Thoughts …

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Thoughts…
When I’m alone in my room a million thoughts run through my head:
ideas for stories, melody and chord structures for songs, food, sex, girls I like, girls I don’t like, girls I used to love, people I dislike, people who dislike me, California, surfing the blue seas, drinking a beer, laughing at good jokes, money, how to make money, world problems, the government, Illuminati, conspiracy theories, sex, my vinyl collection, boobs, sex, having a burger cooked medium rare with french fries and ketchup, maybe even some pasta with traditional-styled ragu sauce, Swedish girls, vacuuming my dirty carpet, taking a shower, wiping my ass just in case, cleaning the dishes, going for a walk, listening to a Michael Jackson song and dancing along to it, sex, Jewish girls, finding a solution to world hunger, coming up with an interesting conversation to have with whichever friend I decide to hang with soon, chocolate, endlessly slapping an annoying coworker, pussy, getting through the week, how long til new year’s, God, the meaning of life, sex, the past, how it felt banging that barely legal Czechoslovakian chick, how fucked up it was that Marvin Gaye was killed by his father, frolicking in a field, strolling down sunset boulevard, Mrs. Robinson, choker necklaces on pale-skinned brunettes or redheads, Jesus, swimming in a pool, skateboarding in a pool, coping with MJ’s death, downing a bottle of wine, riding a horse, building a house out of cardboard, steak and eggs, boobs, how much money I actually have in my bank account, buying a car, riding my bike, watching an episode of an old children’s cartoon, my dick, kittens, the last episode of Saturday Night Live, how much I hate the NYC subway, Brooke Shields, soccer balls, getting hit by a baseball, getting pegged by a handball, sex, and whether I’ve amounted to anything on my life thus far.
Afterwards, I go to the bathroom to masturbate and then I’m fine.

Mensur Gjonbalaj
December 6, 2014

How I Make My Music – A Poem by The King of Pop

Michael Jackson

Michael Jackson

Today I’d like to share a poem by the late and beloved King of Pop, Michael Jackson. His music will live forever and he will go on being the greatest entertainer of all time.

How I Make My Music

People ask me how I make music. I tell them I
just step into it.It’s like stepping into a river and
joining the flow. Every moment in the river has
it’s song. So I stay in the moment and listen.
What I hear is never the same. A walk
through the woods brings a light, crackling
song:Leaves rustle in the wind, birds chatter and
Squirrels scold, twigs crunch underfoot, and
the beat of my heart holds it all together. When
you join the flow, the music is inside and outside,
and both are the same. As long as I can listen to
the moment, I’ll always have music.

by Michael Jackson

Dance Forever

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Dance Forever

She came from out of the blue
Nothing big, just something to do
Hoping to have a good time
She was ready to dance
and when she took to the floor
It was a moment of magic,
Nothing less, nothing more
Her black hair hanging down
and jiving with the groove
My eyes were locked on hers
Feeling the great sooth of her moves
The guitar jangled to the beat of her sparkly bangles
Her legs wouldn’t stop,
no matter how many times her hips bopped
As the bass came up and dropped
She bent down to lace up her knee socks
I was in love and under a spell
Willing to go wherever she’d go, even if it led me to hell
The feeling was too strong to handle,
too complex to explain
I’d stay here forever if all it took was to see her dancing,
again and again …

By Mensur Gjonbalaj
November 29, 2014

Good Art Never Dies

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Michael Jackson

Why must the innocent be taken away?
How ill-fated of a people are we to lose such pure souls?
The faces of youth disintegrated by the ugliness of corruption;
The sun can’t shine without a sky.
Our sky was stolen by the demons who sold the light of the world
for darkness.
But, though they be mischievous, the true wrongdoers of this deed are the ones who allowed for such a purchase.
Hell is for fools.
The common man is the greatest fool, for he sold his freedom under the false pretense of what he believed in his mind to be security.
And now what has been the cost?
The death of art and our beloved artists!
Barren of prophets and holy-men, the modern earth belongs to the artist:
Wise men who relinquish our hopes and fears whilst relishing the ephemeral realities of enduring a potent vivacity.
These souls are more often than not disparagingly frivolous of their own lives,
but that’s the hidden beauty behind the journey of a tragic hero.
So goes the mantra:
Narcissism for the sake of humanity.
We care for no one; we care for everyone.
Where have all the artists gone?
Too vain for heaven, yet too pure for hell.
Never pleased with mediocrity, limbo seems unlikely.
These souls are for the Earth and for her alone.
They present to us the undeniable beauty and remind us of our imminent demise.
Through their works of wonder we learn to understand the things around us
and why we must strive to carry on with life’s greatest mystery, existence.
Irony is everywhere and it’s funny too.
Like the scent of a rose that causes our senses to bloom,
So too do our minds.
Gone too soon. They’re always gone too soon.
Blesséd be our artists.
Their bodies may die and their lives may end,
but they live on forever in the hearts of men.
So no matter how many of us they wish to kill,
They’ll never succeed.
Good art never dies …

Mensur Gjonbalaj
November 27, 2014

What Difference Does it Make?

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What Difference Does it Make?
Lo and behold the most fabled story of all.
A man whose thoughts fared him wrong,
Thus leading him down a road barren of any gold.
He misthought the truth of any matter, especially that of salvation.
Feeling and dreaming were good enough acts and would restitute his faith.
What difference does it makes whether a man be good or bad?
For if either were to fall off a cliff both would hit ground
and to no bewilderment of a sound mind, most assuredly will die.
If we be equal in the face of death then equal we must be in our actions; come what may of the deed and it’s weight and measure on the scale of good and bad.
Futile though is the mentality that blinds man to believe his own premonitions to be the progenitor of reality.

By Mensur Gjonbalaj
November 2014

Unwritten

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Unwritten
I still regret losing those one hundred or so poems …
so vital, so rich in prose, so smooth in texture;
Now vanished, they have no way of seeing the light of day.
Mystics say that what is written never dies.
But what for my beloved thoughts so gracefully put to words?
Shall they one day come back to me
and be debuted to the world?
If my ever-endearing fortune has a thing to say about it,
then the case is all but promising.

The passions, hopes and fears, and the very proverbial manifestations of my inner psyche
all gone without a trace and all I’m left with is the present.
Be it but a month of my shortly condensed life,
the time was unique and in need of a very clear capture.
My words caught the feel of those turbulently beautiful days:
the culmination of sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll.
No matter how much I beseech God, he’ll never bring those words back to me -
Not in this life.
And if they were taken from me due to their lewd nature
I grieve not for in spite of all I lose
Never have I lost what I am and that which I live to do.
Perhaps those words weren’t meant to be read by any other soul by mine.
Or maybe, just maybe, the longing for creating a work as vivacious and lascivious in memory as those had been is lurking in the near future.
With despair comes ease I’ve been told.
Furthermore, the journey goes on and the when I come to think of it,
the best is yet written.

By Mensur Gjonbalaj

M-E-N-S-U-R

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MENSUR

I am a Meticulous craftsman
full of Erotic passions
and nothing short of a Narcissistic prick
who feeds off of Sexual energy.
My life goals are Ubiquitous yet endearing,
driven by the Raw desire to vanquish all.

By Mensur Gjonbalaj