For Seredipity: All Tomorrow’s Parties

Here it is, the absolutely not 77 page poem.
By Brandon K. Nobles
Dm _______________________
For you, dear Reader, on this page
The manic instrokes–Rorschach’s face;
The plot is but an Artist’s grave,
Which to delay, he must betray,
The soul that he must hide to save.
Dmin7 _____________________
And in time, each page that’s lost,
For the author is a stone.
Like Sisyphus, the God we lost,
Outside of time with but a rock,
Locked away, by God forgot.
Am (1,2, 7#) _________________

Sisyphus’s punishment
Was a sin he hadn’t meant;
The sin was a lie, he knows
How much he lost because of it,
Ashamed he cannot it admit,
Not even for his greatest wish,
A tender and sincere forgiveness.
Bb _________________________
But for a ghost what matters most
Is the life it lost
And he remembers in November
The ivy where they crossed
And two cents became cement,
And was sold at such a cost.
It’s a debt and we regret
Each reminder that we get
Is for some some money spent.
On a birdcage with no bird
Just a candle smoking, burned.
Bb7 _______________________
He’d sell his life at half the price
For sweet June for whom
He writes;
It is absurd to think these words,
Are just a beautiful lie.
It’s for the treasure in the desert
For Sweet June the hidden stream
The Oasis was his Grecian Queen.
What else is there for a God,
The God of lies, alone?
These words, this effort,
Is his song.
F# _________________________
For him she is a Summer’s Rose,
A golden sun cast through the grove
Between the seasons I have seen
At the Summit of a Dream
A pillow for her and for me
My Grecian Queen by me asleep;
Perhaps sometime, some other life,
They’ll let this thief into Paradise.
Fb _________________________
Each manic inkstroke on a page,
Is really just the artist’s face
No Rorschach pattern
It’s a lantern
For both of us to see
More than a page on which is laid
Such beauty is in every key.
Not to obscure the truth,
But to spring open the cage,
That the pink bars on this page
Keep this singing bird restrained.
Fsus4 _______________________

Perhaps in a different life,
Some memory or dream
A bird of yesteryear, it called,
To sing.
Of all he’s heard, and
All he’s seen
At the summit in a dream.
Every moment stolen,
Cast by a sun too old
But golden,
Is but another page.
It’s how we think about the future;
It’s who we are today.
As quick as the summer comes
It just as soon gives way–
To November, and you remember,
Faces in the fires burning
In the Embers of December
Fmaj _______________________

The Careful Chain
My younger brother Kyle and me,
Spent a summer with our old grandmother
We called her Granny Bea.
We played in the yard,
And she looked on,
Dealing and shuffling cards.
And in her roses as she told us
We could find a bug;
A Junebug is was its name.
The secret was to catch it
And put it in a jar;
Then take a piece of yarn,
And wrap the string around its wings
In a tight but careful ring.
Tight but careful ring.
The Reason for the Season
Junebugs, when summer comes,
Was happiness and love.
First we’d catch it then we’d let it
With that string on its wing–
Fly around in crazy circles
So there we were on easy chairs.
Granny Bea, a cup of tea,
A Junebug circling a tree.
In the heat it was a dream.
And dreamers sometime somehow become aware
That what their breathing isn’t air
They’re only dreaming
There is no rock
There is no range
The sky looked gray
The world was a crayon drawing
On a sick-child’s wall
Hebephrenic, and he knows it
In his delusions he’s heroic
There’s too much tangled WIRE NOW
We’re disconnected with the past,
We know the story of our glory
Even if it wasn’t there
It’s a healthy thing
To be a king
If a King only over this
To carve my fucking rachen in it.
King of a sovereign pen,
The prisoner claims he’s found his brains
So they will let him out and spew his
Homemade genocide
And some twisted little children’s show will light the scene
Rescue ranges so confused
And what is left could be at best a beast that is amused.
There are so many things that are
Things that don’t need a definition
Hydra and Betelgeuse
They are the most the most beautiful
Forever silent lights
For that is what we think we won’t
At least that’s what they write.
Does it have to mean anything to be
As beautiful as an introspective sea
Calmed by the water has a word
It’s distinctive and it means that
Enough people have looked out to sea
And knew that it was home
Ah, those moments! Memory!
The Plagiarized Machine
Withdrawal takes too long
It’s an apex predator and in good weather
Chasing you? Fucking never.
In the jungle you’re more humble
And by the time you realize
The vines aren’t vines
They are imposter
The Ego dies among between the wire.
But when it bites you,
You are eased.
To stand before the beast and bid it eat you
Is for some a daily issue.

In their plagiarized Machine
There were once three
But two have gone
And Trois-coleure Rouge is left alone.
A perfect crumpled flower in one hand
In the desert there is pressure
That makes the sandman wake
To never spake
To never talk,
Of the Dreamworld where we walk
And no one dies and no one lies
Where they believe the alibis
The Doctor loves. The doctor lies.
Junebug in the summer
I’d catch them in a mayonaisse jar
My oh my I was with Kyle
And there was Bea her parrot Keith
On a rocking chair
Those were the days
Drinking Lipton in the shade.
And she taught us quite a yarn
When we caught the first junebug
We tied the string on both its feet
And tied the other to the tree
And sat back laughing in the heat.
Kyle clapped, he loved the shit
Words are just a disease that can spread this sickness
He’s showing you as you’d expect,
Something that not many get
But like me my brother’s crazy
My favorite word was almost
His favorite was maybe
And we watch these insects in the heat
It wasn’t what he loved so much
It was the voice it was the touch
The company of someone you love
Our memories are wired wrong
We remember the lyrics, but never the song
We know who wrote it and he sang it
The same person that fucking hates it.

Scooby-Doo, I’m older now,
He’s hear with me now
That was him he said Hello,
Not to worry, just let go.
Even Madame Butterfly turns to silence
It is unfair to keep us here
Alone in the biggest playground known
Infinity behind us and before us to see
But we fucked it up with stupid dreams
To be loved, to be the man
The man who had the only plan
To keep him running freedom
And so the chameleon learned to cheat
It was a mirror that reflected
All your lover’s deserved neglected
By sham and shame I have no name
When I played baseball they gave me a
And put the number ZER0 on it.
I was happy, I applauded
I wish it could be something lost
Forgotten like a wrecked night-stand.
Back in June
Every moment stolen
Has taken from us something golden
More valuable than anything we hold
Is the clock that overthrows
Every goodbye, every kitcshy snowglobe
With Russian’s cussin’ about something,
The sun surprises when it rises
The rock goes up, That’s Sisyphus
His murder is the burden source
The light, and energy, mass and force.
The days of kneebobs consist of this
Daydreaming in a drug-filled room
Cooking bliss inside a spoon.

The Cross Walk
At the bottom’s where they start ‘im
That crown of grief, he must keep up,
Because the deal has long since struck
30 years for fifty bucks.
To die is oh no terror-held,
In a cell so loud so silent
It’s an awfully good approximation
Of What The church calls hell.
So when you die, you might as well
Go somewhere that when you’re there
You never forget to fragment
Like a car-crash
Where The Sidewalk Ends
Say anything
Sing to the sun, sing to the moon,
Sing to your sweetheart, Here’s to June!
And before I go, I have a tune,
And sweet June it’s just for you.
Thank you ladies, Thank you gents.
For giving me that 50 cents
I can see it now.
You’ll love me in tomorrow land
That’s good enough for me
But before I go I’d like to show
You the outline of my soul
I felt, I loved, I laughed, I thought
Perhaps it may be a cliché
Like in the movies, Someone will say:
10,000 years feels like a day.
Telegraph to a future June
You know how long I’ve thought to say,
To give voice to how I feel
Every moment is a hill
I’m always climbing, going nowhere
That’s where I want to be.
On the out-skits, not the middle
I’ve lived life in hell for her a little.
I’d do it again
A million times,
To say that I love
Op. 32 – Autumn

If a writer knew the perfect words,
The perfect way to say one word;
Half of what we say and write,
Would feel undeserved,
But we’re defined, refined,
By our refined
Way to say we love.
I’ve stared at a page so long
I forgot what I had to say,
What could I say that could give voice
To the measurement of life,
A specific life, a life one lives,
We live because love is the cure
No painkiller does more.
You are the morphine in the war.

I don’t know how to say it allowed
Because I feel so much
I could write ten-thousand words
And that’d be but a touch
A footprint looks unlike a boot,
That outline in the dust.
I feel so much, so overwhelmed.
Sometimes those we love the most
Are those the most condemned.
A smiling face is worth so much
When they are seldom seen.
I see your eyes and smiling face,
A smile only you could buy,
And with that love I’m taken in
Possessed I’ll haunt your thoughts
The ghost beside you, at 3 am I mind you
Not to haunt but hum”To hum and sing and hum and sing”
Until I follow you into your dreams
The dreams of us when we are there
In that ballroom under the stars
With Van Gogh’s screaming on the walls
In the prettiest blue of all.
Stravinsky and his Nightingale
About the artificial tell
In the air is such an air on an Amati
And in our ballroom, that is where
We’ve got on our Sunday best,
And in our best clothes,
The best way to hide,
Connected to each other,
No need for us to speak
All is in your demure eyes,
And rouge upon your cheek
With Rembrandt eyes
That underdog smile that takes a while
To find and when we find it, wild
It makes us bouncy, butterflies
When we’re in love with our lives
Because we’re together and we weathered
Every inner-outer failure,
And now we wait for time to move
And weep not for the Rose.
Because one day fair in brisk spring air
It got to stretch and grow.
It was not known but some poor souls
Plucked it from its home, to die,
So it can tell that pretty lie.

For it is true, profoundly so,
that every flower, when it dies,
Tells us the truth about our lies.
About the soil, about the Earth,
About the winding road and Her,
That makes the sickness disappear
And one is left drunk, that wine!
As though it were some anodyne.
Puts me in a world more fit
I play by choice, I will not quit;
Trying to prove that real love exists.

So when I say I love you,
Those words are for you.
You can keep it to yourself,
Whatever you wish to do.
There is a world, somewhere out there,
Where people love and do not care
In my life and in my dreams,
I’ve seen places
I’ve seen things
Venice in November,
And Moscow in the spring;
Yet if this world had half the heart
That me and you’ve had from the start
There’d be no love,
There’d be no war
There’d be no John
There’d be no whore;
There’d be just love,
And there’d be more.
Your sickness gone you’re strung along
To the place you’ve never really been
I’m talking about home my friend.

Is home November,
Is it June?
It’s all the same when I’m with you.
On a coast I’ve never known
My chest heavens my pulse will rise
When your voice makes me realize
If you stop running, stop the race,
We can together find rare things
Such words that in life pass us by
A cloud floats by, “I love you, Die”
The Fingerpainting of a God
Writes your name in the sky
And as soon as it comes to you
It makes you say Goodbye.

Goodbye is the worst thing
You’ll ever have to say
It’s how you lose, it’s how you part,
The word to me’s a broken heart.
I never say it, not in Hell,
For even there for one so fare
I’d say only farewell.
And thank you for being
The Oasis and the Well

And in our minds we find strange things
That sometimes consolation brings,
The consolation is the love
That’s more apparent than the sun
A light that makes you grateful
Every morning that you wake
Every breath you get to take
Is not more life than you;
For everywhere there is more there,
For you there are not two,
But one:
You are the same
The moon, the sun,
Without price or value
You are the one.
Which means my life long search is done.

And into my mind we must go,
Ignore the grey, ignore the snow
Here we’ll take our dancing room
And make it rare, we’ll make it bloom
You’ll be Queen of whom I dreamed
When it was still June;
You’ll come to life, open your eyes,
And everything is a surprise.
The trees wave Hello,
The flowers speak,
Not with words–the air we breathe
And half of that air has been you
This is the best I can attest
Of me at my worst and best
As Falstaff once so barren said:
Banish him not thy company Heiress.

Is that the fantasy now?
This is life.
And life is more beautiful than
The best Picasso or Cezanne
I sometimes deceive, for greed,
Makes a magician politician
Who use the truth for lies;
But as a writer, I must spite her,
And use the lies for truth,
It’s how Rembrandt and Gus Van Sant
Use fiction to tell the truth.
I have lied of lots of things,
Yet never once of love
Never yet since the event
That to me brings this heavy pen
To tell you all, but only you,
I’ve done my time;
Parole is due.
The mind has cleared, the moon has past,
In the light not shadows cast
There is no stone left for me now
I think that I’ve atoned
And I will celebrate this date
In the only way I can–a song.
A song for you, and far too long;
Commas, commas, commas for all!

In a cheap Victorian
I’d sit with you and with my pen
And more alive because you smile
That light in your face when I’m being vile
The Regal face, the Juvenile
Is under the skin and hidden away
Just like a Junebug in a cage,
November is the better season
Because we know what we’ve lost
In a life where most our time
Is dealing with what we’re tossed;
To have such a life, two kids and a wife,
You have to rely on the dice.
Like Marcel Proust–that cup of tea!
I see you rise and stand before me;
And there we are, we’re on the deck,
A little more, a little less,
You kissed my ears and I forgot
That I was poor and ill-begot
You are more than just a problem
That I just try to solve
You’re much than an equation,
Because what you are, to me, at least,
Is perfect chaos, symmetry.
All it does is fall.
And every time I write by night
The images come waving in
The air goes past my face
And I’m falling again.
Because it moves, it smiles, it’s breathes,
You follow me into my dreams.
If memory is a machine,
Designed exactly like a dream,
Then technically that’s what we lose
I’d still be on that mountain now,
Or lying in my bed.
Playing a type or stupid game,
Trapped inside my head.
You sprung me free, I am the bird!
The rock was needed as a needle,
I needed to depend,
Up and down the USA coast,
Never had a friend.
I had my stone,
My crown of grief,
I thought it Noble artistry;
When you invade someone’s mind
An apparition you reminder
One of all the things that make
The garrulous stream a placid lake.
You only give
You never take
And from this madness you can have it
The Pearl this chaos made.
And we can leave that slave in me,
In its own little grave.
I was once held by regret
And now I’ve been set free
You loved me in the first sweet season
You loved me, that month of June,
When things are lost, we count the cost;
It can’t be paid in silver.
You got to live to see me bloom;
Please stay while I wither.
Someday I will be a ghost,
I want you to remember.
From time to time,
If I must leave,
And while your walking suddenly
The leaves turn into a storm
They leave soft kisses and they form
The shape of a lover lost forlorn,
Who descended from heaven
To send the message
I love you and Goodbye.
And in a moment it is stolen,
It rejoins the sky;
But those we love they never leave
They circle with the sky.
The howling trees that make you freeze
Are the unloved passing by.

Without a sun a planet’s rogue,
It careens through space lost cold
Wandering round with misery’s crown
I was ancient, I was cold
But the sun came up and with some luck
I found myself a star in love
And there I am, and there I’ll stay,
Forever young in our space
In Ballyhoo, it’s me and you,
We share our stories and our lives
Something I could not think true
you let me your Doctor Who.
And that sound just played for me!
It played inside my head!
It’s spooky romance at a distance
There it is again!
There is no Heaven,
But there’s a hell.
It’s Heaven without a friend.
We are many,
We are lost
By Destiny the Weaver tossed.
Lost in the dark, the planet cold,
Where all we lonely people roam
That’s the answer to the song:
That’s where we’re at when we’re alone,
Addicted to our crown, our stone,
Sisyphus is not alone.

And when he understands
That the rock is made of sand
He’s an old young naive man,
Whose never alked the living lands
Or see beauty in the golden strands
The Crown the Flowers wear
The moisture that
Each day
Keeps damp
The flowers for the Reading Lamp
And that was what he had forgot
Because he chose that stone, that rock.
And the seasons all were reasons
To mourn, to carry on.

At the bottom’s where they start ’em
The valleys between the peaks.
I’ve walked down many corridors
Awake and while I sleep.
That rock was a comfort,
That rock was a sound.
It keeps us to our loneliness
To disease and body bound.
As the sun was setting he was getting
Closer to the top.
Closer to his favorite spot,
And he puts all of his grief
Into that rock, to that disease
To see that work, to see that pain,
Come to nothing once again.
And Pagliacci, that old crown
Laughing walks beside it down.
King of his own Tartarus
With June, his love, his crown.
Op. 32 – Winter

In the silhouette of shadows cast
And each sprite carved out by night
Is love but amplified, it’s bright,
You stumble with the stone,
You stumble because you know.
The trees are gone, there’s no more June,
Just your memories and the moon.
How often must we walk alone,
Up and down the shadowed wall
And in rare moments you see spoken
In random words, the moon:
Love’s a mirage we see through bars
The way a prisoner looks at the stars.
In the winter, in the snow
We feel our age when we get alone
The sun may rise but gives no call
It sets and rises sets and falls
But the cold is in your soul
You’re wearing a tired suit
In our worst moments, in all our lives,
We create June in our minds.
We open books, we look, and wonder,
Chasing the rolling hills of summer.
I guess until real June returns
I’ll sing these song to praise the Sun.
Confessions as they said in lessons
Are the keys that open heaven
That’s not the cure,
That’s a disguise
It’s the disease
The cure’s a lie.
Halos and the cherubs
It’s a tender fantasy.
You love the summer, but you dream,
In the heat, you dream of spring.
And in the heat, you want the cold,
The door to winter, January,
Is normal for a person sweating.
But when you get there,
You look back.
And you see it’s one night only,
I’m a baboon with a blanket on me
And without pills these poems,
They calm me.
If I could this pen forget
And go back to Yesterday
Before they turned into tomorrow
Before the parties went away
And left you on your on to pray
To something that you don’t believe
It’s guilt that puts you on your knees.
Once the real world you have left
There’s something you must choose
All you have is yours to lose
Choose a witch, or choose a queen
It’s just one life, no in between
I conjure up the Grecian Queen
And the desert, where I left her,
Is more welcoming with time.
As much as we all love the rose,
The beauty we adore–
We do not hold it without knowing
That it’s adorned by thorns.
The way it hurts us is so perfect
It’s hard to put it down.
It may be grief, but still, at least,
It is a thrill to be a King.
Hello you, how do you do?
What sounds!
By baboons in an evening gown.
Days are worthy soldiers laid
On the red carpet to the grave.
And when we’re lowered down, to lay,
For all of time we’re left to say
We leave as we came, and lost,
We’d miss our grief,
We’d have our pall.
In concrete jungles drawn in chalk.
Why would one leave
A Grecian queen?
Light blinded stumbling in the dark,
Falls on cue,
That’s what we do
In this tawdry show
And all we know about the show
Is that someone in the row
May have thorns, though still a rose
The thorns adorn the rose to warm
The disillusioned in their arm
Living alone is living lost
We’re patterns on a wall that crossed
By destiny like puppets tossed.
The winter ends,
It melts, that frost;
The spring returns and then we learn
What we loved most about the sun.
Coda: Op. 42–Spring
Spring is the season that we dream in
The world where love exists
Love is everywhere you look
It is the pollen in the mist.
It’s the warmth you feel when held
It’s not quite heaven
Not quite hell.
And that’s the love I’ve always known,
The bashful Hellos on the phone,
Into my ear, into my mind,
There together we can find
Such strange things
And wonder, too
The violent virus in the zoo;
Words of hope and consolation
Pass o’erhead but we’re mistaken
It’s always spring, if it’s ever,
It’s in our minds, our hearts, forever
For Dante, Virgil got him through,
And took him through the human zoo.
Instead I got you,
The Virgil for a poet lost,
Who somehow in the ivy crossed
Into your path and then–the frost–
It melted, turned to grass, to moss
Through each stage of grief we’ve been
From those in lust thrown by the wind
To those for whom to lie is sin,
The ones that just could not repent
And if you guide me through the moors
The woods on flame, the corridors,
And see the truth
I’d be reborn.

And like Marcel, that sweet lime tea,
When you pick this up, it’s me,
Talking to you from the past
In the winter looking past
The moments and the things I’ve chosen
Weren’t always right,
Not always fulsome.
Don Giovanni refused to repent,
But if you don’t you cannot live.
But when you do,
Just let it be
That’s the cure
That’s the key.
And you see it all around
The vivid images and sounds
That night we shared, just by the pool,
Something happened, something new!
I didn’t care that it was June
if it was autumn or July
It could have been the fall of night
But nothing was a lie.
It might have been a dream
It could be a broken mind
Thanks for the dream you shared with me
Thank you for your time.

Published by

Brandon K. Nobles

Brandon is an author, poet and head writer for Sir Swag on YouTube. With 630k subscribers. Since February 2021 he has written for the most important and popular series, News Without the Bulls%!t and the least popular work on the channel, History Abridged. Brandon joined the channel in late January, since then his work has been featured every month in News and History. His novels and works of fiction have also been well received, and he continues to be a proficient and professional chess player. In his spare time he like to catch up on work.

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