greyghost Posted April 13, 2011 Share Posted April 13, 2011 (unfortunately, ive a gazillion versions of this silaging in my skull. eh.) oo1. i. woodward— they said, was an avenue like no other & the boulevard lined with birches, the horse-drawn lives traipsing puddles, grime & the stench of ferment, black ale & lager, eastern europe, mexico, and the southern states, aegean and ionian, india and pakistan, the middle east whence immigrants and migrants families huddled into ships & steel (and eventually autos & planes) to come and find some kind of hope. ii. | tensions, intensify: 1863, bloody dawn, beaten bodies, buildings burning, 2 1943, belle isle, the democratic larceny, 34 1967, blind pig, battle of algiers, 43 the count, watching sweep across the frozen of winter rivers | iii. speramus meliora; resurget cineribus ("We hope for better things, it will rise from the ashes") iv. a trumpeter in the alleyway, the notes bellow a kind of blue eddying through the worn cobblestone, wisps of halloumi, fried foods, garlic. a phoenix— fallen frames from the burnt & scrapped fourth stori window sill, wingclipped. v. body fluids, body bags, bodies sleeping cramped, mattressed between the old bricks walls, link-chain fences, abandoned schools, abandoned shops, factories frozen in time the subway tiles paints gone-over rust & rot, by nite— the shadow shift, by dawn— early forgotten, (the chrysler cut thru the jazz & burrowed blight) the junction and rich soil, deserted. vi. scattered the orchids from their monks lair stems dripping deep burgundy ink along the empty thoroughfare, weeds & spring a cold coma, awoken unearthed wildflowers flourish within the stillness & silences breaches broken bells, broken swallows. vii. poppie's soda-pop fountain, faygo, apothecary, scripts powders, coke syrup, salves and ointment— camphor soothes until this day near vernor, overlook the overpass & faintly hear e. jones fearless freight rhythm syncopates tracks along the grand trunk, the bottom & valley, deep. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
EastSwaggings Posted April 14, 2011 Share Posted April 14, 2011 im releasing a book very soon with various poems, short stories, microfiction, photos, paintings, doodles ect from primarily myself, and other artists...PM me if youre interested in getting a copy. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
wackforumname Posted April 14, 2011 Share Posted April 14, 2011 This is where I go to do my thinking. I scatter my clothes and paints and books. I spend my time looking at old photographs. This is where I go to do my crying. Here's where I go when the world hurts me. I pull up the covers to cradle my feet. Run the events over slowly and carefully. Here's where I hide from you and your beauty. Shut off the lights and stare at the window. In a minute it wont matter anymore. in an hour it will seem like a bad dream. time is a healer, but only in here. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
greyghost Posted April 18, 2011 Share Posted April 18, 2011 oo2. zug; i am torpid where the lonely of you moves in rusted sways, gramophone loudly unheard songs breathe old friends, silence swamp and ferns, lives slowly leak wisteria and vines of generations overtaken peel away the 20th century does passing fleet, amongst faded orange file cabinets, empty chairs sprawl, park at desks green and anchored with sepia stained papers piled, scattered lead instruments and tools for measure, notebook dates flooded nautical, they are navel deep bathing in the abandon around here everybody knows the machinery parts lie, groups across the fence, marsh tracks and spin this it's just a long way to fall below the place burial, ground you left your love asleep in the car forgotten and you're city, blue cradled your voice, vintage and familiar, remember darlin when the river along your toes skirtin heaves prime; flickering dissonance, tonal progression nearness; accordion-like along the turn of an archipelago, marking out endlessly to dry others mend; * they will meet you where the cold sediment grows slurry bay clay beneath the abandoned automobile, cools us and amidst the calyx canteens lay low, the tide comes in like another form and our ablutions smudges the streets estuaries sometimes the-way i want the flood of cold oblivions i want back what the waves full moons drizzle intervals of dreaming harbors woven still enwombed and inchoate on shapeless oceans, light strikes, waves glow blue, jade flames striated across wavering empyreal sheetings of fire and foam calculations here overwoken and deaf * to color ourmornings streaking muddled he, of crowns and some of the lichen are long punctuations of recollections they carry everything with nite coded petrol and all valedictions, voices burning-glass inclinations, fallen dust to dust. * she, of fire weaver blood veined black rivers cups her hands catching the gems, threading flickers of lanterns diadems across the growing faint they squint towards the sky-roots reaching for water and any cool life. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
EastSwaggings Posted April 19, 2011 Share Posted April 19, 2011 The Godless Pantheist I wallow in the abyss of untruth, And beckon henceforth in imperfection, To never transcend thwart the Nous, Challenging Hadit in his interjection. And whilst the Logos obstructs my devour Of Gods depicted fallacious and sour. With judgement and Nuith kindly unfair, Upon a timeless journey to a place Elsewhere. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
greyghost Posted September 28, 2011 Share Posted September 28, 2011 oh, this thread has died a tiny death :( Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
greyghost Posted September 28, 2011 Share Posted September 28, 2011 remembering rains collect the tin-can rings rick rack the ground echoes speed and darns rivers a poultice of soft, the rain say peal your palm for few worlds, just. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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