![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
wordpirate's journalCreate a LiveJournal Account Learn more
|
You are viewing wordpirate's journal Create a LiveJournal Account Learn more | Explore LJ: Life Entertainment Music Culture News & Politics Technology |
 | |
|
How Much Not
Standing, the mind drifts to the dark for underneath in flickered shade certainties cannot be made, and above, thin consciousness, cannot in light imagine such depths, so stark Yet comfort can find its place in this tethered tightly to our hearts as glancing down sets us apart as just how far we stand from bliss a measure of how much not in abyss |
|
| |||
|
An Upward Tilt
the height from which it hung cold and perilous felt low and wan against its orbit coronating in great arcs and spans a crown so brillant a trillion shining shards a humble ring when it fell I could only think of a comet darkness and fire plummeting a burnt line across the sky yet the impact all in ice heaving up a mountain without mass a glitter in endless glass and on that impossible slope, I start awake toppling up towards clearemptyinfinite every step a stumble gasp above ghost shapes moving within its low tinted glass straining at pale pyramidal seams my rough heels feel the burred pitch of some nothing screamed as I stand on sloping walls once made of sand shaking above something still alive shivering above looking down it is so steep I feel far beneath the ground I tremble fall clutch and seize I am but a silhouette there is no sound a tiny shadow on my knees it is a moment I might understand reaching below into not quite guilt no longer climbing, but an upward tilt
|
|||
| |||
|
A Heavy Business
You expected irony I offer iron sixty thousand tons of hammered ore floating proud on ten thousand more a heavy business built upon the sea a hundred hardened men who pray to faithful tension and factory a ship, a home, a wake in bright white foam could but our deadweight drift so purposefully
|
|||
| |
|
The Wobble
On the beam, I am all cheer The wood, the ground, seem wide and near after a fall I have no stress it’s in the wobble I’m humorless |
|
| |||
|
A fragment from 2008
like a ship I do not slip the waves pass under I bob beneath the thunder a wobble, not a wreck a little water on deck keeps me cold and clean brisk and mean like the risks I've seen I am stable like a riveted boat I yawn and spread my weight and it's hard not to float.
|
|||
| |
|
No one keeps the lighthouses anymore (v2)
still they stand full of flash and purpose alone, no longer lonely; long vigil kept by wave tossed sea-- and constant battery No one yearns desolate for the mariner, the wavering sail off rocky shore, diminished, no longer burns the isolated wick, the solitary soul that, somehow, was security what was lost? the light blinks on just the same spinning around wrong and right we sail fearless, abandoning the land our faith found in a bright circuit-- a thin strip of sand against the abyss oh empty beacon turning in the night above the breaking waves |
|
| |
|
Fine Dining
Wait a minute here You asked me to act like an animal So I did reached out with my hand curled and gave you a bit of my world I kept my fingertips tight it felt right this was a fight I didn't care if you hit back I didn't care about a second act fuck all that grist this was a dedicated fist I swung I committed I missed! this seemed so funny I found myself on the floor tossed out the door my head spinning the world a roar down on all fours making like a lion looking for his pride so sauntered back inside all hi's to the hyenas slipped the bouncer a bill moved in for my kill feeling vicious ordered a big steak best bottle of wine divine so rare and delicious I can't even hear you I am so near you. |
|
| |
|
No one keeps the lighthouses anymore
still they stand full of flash and purpose lonely no longer; long vigil kept by wave tossed sea-- and constant battery No one yearns desolate for the mariner, the wavering sail off rocky shore, diminished, no longer burns the isolated wick, the solitary soul that, somehow, was security what was lost? the light blinks on just the same oh empty beacon turning in the night above the breaking waves |
|
| |
|
November Flight
82, moving fast but feeling slow I'm relativity, lightspeed, one old dude gonna fly south for the winter like a proud goose like lost baggage on a steel bird but no magnetic north, no GPS here I can't even find my exit was it 24E? 26? When did this road become a route? what's the time? when's the flight? when did it get to be night? too late to turn around two hours late and still on the ground I feel relieved somehow somehow I missed this ticket somehow I'm still driving. think I'll roll the window down. |
|
| |
|
Do not fret for a fallen tree (v1, working title)
For there is patience in the cold of earth, the bustle of a thousand lives long redressed in dirt and death awaiting a more slender birth across a field's spring floral girth. Flowers, burst so slow at first, uncurling quiet, humble limbs all green, ungrown, but growing still, quickly quench their hopeful thirst, blossom loud and sweet and well rehearsed Bethroned, they sing, proud and petal light, laughing at the solemn trees, bending blind to seed-tossed breeze, all busy buzz above busy weeds, who more swiftly woke from winter's night, and treat each dawn's thaw as autumn's sight. But mild winds soon wild gust, whip-chilling verdant wisps to rust and all of those attentive bees flee with their buzz high above to oaken hives, where, solemn rooted, a tree survives. |
|
| |
|
A Purposeful Mind v1.0
A dull inward pressure forms in my head my brain feels contained by some inner hollow-- a vacuum awareness, a wracking lack of purpose, a momentum flying off the track suddenly lost, out of contact with the ground. I hear it without sound - a spring snapping unwound the metal confused by vanished tension a former coil finds itself a line - undefined I shake I swoon I find and force a grin I grab at a wavering willowing end and begin to bend and wind. |
|
| |
|
v2
To Reach Tell me, on high, With all under my feet, and nothing but the barest rock How I've leapt after dreams but free, to create and reach! |
|
| |
|
another draft...
To Reach Tell me, father sky I have all under my feet, and nothing but the barest rock How have I leaped after dreams but free, to create and reach! |
|
| |
|
Freedom and Comfort in I swim - (a draft...)
i sat and sat and would grow fat so ran in place and lifted things that needed no lifting and sweat the purest cleanest wet-- no doubt drops from an unstressed mind-- clear from fear--justglistenskin! I got a rush pretending to be thin playing at animal in a gym outside I tried to weep when people died freedom and comfort in I swim |
|
| |
|
The Destroyer
A willow, green and bent passing my attention lent branching down I twisting went in each bit of bark, I tore a vent the roots they drank dripping sap the trunk I burned to cinder black the leaves I sternly shook and smoked charred and curled and crisped and choked I could not grow, so I unmade a shadow of that tree--a shade I sat under, it swayed and cracked down from the thunder that I lacked |
|
| |||
|
Madonna rules!
Ok, so she doesn't *rule*. I mean, not like a despot. Despots rule. But not like Madonna. Pol Pot - the first despot that comes to mind - heck, half of his freakin' name is two thirds of the darn word - that's committment! Anyways, Pol Pot wasn't known for bustin' a wicked slinky disco groove, far as I know. Far as I know. But this *song* rules. Authentic acoustic autocrat this beat is. -Dallas the parrot out.
|
|||
| |
| |
|
A new blog
I'll be transitioning from my old journal to this new more public blog over the next several months. My old account, for those who know it, will remain as a personal journal for the time being. |
|