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Dear Mr. Richard Brown,
bright star of all the Senate,
this letter makes me frown,
and I feel pained to pen it;
I know you're sweet of tongue,
damn smart, and even richer,
but that girl? Oh, too young!
I had to take a picture.
Senator Richard Brown,
you bouncy little bunny!
I'll spread it over town
if I don't see some money.
The press will find it funny
how tight she held that whip—
and your pubescent honey
won't get her scholarship.
It isn't just one shot;
I have at least a dozen.
I like your girls a lot,
especially your cousin.
In one, the first I'll show,
your head looks like a pumpkin.
Shouldn't the voters know
how you enjoy a rendez-vous?
Senator Richard Brown,
fire whoever disguised you!
You look good in a gown,
but still, I recognized you.
I see they circumcized you?
Should have lopped off the rest!
One million is the prize due;
next Thursday would be best.
Dear young constituent,
I see you'd like to burn me,
but your malign intent
frankly does not concern me.
Yeah, you dug up some dung;
it won't be my undoing.
Who'll notice this among
ten bigger scandals brewing?
Senator Richard Brown
won't lightly kick the bucket,
and he will not go down.
However hard you chuck it,
Dick Brown can prob'ly duck it.
Come on: I run this town,
so make like corn and shuck it,
sincerely, Richard Brown,
your senator.
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2. |
Margrethe
02:18
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3. |
The Garden of Proserpine
08:34
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Here, where the world is quiet;
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.
I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.
Here life has death for neighbour,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
And no such things grow here.
No growth of moor or coppice,
No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes
Save this whereout she crushes
For dead men deadly wine.
Pale, without name or number,
In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
Comes out of darkness morn.
Though one were strong as seven,
He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
In the end it is not well.
Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love's who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.
She waits for each and other,
She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
And flowers are put to scorn.
There go the loves that wither,
The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined springs.
We are not sure of sorrow,
And joy was never sure;
To-day will die to-morrow;
Time stoops to no man's lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure.
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.
Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.
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4. |
Villanelle
02:59
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When you lay your brown eyes on me,
whatever makes them shine so bright,
that's what I'd give an eye to see.
How can you glance with so much glee
upon a face so wan and white
when you lay your brown eyes on me?
If I could glimpse what seems to be
my own face through an angel's sight,
that's what I'd give an eye to see.
There is a burst of poetry
that flares out with transcendent light
when you lay your brown eyes on me,
and that bright beacon sets me free
to glimpse a garden of delight;
that's what I'd give an eye to see.
It lets me glide so easily
on wings of gladness through the night.
When you lay your brown eyes on me,
that's what I'd give an eye to see.
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5. |
Flames of Love
04:05
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It was a night as dark as hell
when I saw the girl I knew so well
in the arms of a man with skin pale white
in a streetlamp’s pool of icy light.
She took a drag of sweetest clove
and pressed her lips in a fit of love
to the mouth of that human heap of trash—
on the wind I caught a whiff of ash.
Oh, my sweet Danielle. . .
oh, my sweet Danielle. . .
I will proudly go to hell,
only for my sweet Danielle.
As I walked back to my empty house
I saw a cat who’d caught a mouse.
He gave it some false hope to flee,
but then devoured it gleefully.
I walked into my entrance hall
and punched a hole out of my wall—
I found my broken down machine
and poured a glass of gasoline.
Oh, my sweet Danielle. . .
Oh, my sweet Danielle. . .
I will proudly go to hell,
only for my sweet Danielle.
I found him by a red, red door
I’d entered many times before,
and there in that familiar place
I poured my cup on his pale, pale face.
I smashed the glass on his wretched head
and beat him till my knuckles bled.
I breathed in slowly, lit a match,
lit up, and settled down to watch.
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6. |
I Have a Plan (Summary)
02:08
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7. |
Come With Me
04:49
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Come with me now through the walkways of sunset;
dance through the darkening dreams of the night;
walk where I wander, where all is tinged blood-red;
walk the white line where the shadows are light,
safe at my side through the sunset and shadow,
I care not where, but
come with me, come with me, come with me
Come with me now on the chariots of moonrise,
silver on black let us ride through the cloud;
ride through the realm where the Sun is unheard of—
let night be your veil, not your burial shroud.
Safe at my side through the moonrise and mourning,
I care not where, but
come with me, come with me, come with me.
Come with me now through the valley of darkness;
enter that Vale and I’ll guide through its shade.
Walk through a world where your soul sings in silence,
by many, perhaps, but by me not betrayed.
Safe at my side through the deepest of darkness,
I care not where, but
come with me, come with me, come with me.
Come with me now to the beacon of sunrise;
sing for the soft-shining shimmer of dew;
rest on the road where the Sun beams so brightly,
igniting all blood; let it burn into you.
Safe at my side through the music of morning,
I care not where, but
come with me, come with me, come with me.
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8. |
Yet Loathe the Banquet
04:09
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Watching the sun sink incarnadine slowly,
smelling the rush of mortality calling,
hearing the talk of the weak and unholy,
is it a shock that I find you appalling?
The daylight gives way to the dark and the rain
and the play of my passion is acted again.
Floating with a lazy motion
as the bee the flower sips,
with an air of fierce devotion
I suck venom from your lips;
silent as the heart of ocean
down your virgin skin it drips.
Now is the night, when the shadows around me
shroud me and arm me to harm me at leisure,
give me a sword of the darkness that bound me,
starve me to strengthen my hate of your pleasure.
I seek out the jubilant rush of your vein
just to suck out your pleasure and turn it to pain.
Floating with a lazy motion
as the bee the flower sips,
with an air of fierce devotion
I suck venom from your lips;
potent as a witch’s potion,
down your virgin skin it drips.
I am burning with more yearning
than your still-whole heart can feel—
those that curse me still coerce me
not to taste the joy I steal.
I am taunted, yes, and haunted
by an unforgotten life—
those that wake me now remake me
into the anointed knife.
I am raging; no assuaging
rain can touch my desert skin—
evermore I live the story
of an unforgiven sin.
I am harmed with hate and armed with
hollow swords that swallow light,
deeper shadow of a shadow
sickly swooping through the night.
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9. |
A Forsaken Garden
04:52
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10. |
The Sailor
03:40
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The sky is growing red beyond the pier,
and with the sunrise I must board and sail away from here,
no matter how my heart should sting and burn.
But wait, my dear; within a year, I swear I will return.
Though I must walk through peril
where many men have perished
upon the savage ocean,
I promise to
return to you.
The foreign lands will try to snare my eye,
but I will keep my thoughts on you no matter how they try.
I'll sleep alone upon a barren bed,
though succubi may sing and sigh from lips and tongues of red.
As I am not a lecher,
as I am not a bastard,
as I am not a treacher,
I promise to
return to you.
My heart is false;
my word is true.
And though the waves may rise and swallow me,
as no one in creation can escape mortality,
I swear upon my soul, I swear it true,
across the sea's infinity my ghost will float to you.
Though I am not immortal,
though I am not a god,
though waters claim my body
I promise to
drift back to you,
though mists of death
obscure my view.
I promise to
return to you.
I promise to
return to you.
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Alexander Dove Chicago, Illinois
Alexander Dove is a songwriter, poet, and composer, who also plays in the traditional Celtic folk group Dòrain. Alexander Dove is used for more-or-less solo or self-directed work, regardless of genre. Published writings are under the name Alexander Dove Lempke. ... more
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