Sounds of Faces – It was just a theory
The world is what you make of it.
It mirrors who you are.
Arming you against yourself.
Selflessness your war.
Reach down to those below
low, low on the threshold
hold fast and true to
two different kinds of soul
one above and one beneath
neither one is grey
raise away
forever more.
image: _Jer_
Boards of Canada – the devil is in the details
Not what others have done.
–
When the sun sinks
sets down on the backs of the land
and black veins rise up
serene and still
then red haze
and my red veins dialate
and black rains fall
serene and still
image Jérôme de Lisle
Burial/Four Tet – Moth
Slung over a dune at the beach
after severing all ties, my eyes can reach
clouds pushing water down round the world.
Why are we here, is the question each
of us asks. When will the answer be unfurled
and presented to us, a pill bug uncurled.
I won’t hold my breath waiting for that peach.
The triangles on the skin of my hand
match the triangles I drew in the sand
they separate and recreate
and turn into all of the thoughts that I had.
My mind’s eye dilates and I evaluate
each image as it fluctuates, dissipates,
Makes me sad.
If the meaning of life were revealed,
I’d feel claustrophobic. It would yield
the possibility of perfection. I’d be ground
in ground, unable to move, knee deep in a field
of answers, giving the game away. Forever around
those who are golden gate bound.
I prefer the rules concealed.
The things we do will never last
an eternity. Think of all the things past
that are no more. Even if we try to scrawl
and scribe, our work will sink in oceans vast.
Books and books they line the wall,
thousands took to write them all.
The great sink last, with the mast.
On this beautiful golden beach I lay
beside the meaning I have today.
Granted it may change, but so will I.
Those still statues can wait and pray
for a sign, a message from on high.
My meaning is what I decide.
Come and swim with me, my girl of May.
image:Eltjo Poort
Bombay Bicycle Club – Leaving Blues
”I’ll prove how much I love you with this handstand.”
-Spencer Krug
A place at night to consider things I can’t have.
Gone from our time, the past, she of kings, I can’t have.
Beach boulder perched under ripe light of moonstruck night,
But in mind, she and I, by suns springs I can’t have.
This moon is no sun, this ocean is no fresh stream.
Trashpools round my castle brings birds wings I can’t have.
“T’was my parade of knowing small things of the world
that caught her eye.” Self deceit shows, rings. I can’t have.
My minds filter lets less light in than do my eyes.
And you hold only long straws and strings I cant have.
“It is night but it is light Connor, don’t wallow.”
Did I just hear songs that water sings? I cant have.
image-{Lina}
Califone – Fruitstand Floor
At all times She commanded the bold sun. Except
when young dusk grew, and His skilled hands washed it in thick ink
I used to pen the stringed dreams I had when I slept.
Her arms spread across the dim expanse and the sun swept
from horizon to sky, but He aimed for it to sink
at all times. She commanded the bold sun except
when the breath of night pushed through the blinds; it’s kept
at bay by halogen orange spun shadows from chain link
I used to pen. The stringed dreams I had when I slept
showed the battle of light They fought. Each one adept
at manipulating the others false move or blink
at all times. She commanded the bold sun. Accept
that Her light of daybreak through the glass so pink, crept.
Her stretching fingers, waking me up from Your dark drink.
I used to pen the stringed dreams. I had when I slept,
learned to shroud myself in my deep thoughts, the light inept
at stepping through; the light that wouldn’t let me think
at all. Times, she commanded the bold sun. Except
when I used to pen the stringed dreams I had when I slept.
image:hbp_pix
We Bought the Flood -The Books
The triangles on the skin of my hand
match the triangles I drew in the sand
they separate and recreate
and turn into all of the thoughts that I had.
My mind’s eye dilates and I evaluate
each image as it fluctuates, dissipates,
and is gone.
along with the rust and the salt.
I’ll take a ride on some lonesome planet. and let my thoughts sail like warm winds blowing east and up and out into the darkness, and light the sky, glowing northern light, shimmering in the cold brittle air.
Focus, Focus.
image: Raj Hanchanahal Photography
Hypermagic – San Fairy Ann
the tree against a setting sun is the roots of a bean plant growing against a clear plastic glass is the bristles of a brush of horse’s hair is the tip of a cattail swaying in the winds of a low-lain wetlands is natural as all talking sideways and upside down where i get a picture but not a panoramic and it’s only part told is looking though the keyhole of doors that don’t exist and smelling the rub of unpolished brass green with the age of water and grime of hands that grab one another and put things up and take things down and occasionally does things with care like a clockwork worker laying pictures all out in a row of the grandkids he never knew like a stain on the carpet doesn’t know its outline before it’s set is the birthmark on your foot that’s the shape of a duck setting on a pond of algae leaving trailing tails is the tail of a meteor shedding skin in the night sky is a backdrop of milk sewn on black velvet smooth like the white peach fuzz thick and thin alike and i never know the words you mean all doublespeak and doublethink.
Moby – 7
Birth and death coincide with one another, and today there were both. Both in the lost and found. A broken car, a lost job, and the end of one. Life is a funny thing, always cracking jokes, leering the whole way. So who says a thing lost can’t also be a birth? A lost path in these woods means a new path is tread.
I remember the quiet days of kids.
Jumping in puddles mud between my toes.
Feel the hug of red red sun on my lids.
Tin can telephone, pushed too close, cut nose.
The games we’d play with paint and with paper
I always thought life would last forever
Young full of awe, never saw it taper
Till I look back I lost all life’s fervor.
The path I took was not the one I plot.
The past filled with nothing, blind memories.
The dreams of mine were not easily got.
Fell on something not in my fantasies.
I stand and wear my pressed black two piece suit.
I do the things you think I ought to do.
image:Geert Orye
acraein 