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bob dylan stepped offstage in denver just in time for the band to play us to sleep archives Wednesday, August 28, 2002 The Paper Ghost of Alan Lomax Where the dirt road ends I draw up crimson earth feel the ashes of my kill through my fingernails squint to let flashes of the yellow sun in, listening Tiptoe on the tops of devil grass blades swaying like a congregation possessed of vinegar spirits nary a whistle among them, listening still I the rotted wooden wagon wheel casting sparks among the eaves and indigenous sorrows of Central America risking a blaze just to catch a hint of song a fractured tune, a burning melody hiding in the woods with nervous hands I get to listen to the births in person and later the wind of tape hiss, the whir of dying motors reflections on brown muddy waters you can almost hear the sound of my elation posted by Shaun Minus 12:24 AM Tuesday, August 27, 2002 Below are several older poems that I couldn't find copies of on my own hard drive so I had to search them down from the Capitol Radiohead message board where they were originally posted and stick em' here for posterity. Thanks for your patience. posted by Shaun Minus 11:57 PM Decapitaded Ruth's Blue Buick and there is her hair again singing summer songs medusa, she makes for changing colors, she croons constantly for green we fight wind against skin and eardrum, trying to let the music in. she oblivions in my smiles highway 85. eyes hide from passing fantastic and me, mind wanders over to hers, squint from the clouds she moans. she comprised of dashboard bookbag has a moment like she'll say something and there's a pulse quicken tightening tendons listen. moment goes wasted by my sigh and i search for an exit. windblown too long, maybe. posted by Shaun Minus 11:55 PM Highway Miles Those grey skies have come inside and when she moves her lips, it's nothing but a leaky faucet It's reverberated plinks that clang like swords Dull eyes a requiem for a dying fantasy This old house is falling in on me Falling in love with a test pattern and the national anthem but broadcast days go on and on exploding heads i wish i was the outline of pornographic fuzz I wish I was a dirty little pixel I wish I was an exploding head that would be something vs. City Miles I aching swell toward the city with a dizzy crowd, February. This month means so much nothing, it isn't even funny. We wear cringes disgusting politics and religion. She swears me a soda pop, one straw, and jealous jealous me. The team is laughing gimmicks and mixed feelings, all saliva barely contained. I find myself despising oxygen blue skies contemporary fashion and the marked earnest passage of time. We have clock faces and odd numbers for eyes. Dancing at flickering angles and noxious smoke, and this is where it's at. I mimic the joy of seizures with friends and thumping bass heart, what with all the sex. He looks at her through a tube and splinters into a thousand sulks, does the whole sick thing. I don't even really want her. We can't find our feet in the dark. I half present the headlights around a dear friend who chews the scenery like it was nothing, man, like it was nothing. I can't relate and she can't stay awake and flung headfirst into the morning with horns protruding from our recollections and best intentions, we are. It's an apocalyptic sunrise and I just can't stand it. Serpent finger to my lips and SHHH and I'm all out of protest. posted by Shaun Minus 11:53 PM Ferry Ride on the Birth Canal (Echo Test) You can just about make out the hands amid the dead air squalor as they sign funny feelings they never found words for. It's 1975 and we've just discovered white noise, pillow songs, prayer songs, riot gear in Soho, tears, burning tears from a game show. I wear my hair long in the womb and attempt one way (echo) radio communciation with a mouth full of amniotic. Except I am still in the folds, swimming with the sheep, singing redemption songs with our tails and being bumper cars, me and my generation. We seek sound and milk and love, we split like twins, imagine what our hands will look like when they start to speak. Fine downy hairs, big blue veins just beneath the surface, chewed fingernails and short sweaty lifelines. We vibrate and become opaque with anticipation and dread, all tails and heads. And by we I mean me and my twin to be. posted by Shaun Minus 11:53 PM An Irrational Fear of Windchimes bare brown on the hills and fields listless ground for the smallest of feet the green is so confused high-tensions wires yellow teeth warm silences lose their appeal a horizontal walk through the west with easter summons cold cold wind dreaming of desert eagle she has a lovely voice and a vicious twin long gravel roads a sin confessed safety-pinned to the celestial squints and stares straight into the heart of crows and carrion their photographs seem to glow in the dark dwells instead on sleep and perennials the last one in a pack of four atrophy grits his teeth and starts a fire smoke exposes the ghosts dry mouth salt tears high time to retire just miles before the pacific shore posted by Shaun Minus 11:37 PM i turn to rage When we return to the stagnant silence of the bedroom and train our ears ever outward for the comfort of panning effects and automatic psychadelia, when we are left with nothing but bits of shattered plastic pornography, sharp shocks to our best bits of lyric, panic breaths for a flaccid handful, waiting for faces to emerge amongst the pixels... something rushes by my window and I turn to rage. posted by Shaun Minus 11:03 PM Paradise Via Backwards Masking (An old bit recently rediscovered) I saw heads wide open and endless fields Arms like bedsprings A communist consciousness I saw taking freely and sharing alike Eyes that roll and tongues that shiver I heard a sound like every man And woman who ever lived Pitched perfectly to the same note A song like wings if there are such things A moment's peace and a letting go I saw trampolines and their children Frozen mid-dance Victims of happenstance, circumvents circus tents, avalanche I saw a single tear That I'd seen before Yet still I felt for posted by Shaun Minus 10:58 PM Sunday, August 18, 2002 I need a week off to paint my bones sepia tones Feels like rusted teeth and their chattering sounds Feels like shattered glass floorboards behind the Masquerade I need a few days to collect my heads brick red Sounds like a piano for the mirror Sounds like a never-ending nose bleed That's just what I need posted by Shaun Minus 12:44 AM heads ajar heads ajar jamie farr one stab in the tram ooh snap hotdamn lovely birds how absurd gettysberg getty lee stroker ace commonplace magnum force magnum weave abner has a filatious rumour good humour good god freaky how hilarious broken lips elevator cheeky tongues far flung well hung jail bum dunce cap mud flap trap door dirt poor finger cuff apple scruff orange twin dick butkus mike ditka frau farbisna los angeles indianapolis sarcophogus ghost house ghost hum see dirty hum me and my hum gee whiz toothy grin jews and gin hebrew kin abraham nation bad karma bad karma bad karma bad karma fools rush over fools rush in quarters dollar bill kill for cancer whore for laughter rapidly ever after silly bastard posted by Shaun Minus 12:37 AM |
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