Sound as MaterialWhen he speaks in dissertations,Sound as Material
About frail card houses, The white robed priests stop walking, There they look up from their hanging hoods, And in groups they turn their heads, To listen to elaboration, And then to fear deeper implication. They equal the populations, And trained in one skill, They perform all the convent’s roles.
The complex linguistic formations of his voice, Are not in tune,
To the basic utterances of the heartbeat of the world, Instead the unique subtler rhythms of his voice, His low subsonic sounds, Are closer in tune
Closer RevoloutionsBelow the surface reality, sub-real, The Prince and Princess of disks, Each with their own disks, pass each other, He holds a disk of darkness, and she, She holds a disk of light, And there is a moment of overlap, of peace, When they come to the same point, And kiss, briefly and with magic, Before moving on again.Closer Revoloutions
In the place of the super-real, where, The sun in distant rising and fading glory, Refracts with matter, originally colourless, To create what we “see:” There is a street of houses, Like doll houses, that seems to be, Caught in
Spike in AnxietySpike in AnxietySpike in Anxiety
I had taken a long draft of Guinness and Kay had too when she sputtered half of it out on the table.
“God, spike in anxiety,” she said.
“What?”
“Spike in Anxiety.”
It was a typically quiet mid-afternoon in the bar. The summer’s sun shone through the window and warmed me beneath my black suit jacket and blue jeans. I tried to talk more about the concert we were playing that night, but Kay still looked shaken.
The Vaudeville TheaterAnd in their seats,The Vaudeville Theater
the people in dirty clothes, horrifically thin, skin hanging off gaunt bone, with round eyes rolling in sockets, wake up.
Eyes a hollow sick pale green, they watch the stage, in the musty theater, decorated in yesterday's fallen dreams, of an illusion of a Broadway future, in New York.
The Trumpeter stands alone, among the pale gold of the candelabras, wearing his pressed tuxedo, torn, with the lipstick of yesterday's fans, on his collar, (they wait as skeletons backstage, for their skin has been left
| Greetings, seeing as the writing has been piling up, I figured it would be just as well to share it with the world. Ive been writing for about 6 years now, and have amassed it into several collections. On this page, ill publish a few poems, in order as they were written every 2 weeks, starting on the beginning of february. Ill start with some from the first collection, and so forth. If you want one of the collections in full, assuming you like what you read, send me an email or message and ill email back an electronic copy for free. A list of finished collection in advance, is as follows. -Ameara: Hallucinatory Love Poems -Demons and Fairies -Beneath the City of Stars: Stories in Verse -A Gun Named Extinction: Portrait of a Suburban Concert -Placebo Dreams: The University Writing -Containment: Nightfall Oh and if you go to the listed myspace youll be able to hear some audios i made quickly of readings of a few poems Enjoy. |
A Return
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Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative. Oscar Wilde
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／l、
（ﾟ､ ｡ ７
l、 ~ヽ
じしf_,)ノ lulz
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／l、
（ﾟ､ ｡ ７
l、 ~ヽ
じしf_,)ノ lulz
[link]
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Squircle!
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