Wednesday, 20 March 2013
It becomes increasingly apparent to me that I'm the only person who looks at this page.
Maybe I should start putting "teen quotes" or "cute love quotes" in all my tags, burn 80% of the eyes on the internet, l-o-l-o-l-o-lllllll
Tuesday, 19 March 2013
I like atheism.
I have a lot of reasons for this,
Such as not feeling particularly soulfilled
Even when trying singing soulful
On swinging steps, hands that clap and
Fists that clench and shake enthuse;
Or the electrochemical insight,
That sweet citric and battery acids,
Behind the hands and swings and shouts
The knowledge of the circles and nets
And ununcouplable couplings that built
Our moving feet out of the dirt ground.
One such reason is my imagined economist
A sliver of myself and a devil's advocate
That runs a cold counter-current creek
Through all of my comfortable spring fields.
I'm listening to music about the big reward
Or about sex that feels like the big reward
And he says to me, we can't even imagine it.
What would our heaven be? What could ever
Be so happy, so serene, that we could not corrupt it,
That we might not see in it some quick silver glimmer,
A threat, or some dark running, waiting in the shade
To pull us to shreds of skin and panic and regret?
"What could ever satisfy you, you monster?" He asks,
"What could ever please me to peace and silence?"
I try to conjure it for him several times.
"A lover," I answer shyly, "A lover to lie with
In the white late morning sun
With absolutely nowhere need to run
With translucent angelcloth curtains
That drift easy in the breeze."
He asks me then, "And who is this?
Is it that one long lost, his first night home?
How could you ever know it's his home?
Would it be the real one?
Would any of them be?
And surely it could never be T
Because he has one love somewhere else.
And you have one splintered glass
Filled with hot blood spilled
On several different unfortunate souls."
I blink at him in the stripes of sun.
"Maybe in heaven, assuming there's a heaven,
I could have all of them. Maybe in heaven
I am my own supreme tailor
And I can have one true love in his best place today
And another in most suiting on another fine day."
He sighs and smiles condescendingly, and
Shakes his metaphysical head.
"And what is the glory then? It sounds to me
Like your heaven, then, is a fancy place for cheats
And steals and greeds and thieves.
How much would it hurt to pull
The slivers of that broken cup
Away from each other even further, a repulsion
From their spiky self-sames, your affections divided,
Between so many folk that you say you love.
How much would it hurt to twist so slowly
Those long-living blades one more turn?
And besides. That still leaves them impostors
"Does it matter?" I ask him angrily, "Does it matter?"
He grins a slow and crooked razor.
So this afternoon I learned
I at least can't believe in Heaven
It's not like I wouldn't go to Hell anyway
And it's not like I've never been.
Saturday, 16 March 2013
He conducts like a man possessed with a devil
He is on his toes, on the balls of his feet, on his toes, and rolling back swiftly again.
His baton swings like the axe and following, stabs like the dagger
And flies through the air like the mercurial arrow
It never leaves his hand.
His hair is exactly as alive as his body
His body is a live wire coiled into a spring
His mouth is never still, no serious line;
Instead it makes the o's of oh, order and the e's of ee, ecstasy!
His eyes hardly move, and it is hard to tell
If the energy has pressed them shut as fists
Or peeled them and steeled them opened up
Over pearl white and ink black.
His arms spread as wings of ospreys in stately sweaters too commonplace
That he might fly off into the heavens on the air from his clarinets-players
Or float on the tidal waves of his violinists' wild rockings in the audiosea
(Observations on Gustavo Dudamel, made in 2013 of footage from 2009.)
Wednesday, 31 October 2012
I was walking home on All Hallow's Eve
When that honest Toly says to me
"Sometimes I wish I smoked cigarettes, you know?
It's like slow suicide for us cowards and ghosts
And the smell keeps you warm when the fire burns low
And you don't live guessing your COD.
And how can you be alone if you smoke?
Like friends that only show up when you're broke
I'm broken, fix me.
I'm broken, don't touch me.
So sometimes I wish I had the ashes to show
Boots made for sidewalk-smashing the glow
Of an emb'ring paper end old enough to go
An experiment with a chemical meant to set me free
Just to see.
And how can your hands shake if you smoke?
Artist elegantly like your nerves weren't a joke
Like your emotions were real like the spokes on the wheel
Help me, I can feel."