The Frames – Suffer In Silence
Just a book
Just a show
Just a movie
Just a song
Only a week
Only a slip of the tongue
Just a kiss
Just human
Just a bad day
Only twenty minutes
Just a memory
Only the past
All the old memories laid out on blankets in the sun to dry. A thousand little lights all sipping from the sun.
image: Leonard John Matthews
But love is never the same thing twice, always with a different spice, a hint of mint, or twist of lavender. it always finds a new way into your soul, scavenger.
Devandra Banhart – I Love That Man
I’ve got all my drawings all hung up on the wall opposing my front door, that every time I enter I’m greeted with a large armful of time past spent. One or two drawings fall off over and over, despite the amounts of duct tape I use. I’ve put them back up at least six times.
One day when I die will I erase the world?
Or will I keep it until I rot away, one city at a time?
What will be the last thing to go?
The thing I loved the most?
The time I ate indifferent toast?
What will the flames or worms eat last?
The heart of flesh or the ring of brass?
I found my box of pins today what a thought.
image: Gilderic
Great Lake Swimmers – Passenger Song
don’t know my hands,
the look, the feel of the skin
all buried in the sand
I don’t know where it starts and I begin.
The scariest part of realizing that you don’t like the things you used to, and that you are different from when you were a child is the fact that you didn’t seemingly choose this path you’re on, which means you have no idea where you will be farther down the line. Passing through dark tunnels, and only blind memories behind.
It’s impossible to tell anyone what you really mean,
And I’ve never been exactly as I seem.
All the ideas I write before I go to sleep,
are exactly what I dream,
but with more sheep.
Sufjan Stevens – for the windows in paradise, for the fatherless in ypsilanti
and of course the video is beautiful.
My brain is several sheets being blown low under dark blue breezes, easing along the thoughts that ought to be turning gnashing not timidly lying around. A panic. Like seeing the scene, shipwreck aftermath, folks flung swung on beams of oak melting down into earth that borne branches that press against my brain.
image: kayschwag
Rosie Thomas – Say Hello
Sometimes the times you never knew you hurt someone was the time it hurt the most.
Mum – Moon Pulls
The middle sea sinks – Forever drained, looking
watching Forever glancing, the glass-eyed coasts.
Never knowing coriander dappled drafts,
Nor the hug of the under toe tug
tugging coy orca cages silent
tree trunk grins they
grow through cheekbone windows.
Never feeling diamond cut tide tips,
misses crisp cuts, a kayaks meniscus.
The middle seas inks – Forever bled, trickled,
choking, Forever watching waves walking on.
image – Sleepychinchilla
Sabicas – Fantasia Inca
I. The Labyrinth
Creepy doe-eyed motherfucker light-up fawns.
Christmas Plastic strewn on crunchy lawns.
Santa’s fire belly boils crooked grins aglow
agape at Frosty’s carcass, cloaked in polypropylene.
We’re drowning rocks in blackened frozen ponds.
This is no Starry Night.
This is no Rower’s Lunch.
This is Vancouver sky,
Eridanus beams all half-bright.
Walking. Stiffened sparkle sidewalks. Night.
Talking under quiet globes of light.
Wander wonder why we got so left behind
this maze of bending buildings
ebb in shrouded spiral tight.
Now your eyes are mottled grey.
Mirrors of a solemn maze.
II. The Beast
And I saw him, in the nettle-stung blister winter morning, sun growing, peering between mazes of leafless birch branches. I saw him in the leather coat, in the street, among the houses. Maybe we’d been up all night, he and I, and it’s too early to sleep now. He stands there blowing hot-breath dragon flames, growing older with every passing day.
image: Grant MacDonald
Jon Sheffield – Dear Yma
This, the morning of shipwreck,
cut out of trees smeared with wet glue
folded above drifts of orange cream globes,
lighthouse lights and megaphones.
Maple leaf veins take the task of lighting the path
in the absence of the sun.
Below we move,
quiet minds in a quiet mist.
Buildings loom like masts and bully the meek.
They are men telling ghost stories.
They aim to scare, they aim to scare.
Let them be washed away
their crooked eyes and angry bricks.
Be washed away in this shipwreck morning.
image: kayschwag
Seasinks
acraein 