| Flinch | ||
 |
||
 |
||
bob dylan stepped offstage in denver just in time for the band to play us to sleep archives Friday, May 24, 2002 ode to drift with your fire quenched and your breath anesthetic say a short hollow prayer and give yourself over to drift walk on splinters, shivering boy vintage corduroy sun stripped and livid your jonny walker rebel with shoes disconnected from a dirt road, a specter on middle america you play spanish guitar for heathens in the suburbs drunken notes too soft to matter much nylon strings wrapped around your wrists, purple hands strung from an absestos ceiling for the evening walk on broken bottles, mystery fiend and prove your calloused feet, a rhyme and a disembodied melody you murder down the coast a tramp steamer with your lost sheep countenance, sad tantrum eyes dust from the east still communing in your frenzy hair fugitive from your shadow, scripture, cling to your feet dead weight you've mastered the music of the lonesome sigh a symphony of disparate static and found speaking captured american on a tape loop number nine with the broken toe of your boot scrawled the name of the father in the desolation of the desert in the red dust of Arizona, you rest your aching fingers posted by Shaun Minus 9:13 AM Thursday, May 23, 2002 Leaves Missing In the quick of May, elliptical climate looks over her shoulder at autumn slightly refracted by winter, of course daring plinks on the piano in the upper register are the bits of stems from oblivious trees and when I sleep I dream and when I dream I meet the silly id of the trees in winter who frequent still slumbering eyes when cold gets coming but I always remember the fall slanted and there is an argument and a three day darkness in which our mouths are sealed by indifference meanwhile, my body tosses on my covers waters when we meet again in waking life spring and such trees become debutantes and ungrateful royals but I knew them when they were afraid and bewildered, leaves missing naked and scrambling for sleep taking refuge in my imagination posted by Shaun Minus 11:26 PM Thursday, May 16, 2002 There's a hole in the roof for sunsets and after that, for stars The tips of my fingers escape from distance from drift from pop radio and Heiligen Schrift into the open evening playing hearts with the wind and laughing at me from outside the car. posted by Shaun Minus 9:42 PM Monday, May 13, 2002 dee kennedy on a sunday i never run down fence anymore what with the swarms of police sirens and provoked animals i mapped a path the other way two o'clock pm and walked a spring/summer continent, wasting essence in an abandoned cul-de-sac, then i rested on a precariously balanced diamond of earth, forgotten aquaintences passing with nary a wave my fluids freely flowing into my old high-school book bag holding a hundred years of eighth and quarter notes which stubbornly refuse to bleed together i found a slope recently paved and a bovine congregation thirty or so under one rather reluctant pine, fear struck i felt flesh vaporize in my shoes, paths that wandered up hills and behind gates, sending sure breazes as consolation there was tangled screaming nerves where my legs once were, a total absence of cloud doom guitar and piano, slow motion music if you like i turned mercury and slid down the rollercoaster where the road once was an albino cow bathing in a pond of mildew, looked over and through me collapsed on the phillips' porch with my tongue held a quiet communion with vicious insects, dirty pillows i murmured my defiant lament, though i'd come so far only to have serpentine roads defeat me posted by Shaun Minus 10:41 PM Requiem for a Lost Poem piano: minor chords, fifths low soft moan by a neon skeleton guy paper sounds, shuffling and such heavy eyes half past anger lamentation piece for alto sax and clarinet rusty pipes closely mic'd trembling lips, traces of hymn politely borrowed from God and given over to the thoughtful fallen soldier, words about a restful moment a portrait of a portal in a dirty bedroom some damn wistful arpeggio right in the middle of a solemn reprise, unsolicited smirk posted by Shaun Minus 9:52 PM Sunday, May 12, 2002 punk rock (preliminary sketches) a prayer for you, sleeping embryo when you tear through the womb and ride the entrails through the streets Detroit via acid rockets madmen violins kick in your God-stained lullaby heavy diapers on the mandolin you wave to the spirits like stars black eyes so far apart you do the math in your head samples the waste tenement culture tiny increments then take a lover and correspond skyscrapers you hover umbilical intents inside the baby's brain of flames skipping like stoves across the water you will one day grow up to be volcano with fingers for knives saints alive but these are just head reels tomorrow and further on piano crash ushers in the bomb from the guts you explode to the ones you hang on over the forest and the city like some sorry stray twig of spit from a former kiss fair and thin where the walls can't reach you my trembling baby bomb remember soft kerosene notes like Coltrane down the hall I fancy your love for flame I do were it to consume me too Din silence from the open womb not unlike horns in the ghetto inebriated embryo swaggers into gas station restroom to look into a broke mirror posted by Shaun Minus 11:10 PM Ballad Between Women I faintly remember you June 18 1994 for stripping flowers of their oblivion and furrow brow. And high pitch violin swells temper. We have it on VHS wrapped around the door frames so you will not have forgotten, long shattered and weak from days of drinking and commentary. In vogue painted fingernails cum colored, and also in the airport. It's moments like these the gruel and acid won't go down, the ricochets in the stomach that I keep dodging. She is you and you weren't around in 94 when I peeled the sleep from my eyes between screams and languid sighs, crushd for a girl who returns my yawns across an expance, yes she does or did she? My, how the mind wanders erect and ums and ohs, for at least the sake of signal. I would have her eyes bouncing radio apostrophes off my bed, where she was already in your coccoon with pencil wings awaiting ink and color little girl, hiding from my machine mouth. I scarred so easy at sounds not unlike paper cuts and paper planes and pain, before I learned to shrug it off. Into pixels and solid state and tragic static transmissions I hope she got I hope you get. This life begs for cold and winter wishes it was now and June wishes you were her, foolish object of my tragic affection. posted by Shaun Minus 11:04 PM teeth on teeth By the river person you look like longing fingers hooked into feeble strings of flesh with the faraway sounds of a water made of bodies trace with your fingers its path past the city into and under a rock dancing with anticipation He and his with a cold numbness that comes with a swim through the prison, mach schnell and you and he shivering in the same photograph as double exposures teeth on teeth his rotten hat komes spinning from his skull like klay pidgeons you neglekted to mention In an effort to understand the cold that comes from wind and sun he took his myriad bouncing soul expedition and boarded a stiff breeze bound for Mogadishu along with you dull cramps and his precious whiskey hat yellow molars echoing a skraping sigh posted by Shaun Minus 11:02 PM untitled, notable for its progression of time 10:36 PM wild flowers protected between the fury of the highway hands pressed to the screen to touch white noise, trumpets and bells percolating brown eyes dialating confusion as a warm comforter just off to the side a bent figure awaiting headlights 10:40 PM the digital reverb of jazz classics clashes with the contemporary sounds of sprawl, the cliche of modern crisis and the cringe of country western amid waves distortion laden and guilt surpressed there are speedboats adrift with sabotage with cops and soap operas and razor thin streets cutting a swift kick through Cabbage Town 10:45 PM more nicks that don't make sense crosseyed denizens of midnight world sit craving embrace and hating the hug one of those where you stretch your arms wide and lightly pat across the back so as to not connect 10:47 PM a hum from under the door american standards on scratched 45's a listless vacant silence made in Korea a startling resemblance in black and white mourning the stillborn in his arms between two electric lights the same dull exchange, lead eyelids sleeping limbs under the pillow, between shallow breaths and rattling cages modern restless man dodging shafts of streetlight from the open window posted by Shaun Minus 10:56 PM Fingers don't reach the small where the itches and burn is I look around desperately for another set of fingers posted by Shaun Minus 2:48 PM |
||
 |
||
 |
||
 |
||
 |
||