By now you may be seeing a pattern which suggests, quite unconsciously, that songs are written to a certain requirement. According to the instruments used, the versatility of the musicians, the kind of crowd. Fidelity to a subgenre that was possibly suggested by an overheated hack in the first place, is not something to which one should adhere with any rigidity. Not if you want to be prolific.
My beginnings are in word scraps and then poetry so I absolutely identify with this. The idea of some scant accompaniment to a particulary poignant piece is something I see as desirable, all the while conscious that the audience may see it differently.
I suppose this is why, as a lyricist, I alternate between modes; sometimes more song-driven, at other times, employing the pliability of verse. There’s a certain luxury with not having to be the one to figure out how the piano or guitar can be best employed.
And my heroes are all songpoets though I do admire Iggy’s physicality and Jim Morrison’s deep Dyonisian delivery
Anything can be made into poetry. Which is not the same as saying that anything is poetry. Some things – many things – are too prosaic to make the cut.
Tore Out the Last Page
Trapped in tit for tat and a tat for your tit You've ruled in the margin but don't get this bit As the scene unravels and flags unfurl and we're back at the beginning of boy meets girl Dog-eared digressions keep us amused when the templates for confession have all been used If you think me foreword I'll append I seize at the shelf by themself and down on one knee Indexed a digital dialect jack in to direct where once circling the circumspect no paper caper to correct A clot in the plot and a a thinning theme Deus ex machina well we can dream Characters careening corrupting their leaning The author affirms the studied bookworms Ideas and how they carry germs Fixing the foxing faxing a copy Forming our own conclusions