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Dancehall

You could lose your mind
easier than you would like to think
your best friend could up and leave you
playing tricks and cold deceive you
standing there people stare
let down by your own mind
Day of appreciation
for ways your mind has not yet let you down
the truth is that we will all go
maybe five minutes after the show
you know you are a shooting star
a blazing flash then gone
Are we advancing
or a collapsing visionary
are we really here
are we imaginary
as my thoughts separates
into the many frayed parts
torn shattered bits
my mind falling apart

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song performed by 311
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If You Can't Leave It Be, Might As Well Make It Bleed

What you found so upset you
Never saw it coming did you
Its easy to be surprised
With both your eyes sewn closed
Handled with great precision
Another faultless execution
Youre the subject of this exhibition
A willing cadaver, a willing cadaver
Scalped, saturated, made whole again
These cutes are leaving creases
Trace the scars, fit the pieces
Tell youre story, you dont need to say a word
Call off the cavalry
Cant save a wretch like me
Clean this with kerosene
If you cant leave it be, might as well make it bleed
Scalped, saturated, made whole again
Your wires are frayed, cant fire right
You look better when out of sight
You were not made to stand a fight

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song performed by Dashboard Confessional
Added by Lucian Velea
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No Knock On My Door

She knew my feelings were jangled and frayed
She knew my feelings were jangled and frayed
She took me into a wind blown alley way
She took me into a wind blown alley way
She showed me a world a boy should see
She showed me a world a boy should see
Ill thank her till the day that I die
Ill thank her till the day that I die
So, here we go
No knock on my door
So, here we go
Believe it till you see
No knock on my door
What living has done to me
Believe it till you see
And Im sure that I need holding
What living has done to me
And Im sure that I need holding
I took her to a room and I showed her myself
She made me feel proud that I would stand for

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song performed by Verve
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The Robes Which Bind

the ropes which bind the human soul
to the mortal earth are frayed and old
the are made filthy and washed by rain
the storms of times passing
the knots like fists cling tightly
while cracks and holes do nothing
the ropes which bind the human soul
to the mortal earth are frayed
weathered, worn, abused and cut
still, still they hold on regardless
like an indomitable spirit
those fist knots, those woven strands
anchor the soul to the earth
as though life itself depends
the day, the night the heavens above
names of faultless graces written
upon the fabricated strands
perhaps those of the fates themselves
the ropes which bind the human soul
to the mortal earth are frayed and old

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poem by Matthew Holloway
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501 Beauty Queen

Shes got nice lips, a seductive smile
Shes still as thin as a beanpole,
With a little less class, but a little more style
And she spends all her time trying not to hear you
What she doesnt want to know
Dont wanna know
And theres kelloggs in the cupboard
She takes a heart down from off the shelf
She passes by the mirror
She doesnt like to look at herself
Cause shed rather lose touch with reality
Than lose her fantasy
Her fantasy
And her smile is as faded as a used pair of jeans
And her heart is frayed around the edges
Shes comin undone at the seams
And its her last chance to make a statement
Its her last (note/no Ive recieved? )
Shes a 501 beauty queen
And theres flowers on the table

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song performed by Jewel
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The Chronicles of A New Day part 4 Looking Back, and Seeing the Present Has Changed

I look back at my old feelings
frayed memories, scarred, burnt and black
as day after day passies by
I obessess over the past
I try to find a part that would last
I try!
and try i look back deeper and deeper i am very deep in now deeper
very deep i am lost in thought, my consciousness, frayed, and memories seep
out and seem to drain away
not here to stay not even for another day
the Longer i look back the more the present passes me by
the world changes, moves, and hates without me or at me.

poem by David Knox
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Days of 1908

That was the year when he stayed
Without work, for a living played
Cards, or backgammon; or borrowed and never paid.

He was offered a place at a small
Stationer’s, three pounds a month. It didn’t suit him.
It was not decent pay at all.
He refused it without hesitation;
He was twenty-five, and of good education.

Two or three shillings he made, more or less.
From cards and backgammon what could a boy skim;
At the common places, the cafés of his grade,
Although he played sharply, and picked stupid players.
As for borrowing, that didn’t always come off.
He seldom struck a dollar, oftener he’d fall
To half, and sometimes as low as a shilling.

Sometimes, when he got away from the grim
Night-sitting, for a week at a time or more,

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poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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The Fish

I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled and barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three

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poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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Dan, The Wreck

Tall, and stout, and solid-looking,
Yet a wreck;
None would think Death's finger's hooking
Him from deck.
Cause of half the fun that's started --
`Hard-case' Dan --
Isn't like a broken-hearted,
Ruined man.

Walking-coat from tail to throat is
Frayed and greened --
Like a man whose other coat is
Being cleaned;
Gone for ever round the edging
Past repair --
Waistcoat pockets frayed with dredging
After `sprats' no longer there.

Wearing summer boots in June, or
Slippers worn and old --

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poem by Henry Lawson
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Midnight in Dostoevsky

Beginning with lines by Frank O'Hara,
for Frank, & Elaine Stritch,
Good Company All The Way From
'The Theatre of the Seven Rungs'

'I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.'

And a perfect day, drab Saturn's day, dark, stormy, muggy wet to skin, pretend one's at brunch though it is now 6 pm and one has just boiled the only egg in the house, fried one leathery strip of bacon (apple wood smoked and ice-box withered) ...I have managed to offend, I forget that I still have a few left around, Christian friends, the only two who've hung in there through my many theophrenic forays either cashing in my genitals at the 'admit one' desk or camping out at the 'Complaints' window finally getting my chance to ask the white haired deity, 'Any chance I can get my testicles back? ' THWACK! back to the back of the line.

In time I have learned to pick pockets there such as are theologies. Those standing anxiously eager to rush forward to the Admit One desk are too careless and unvigilant to notice I've reach easily in and stolen what spare change that may be of any real 'good' in their cracked and glued back together 'god-banks' pink a the piggy ones but not as cute. Mine own refuses tape, glue, plaster of paris but is always in need of gaffers...and I DO get the pun. Still, it pains me to have afflicted the Fundy Two with theological blues and warts, they who seek to thwart where they think I am bound but truth be told where I already am, with Dante, with Virgil, a host of others boiling their egg and sizzling their pork (not from the piggy or god bank, mind) trying to barter a few pocket stolen coins for a slice of bread.

Now as the lightning strikes about my place, to save face I play choral music, 'O sacred head, ' but like an itch demanding to be scratched till raw, I claw my way toward Palestrina in order to arrive at sulpheric, vodka-soaked bliss, dear dear hardcore Stritch on the turntable pleasing all indigents dwelling at least in the imaginary balcony, upon my frayed carpet, my frayed end, of the 'The Theatre of the Seven Rungs' grinding out, The Ladies Who Lunch, two versions, one from her prime and one from the 'return to the back of the line' place but having by now toward the end more than a hunch, Elaine alone, pockets full, old and grand, standing solo and proclaiming, Everybody rise! I stand and grandly bow. 'Old Cow! ' I shout above vodka drenched ice in a glass. Lightning strikes. The window lights up a skyline. I sit on my childhood Bible for good measure, Pascal's wager made with my arse. Parsing sins rosary I reach, hands shaking for Smirnoff reading O'Hara for comfort:

'St. Serapion, I wrap myself in the robes of your
whiteness which is like midnight in Dostoevsky. How am
I to become a legend, my dear? I've tried love, but
that holds you in the bosom of another and I'm always
springing forth from it like the lotus-the ecstasy of
always bursting forth! (but one must not be distracted
by it!) or like a hyacinth, 'to keep the filth of life

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poem by Warren Falcon
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