Quotes about muzak
Silence is Golden
It seems that everywhere I go
pop music strikes me like a blow.
Its not that I’m a philistine.
I find some music is divine.
But I prefer it soft and low
classics are the best I know.
To put me in a mellow mood.
I find loud pop songs rather crude.
But Muzak really gets my goat.
A quiet store would get my vote.
I can browse without background noise.
That wretched Muzak just annoys
me makes me lose my train of thought.
So what I need remains unbought.
I much prefer to do without.
I find the exit and rush out.
[...] Read more
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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I worry that the person who thought up Muzak may be thinking up something else.
quote by Lily Tomlin
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Music can be used against us as much as it can be used for us. Muzak can put a whole nation to sleep, whereas a lullaby is intended to put a child to sleep in a sweet way.
quote by Holly Near
Added by Lucian Velea
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Chisinau (Life poem)
Slendiforous girls in their sexy summer clothes,
Their stilettos strutter on the sticky hot streets,
Knowing you are distractible by catwalk curves,
The streets a clutteration of Volgas and Volvos.
Breakfast harpist plays muzak in the morning,
Makes my ham and eggs strangely indigestible,
And lobby designer shops jarringly bankrupt,
Tartan uniforms match carpet in the "Irish" bar.
Just another comfortabulous hotel home, again
poem by Ian Beckett
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Note From Echo
Narcissus, I no longer haunt the canyons
and the crypts. I thrive and multiply;
uncounted daughters are my new companions.
We are the voicemail's ponderous reply
to the computers making random calls.
We are the Muzak in the empty malls,
the laughtrack on the reruns late at night,
the distant siren's chilling lullaby,
the steady chirp of things that simplify
their scheduled lives. You know I could recite
more, but you never cared for my recitals.
I do not miss you, do not need you here—
I can repeat the words of your disciples
telling lovers what they need to hear.
poem by A.M. Juster
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Driving To Dargaville (Life Poem)
Sunday-empty Auckland my pre-breakfast escape,
Sheep-spotted mountains in early morning mist,
Whangarei marina for a cauldron of cappuccino.
Shop of metal sheep starts a day of Kiwi weirdness,
Of customer requesting glassblowing lessons, and
“All Blacks” silk boxers, unworn by players I hope.
Driving to Dargaville for Mr. M. Ujdur museum treat,
That late gum-digging, Esperanto teaching, vintner.
Beside a colossal collection of accordions with muzak,
Playing an instrument-impossible Whiter Shade of Pale,
Plus coins and buttons and stamps and Scotsmen,
Left feeling stunned, like I was tripping on acid.
The possum cull with prizes seemed almost normal.
poem by Ian Beckett
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Across the Universe (Life Poem)
1,000 miles from the Merry Christmas muzak in Port Moresby
Fat Brisbane taxi philosopher’s poor mouth moaning season
Navan road Sydney AMEX girl pining for the cold in Dublin
Along with traditional stuffing of turkey ham and trimmings.
10,000 miles to London via sticky Bangkok “Merry Clistmas”
And cattle class envy of First class lounge showers mid-flight
But Jetlag is the same nightmare at both ends of the plane
As we fly across the universe to be home for Christmas.
1,000,000 people flying to their friends and families
Do all those sad, glad, bad, mad once-a-year reunions
Make it to Happy New Year without killing each other
Resolving to be prosperous, viceless and happy again?
poem by Ian Beckett
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Catatonic Optimist
Candy with breakfast makes everything brighter
Turns my feelings hygenic, and make orange juice lighter
Junk mail and traffic are no longer my hassles
When I take from a vial that makes me see castles
Catatonic Optimism
It hits faster then a missle
Heading out towards havanah
Where mushrooms form inside nirvana
Neighbors bad dealings, and boses cold grins
Disregard all the tension from a neutralizing syringe
I used sigh heavey and lay under green blankets
But now its treacle, and with hookah I can slack it
Catatonic Optimism
You'll collide with cartoon vission
Taking rides inside bubble's
Flying lightyears from any trouble
[...] Read more
poem by Kevin Patrick
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On Not Flying To Hawaii
I could be the waitress
in the airport restaurant
full of tired cigarette smoke and unseeing tourists.
I could turn into the never-noticed landscape
hanging identically in all the booths
or the customer behind the Chronicle
who has been giving advice about stock portfolios for forty years.
I could be his mortal weariness,
his discarded sports section, his smoldering ashtray.
I could be the 70-year-old woman who has never seen Hawaii,
touching her red lipstick and sprayed hair.
I could enter the linen dress
that poofs around her body like a bridesmaid,
or become her gay son
sitting opposite her, stirring another sugar
into his coffee for lack of something true to say.
I could be the reincarnated soul of the composer
of the Muzak that plays relentlessly overhead,
or the factory worker who wove this fake Oriental carpet,
or the hushed shoes of the busboy.
[...] Read more
poem by Alison Luterman
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Names on War Memorials
Billy got a gun,
When he turned 18
Did two tours in Iraq
And got a purple heart for free
When he arrived home
The Mayor gave him a key
And said 'how proud' he was
'For serving God and country'
But Billy was an egg
With a brain now slightly fried
Watching marching bands
And the Batons on the lines
Searching for the danger
In the Cadillac landmines
The sparkles made him dread
All the fireworks of July
[...] Read more
poem by Kevin Patrick
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