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Passion, one M&M at a time

15 Oct

Sounds of Faces – Rough Untitled

Show me the life of passion.

This oyster is too large for me to see,

bunker me, hunkered down hundred years of rations

If I’m willing to join the assembly.

I apply and turn my eye to the grindiem

I carpe my paycheck at the door and

log another day in my compendium

another day dead gone dead sand

I’ll mix with more. Overreaction?

A stalling friend of mine turned sixty seven,

Some strong people don’t gain traction

Some long lives forget to leaven.

Show me the life of passion,

I want to have a calling, a mission.

image: kayschwag

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For Morning’s Sake

5 Oct 

Califone - Our Kitten Sees Ghosts

For morning's sake I   drug the blinds.
Morning descends the stairs
last night's blinds above her eyes.
G'morning.
            I shrug and let sun slits slip in
                                    slump and sigh.
I sit, cigarettes lit and drug.
For night's sake cognition abandon
                                   body.
A kindness granted
                     given        currentcaliber.
Sake's shadow and someones silhouette.
Steeped in silence.

Blinded three times,
                      he, drink, and night.
Now,
morning drags up the window panes
drags and stares at west sitting winds.

image: Matthew McVickar

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are thoughts the? great. left behind

2 Oct

Great Day – Four Tet Remix (Madvillain)



                                 What are


                                 thoughts like


                                 before the synapse?                                               the great divide.


                                 many men are left


               behind.


                                       All    lined   up   on   one   node.


                                       Rows, columns, groups of men


                                       all  thoughts  all   thought  out.


                                       Forward,                           march.


                       Oceans, canyons, mountains, all of the


                                        above.


                                                                         Gunfire.


                                               bodies fall strewn visceral drenched dirt or air or water


                                    push on almost there see


see            ahead the encampment flying our flag shredded by the            bullet          breeze


                     home stretch for              cracked windpipes


                                                                           and stained fingers nails


                                                                                      no coffins nailed for the dead on the field


                                                                                                                                                    just gone.


but


Safe on the                


other                           


side, count them all. 


Battles first of many.


                   Many more will          


                                                   fall.                  


                                 What are


                                 thoughts like


                                 before the synapse?                                               the great divide.


                                 many men are left 


               behind.


I think that’s how it happened, but there were probably more battles and conflicts, and now that I think about it there was probably a better reason to go where they did. How many of them were there again? Did we lose too many or did we come out of this one relativity unscathed?


I think the war has been over for some time now.


image: -scipio-

				
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Contact

	
		22
		Sep
	

	

	

		


The Field – Over The Ice



Do you feel lucky?


They seemed to say.


Tissue cameras creep


over every inch of me.


Frozen.


Foreign orbs


observe, absorb.


The eyes, the eyes, and their frightening lies.


Black and white and color dyes.


He turns away from me,


and the waves recede.


I’m only shot when I see


the whites of their eyes.


And I’m surrounded by them all.


Prying pupils


dilate


relay


roll


repeat.


I won’t let you see me see.


You see?


On and on we dawn these rituals.


Hide and seek with our peripherals.

				
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Drop D

	
		19
		Sep
	

	

	

		

Mogwai - moses

Rain
  in
 a n
  empty mind grows
 a n  y
     time, nothing but a low
 a n t  e
                       allowing
       me  nothing but
                     to  sow,

             seeping out windows sewing time into my eyes
             they grow heavy and I hear flip flop footsteps
             in record repeating digging troughs silent
             bouncing off white walls.

image: drp

				
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When heroes fall

	
		13
		Sep
	

	

	

		


Marconi Union – These European Cities



You don’t know everything about Lisa.

Carefully collected maybe

She dissected the rest of us.

Silent hidden charm just an arm away.

Try to skirt along tripping traps take the wall,

You cant see the girl

Hailey why do you put up with this?

Are your intentions really so clear?

The sharpness in your cheekbone

from another’s whetting stone.

Wedding gowns and neutral tones,

surely you’re more alive?

One day will I be the same way?

Inventing girls who fret and fawn

In my thoughtful din under sauntering moons

Will I build myself a pedestal?

Will I climb up and stab my chest?

Will I fall in puddles, broken and revel in my notoriety?


I want to give you your own breath.


image: Oncle Tom

				
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The Pack The Prey

	
		8
		Sep
	

	

	

		


Moby – Isolate



The wolves on the prowl
Packs
    s olve
              the   owl
Bring the crowd when they have you
then the noise, the loud,
the mess of sound
surround
   rounding down upon the kill
   running
                 up
            down      the
                          hill

image:Barnaby_S

				
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Time is falling to the floor

	
		16
		Aug
	

	

	

		


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

				
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Minotaur

	
		4
		Aug
	

	

	

		


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

				
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The things we’d do if we hadn’t seen movies

	
		3
		Aug
	

	

	

		
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

				
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