Friday, April 30, 2010


spaced, buzzing bliss, faded & blown-out, fuzzed-out sound. hiss of metallic feed-back, crescendo of exhalation, phasers, lo-fi large soundscape, snowy hazy stoned buzzing. wasted drone, drowned-out drughaze, white noise through blown headphones, dangerously loud, ear-damage effects, washed-out wall of sound. hard luck lovetones, speakers pan, mono, stereo, disintegrating structure, hard switches. underlying snowstorm vocals, a distant field, open growth louder than hell, ruptured irreversible melody vibrations rattling glass. blasted tide, rocks on the shore approaching sublime intervals, expanding, pitch-changing chord, wavering, clinging, lingering whitewashed overdose slim narrow shadowy relentless trash. screeching, last gasps of forced air, wind-erosion, brain-bleeding leisure. sexlaced and hardcore, dripping oilslick groans. the machine has started, the quietloudquiet is unsettled. reversed & polarized, major faded, creeping, angular//obtuse bifurcation. sawing lumber, distant traffic, sonic saturation, inundation, saltlines, self-destruction, the withering-away. monitors up, levels, off-key imbalance. extended blaring radiation, creeping wide-on full-fledged attack, grinding upsurge, waves rising. sustained distortion,crunching analog freak-out. disorientation, sin, cacophony, spattered canvas sideways glance. androgynous come-on, dirty mattress toss&turn, quivering destruction.

Monday, April 19, 2010

William Wordsworth - "The World is Too Much With Us"

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune,
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

Saturday, April 10, 2010

Two by E. E. Cummings

pound pound pound
on thy cold grey corona oh P.

but I would that my tongue could utter
the silence of Alfred Noise

Speak speak thou Fearful guest;tell me,immediate
child of Homer—when you wrote The Dial Cantos did you know
of the organ and the monkey?

Tears,idle Tears! I know not what you mean….
dear little Sweeny,child of fate,
how dost thou?—And the stiff dishonoured nightingales:

fled is that music. (I perceive
a with undubitably clotted hinderparts in obviously

compatriot;let us step into this metaphor.)


2 shes

both not quite
young perfectly

respectable obviously married

women each a you
know soup son more
a(with of course their well
above their showing

sit sat LOOK

ing and lookanding andlookingand at
what That)then i
laughing obvicouldn’t

ouslyhelp itwhy be

cause the
he can you sitting
on that bench in perfectly
bright obviously sunlight Right
before Every
one the yes Hole

WORLD was(praying chin up eyes

tightshut locked
hands pray)ing unbeliev
able he real
(when young was
niceyeslooking but some


how weak sort of or i doano)the
atrical now you
got me laughing but we shooden eye
can’t helped omygod hehehemygodhegodmy

god. Allatonce the apparition

arose and
looking straightahead


appea)ring a
mong treestreestrees


Monday, April 5, 2010

'Little Miss Echo' - Raymond Scott


i had a drug problem--i got caught//

1.5 pg.

'Midsummer' - Louise Glück

On nights like this we used to swim in the quarry,
the boys making up games requiring them to tear off  the girls’ clothes
and the girls cooperating, because they had new bodies since last summer
and they wanted to exhibit them, the brave ones
leaping off  the high rocks — bodies crowding the water.

The nights were humid, still. The stone was cool and wet,
marble for  graveyards, for buildings that we never saw,
buildings in cities far away.

On cloudy nights, you were blind. Those nights the rocks were dangerous,
but in another way it was all dangerous, that was what we were after.
The summer started. Then the boys and girls began to pair off
but always there were a few left at the end — sometimes they’d keep watch,
sometimes they’d pretend to go off  with each other like the rest,
but what could they do there, in the woods? No one wanted to be them.
But they’d show up anyway, as though some night their luck would change,
fate would be a different fate.

At the beginning and at the end, though, we were all together.
After the evening chores, after the smaller children were in bed,
then we were free. Nobody said anything, but we knew the nights we’d meet
and the nights we wouldn’t. Once or twice, at the end of summer,
we could see a baby was going to come out of all that kissing.

And for those two, it was terrible, as terrible as being alone.
The game was over. We’d sit on the rocks smoking cigarettes,
worrying about the ones who weren’t there.

And then finally walk home through the fields,
because there was always work the next day.
And the next day, we were kids again, sitting on the front steps in the morning,
eating a peach.  Just that, but it seemed an honor to have a mouth.
And then going to work, which meant helping out in the fields.
One boy worked for an old lady, building shelves.
The house was very old, maybe built when the mountain was built.

And then the day faded. We were dreaming, waiting for night.
Standing at the front door at twilight, watching the shadows lengthen.
And a voice in the kitchen was always complaining about the heat,
wanting the heat to break.

Then the heat broke, the night was clear.
And you thought of  the boy or girl you’d be meeting later.
And you thought of  walking into the woods and lying down,
practicing all those things you were learning in the water.
And though sometimes you couldn’t see the person you were with,
there was no substitute for that person.

The summer night glowed; in the field, fireflies were glinting.
And for those who understood such things, the stars were sending messages:
You will leave the village where you were born
and in another country you’ll become very rich, very powerful,
but always you will mourn something you left behind, even though
you can’t say what it was,
and eventually you will return to seek it.