Great literary content from other mediums

Would you come to me
If I was half drowning
An arm above the last wave

Would you come to me
Would you pull me up
Would the effort really hurt you
Is it unfair to ask you
To help pull me up

The window broke the silence of the matches
The smoke effortlessly floating

Pull me up
Would you be my lord and savior
Pull me up by my hair
Now would you kiss me, on my lips

Burning fever burning on my forehead
The brain that once was listening now
Shoots out its tiresome message

Won't you pull me up
Scalding, my dead father
Has the motor and he's driving towards
An island of lost souls

Sunny, a monkey then to monkey
I will teach you meanness, fear and blindness
No social redeeming kindness
Or - oh, state of grace

Would you pull me up
Would you drop the mental bullet
Would you pull me by the arm up
Would you still kiss my lips
Hiccup, the dream is over
Get the coffee, turn the lights on
Say hello to junior dad
The greatest disappointment
Age withered him and changed him
Into junior dad
Psychic savagery

The greatest disappointment
The greatest disappointment
Age withered him and changed him
Into junior dad

Manual reminder that trout mask replica is garbage for pretentious pseuds who have no idea what they're talking about.

American Pie. Ultimate lyrical content.

>he didn't get it

>I want you
>I want you
>I want you
>Soooooo baaaad

completely terrible taste.

Have some nobel prize-winning poetry folks:
Sixteen years
Sixteen banners united over the field
Where the good shepherd grieves
Desperate men, desperate women divided
Spreading their wings 'neath falling leaves.

Fortune calls
I stepped forth from the shadows to the marketplace
Merchants and thieves, hungry for power, my last deal gone down
She's smelling sweet like the meadows where she was born
On midsummer's eve near the tower.

The cold-blooded moon
The captain waits above the celebration
Sending his thoughts to a beloved maid
Whose ebony face is beyond communication
The captain is down but still believing that his love will be repaid.

They shaved her head
She was torn between Jupiter and Apollo
A messenger arrived with a black nightingale
I seen her on the stairs and I couldn't help but follow
Follow her down past the fountain where they lifted her veil.

I stumbled to my feet
I rode past destruction in the ditches
With the stitches still mending beneath a heart-shaped tattoo
Renegade priests and treacherous young witches
Were handing out the flowers that I'd given to you.

The palace of mirrors
Where dog soldiers are reflected
The endless road and the wailing of chimes
The empty rooms where her memory is protected
Where the angel's voices whisper to the souls of previous times.

She wakes him up
Forty-eight hours later the sun is breaking
Near broken chains, mountain laurel and rolling rocks
She's begging to know what measures he now will be taking
He's pulling her down and she's clutching on to his long golden locks.
Gentlemen, he said I don't need your organization, I've shined your shoes
I've moved your mountains and marked your cards
But Eden is burning either brace yourself for elimination
Or else your hearts must have the courage for the changing of the guards.

Peace will come
With tranquillity and splendor on the wheels of fire
But will bring us no reward when her false idols fall
And cruel death surrenders with its pale ghost retreating
Between the King and the Queen of Swords.

>he thinks he got it

The script to Withnail & I.

It's ok

My eyes convinced, eclipsed with the younger moon attained with love
It changed as almost strained amidst clear manna from above
I crucified my hate and held the word within my hand
There's you, the time, the logic, or the reasons we don't understand

Sad courage claimed the victims standing still for all to see
As armoured movers took approached to overlook the sea
There since the cord, the license, or the reasons we understood will be

Down at the edge, close by a river
Close to the edge, round by the corner
Close to the end, down by the corner
Down at the edge, round by the river

Sudden cause shouldn't take away the startled memory
All in all, the journey takes you all the way
As apart from any reality that you've ever seen and known
Guessing problems only to deceive the mention
Passing paths that climb halfway into the void
As we cross from side to side, we hear the total mass retain

Down at the edge, round by the corner
Close to the end, down by a river
Seasons will pass you by
I get up, I get down

BUCKETS OF RAIN
BUCKETS OF TEARS
GOT ALL THEM BUCKETS COMING OUT OF MY EARS

No one ever thought this one would survive
Helpless child, gonna walk a drum beat behind
Lock you in a dream, never let you go
Never let you laugh or smile, not you.

Well, I just want to walk right out of this world,
Cause everybody has a poison heart
I just want to walk right out of this world,
Cause everybody has a poison heart.

Making friends with a homeless torn up man
He just kind of smiles, it really shakes me up.
There's danger on every corner but I'm okay
Walking down the street trying to forget yesterday.

Well, I just want to walk right out of this world,
Cause everybody has a poison heart.
I just want to walk right out of this world,
Cause everybody has a poison heart,
A poison heart, a poison heart, a poison heart ... yeah!

You know that life really takes its toll
And a poet's gut reaction is to search his very soul
So much damn confusion before my eyes,
But nothing seems to phase me and this one still survives.

I just want to walk right out of this world,
Cause everybody has a poison heart.
I just want to walk right out of this world,
Cause everybody has a poison heart,
Well, I just want to walk right out of this world,
Cause everybody has a poison heart.
A poison heart, a poison heart, a poison heart.
A poison heart, a poison heart, a poison heart.

>Reading a translated poem

Filmmakers.

Am I the only one who believes they have shown themselves much superior to pop lyricists? Ingmar Bergman, Jean-Claude Carriere and Truffaut are so much better than Bob Dylan! These are men who actually know how to write, make plots, tell a story, make philosophical statements without sounding pretentious... Why nobody talks about them as writers? Why keep pretending Bob Dylan is great (sometimes he is, but he's mostly a failure as a poet - very irregular, doesn't know the basics, and was lucky enough to be born with an amazing talent for surrealist imagery) when we have great writers who, through the medium of cinema, made themselves extremely popular while still being artistically mature?

To me, The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie and Wild Strawberries are clearly superior to some works made by professional, college-aproved literati. I don't think Portnoy's Complaint, funny though it may be, is a better work of literature than The Rules of the Game.

Maybe it has to do with the fact that cinema is so full of stuff all the time - images, sounds, camera movements -, while, in pop music, the lyrics actually play a very big role. But then again, isn't it the same with theater? And if Shakespeare wrote for television (as George Steiner maintains he would in case he lived nowadays) wouldn't he still be equally great?

I don't see why you talk so much about pop music while ignoring the much superior literature of cinema.

I AINT NO MONKEY
BUT I KNOW WHAT I LIKE

IF DOGS RUN FREE WHY CAN'T WE?

Now if I fuck this model
And she just bleached her asshole
And I get bleach on my t-shirt
Imma feel like an asshole