time for a change
useless information supposed to fire my imagination
can't get no, oh no no no, hey hey hey, that's what i say
i met a gin soaked, bar-room queen in memphis
she tried to take me upstairs for a ride
and last night i saw a naked cowgirl
she was floatin' cross the ceiling
it was so very quiet and peaceful
there was nobody, not a soul around
the gold coast slave ship bound for cotton fields
sold in a market down in new orleans
the sex police are out there on the streets
cuddle up baby, keep it all out of sight
i want to hear the children sing
all i hear is rain falling on the ground
i sit and watch as tears go by
i'm hiding sister, and i'm dreaming
riding down your moonlight mile
i'm hiding, baby, and i'm dreaming

i am the egg thief

By Nepenthes


[co-written with Nepenthes]

Come Together
We are rolling stones who groan.
We have preyed on insolence. Satisfaction
is inaction. Pray for action. It is lasting.

Purposeful passion turns the wheel
that grinds the grain and thus remains
the harvest of impertinence. Apathy kills.

We are beatles who are stoned.
We have gunshots in our heads. Get back!
Take the lazy haze and unmask it.

Help! We need somebody. Help,
Make the world a better place. Imagine
All the people living without fear.

Fire! When will the gardens return?
There are rockets over our heads. Grateful Dead
Without a singer. Far too much death.

Mickey, Mickey you're so fine,
Come along and heal this time. Money.
There's another brick in the wall. That's All.

Honey, that's not everything. That wall's too tall.
We gotta get down with deep purple syrup.
Deep down in our souls, there are sounds to be found.

Smoke on the water; Fire in the sky.
Diggin' deep, losin' sleep, promises to keep.
Still the quitar gently weeps, times are a changin'.

Here come old flattop, he come grooving up slowly.
This is the re-arranging of our mystic psyches:
December 8, 1980, the day the music died.

By Kathy Lockhart

For Andrea: Beatles Found Poem, 1965 (Paul McCartney, Rubber Soul [Abbey Road Studios])

We have lost the time
That was so hard to find
And I will lose my mind
If you won't see me.

Though the days are few
They're filled with tears
And since I lost you
It seems like years.
Yes it seems so long
Girl since you've been gone
And I just can't go on
If you won't see me.

I don't want to stay
I don't have much to say
But I can turn away
If you won't see me.

By Rob Graber

Poetry by andrea
Read 803 times
Written on 2006-11-13 at 01:27

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