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kr8n
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Location: Burlington, Vermont, United States
Birthday: 2/24/1978
Gender: Male
Interests: *dj -- dnb, jazzstep
*genre-bending writing
*conspicuous consumerism
*tech-fetishist (w/ social deficiencies)
Expertise: *strike anywhere matches
*serial numbers from airplane fuses - 1945-72
Occupation: Other
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
Member Since:
7/5/2002
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| Aaaccckk!!!! Pttthhhbbbtttt!!!
Ok...just making sure this thing is still on.
Don't worry, I'll tidy up after myself before I go. Yes, that does mean I'll be making a mess. No, I probably won't need the bleach. Probably.
***
Actually, I'm just re-posting some poetry. I need to look at it again & i like using xanga as double storage.
***
The Miller's Toll
scissor-kick and squick
the waterwheel taps the surface
lily pad lines
break with the ripples
i turn
my fingers are tines
scalding the tarn
my lungs fill and empty
my heartbeat aches
i turn
tonight, with grist and ache
i pay the miller's toll
***
don't stay
don't pick the posies,
watch them glint the grass
with their gilded kisses
and their August lies.
don't find your way home,
my dear Captain Smith
lying in the blankets
to stave off December nights
don't choke back the tears
of sallow teas and ember silence
catch them in the handkerchief
of sister's last April knit
don't regret the storms
and the evergreen branches
racing in the wheelbarrow
in the fading October light
don't stay here any longer
don't stay here
don't stay
***
Lady of the Labyrinth
The ear nests opposite a debt.
as nerves fray widdershins
caught between breaths
Follow on, steady hands,
follow the lanes and droughts
of the last king of Crete --
resplendent, naked and crowned
Catch the idle splay,
with each twitch of the hand
as you dream-cross the Samaria
to face your northern seas
once more
And lay your head down,
on rocky loam.
Rest awhile longer my Ariadne,
my lady of labyrinths
my last path home.
***
Wrenboys
Follow the wrenboys now, son,
as the poleaxe and planter
circle round the frozen greens.
Walk their trail of straw and song
through the lanes and trenches
and over Crenshaw Hill.
Take a turn in their tunes and dances
to chase devils from the eaves
and the cold from our breath.
Call out to remind the village
and beyond to the hills
Up Sraid Eoin! We never died a winter yet.
***
Rime
"Rime", she said.
"When the snow flakes crystallize like that,
it's called 'rime'".
We stood at the end of my driveway
by the cemetery gate,
huddled around our chilled pink hands
and watched the snow flakes melt.
I didn't know I loved her then.
Love being possible and impossible
and so many things in between
that I had yet to forgive.
But as the fog of our breath mingled
and everything was still and quiet
I felt the tiny lattice of ice
start to shiver and break and melt.
***
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| Prometheus, you fuck.
You never told me
never uttered the words
never gave me warning.
here I am: splayed, naked, resplendent --
yet utterly at the mercy of your labors.
You gathered me up
like the crackle of autumn leaves
falling before the yule
took me in
& left me here.
Yes.
Illuminated.
Yes.
Warmed.
But fuck you.
You left me hanging on to embers
when I needed so much more.
You left me hoping on stars
when I needed it drawn all up,
quartered and torn.
Fuck you.
I lie in wintry repose.
I welcome condolences and craft.
I await your return.
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| From the gaping maw of the passerine
yr distant call keeps circling my head
captions of words for the sound of wings
beating in hasty retreat
words rendered in dollar store cliches
listless, shuffling monochrome husks
shrugging off the fulgent coats of impediment
i watch sparrows glide thru night skies
yr voice keeps circling my head
closer; ensnaring my breathandthoughtsandcomposure
laying barren my own tiny song
you glance at me when you think i'm not looking
and i mimic the gesture
wondering if it has the same shuddering effect
i watch sparrows glide thru night skies
my voice keeps circling my head
intoning the rank smells of pandora's breath
putrid with hopeanddoubtandfear
escaping to thinly sate the gaping maw
of my coloring book of too-perfect situations
and the aching space between our faces
i watch sparrows glide thru night skies
and beg the moon to keep her shining course
awhile longer
****
a few notes for when i go back to this:
family passeridae/passer
passerine (where's an OED when i need one?)
feeding rituals of sparrows | | |
| this is an older one that i've gone back into. it has a few problems that i still need to poke around in...i think i hit to emotional turn too quickly.
I'm finding religion in fortune cookies
not clean-cut parables,
but the grease-stained wisdom
at the bottom of a take-out bag.
you will find great wisdom (in bed)
(...& dammit, who hasn't?)
& these sedentary mantras are found
when i break things
when sweet preserved shards
crumble between my fingers
when my breath reeks of lo mein
& i'm in anything but my sunday best.
you are very lucky (in bed)
(...& dammit, who isnt?)
i build my altars out of little white take-out boxes
worship w/ chopstick crucafixes
& take communion w/ water chestnuts,
filling my body w/ the bread & flesh
of a omniscient deity
available for pick-up, take-out & delivery
you see with great clarity (in bed)
(... & dammit, why only there?)
see, a broken heart is a tupperware-full of lo mein
carried thru empty city streets
to an apartment that smells no different
than when i left it. | | |
| Hehe...well, looks like I'm vaguely back in this place, huh? I suppose I've needed a place to write & someone has been inspiring me to write, & my main blog isn't appropriate for poetic ramblings....so here I am.
Ansalem evolves like the lowest of beasts
the city shifts your desires
it flicks its wrist at you with passing moments
the fruit of the melon stall
blushes oh so greener
to catch the passer's eye
only to fade with scorn
once your purchase is made
the carpets gather their dust
and display it sparkling
in the afternoon sun
and then turn and blind you
as your gaze becomes cursory
the buildings and streets themselves
wind their way around your heart's call
leading you ever inward
to a city center that echoes
in mockery of your solitary footsteps
The secret of Ansalem is this:
never wanting, never desiring
its denizens do not leave
until the boats of undertakers
carry their bodies to an underworld
where neither want nor desire
could ever bloom.
*blegghhh* not happy with this yet. rough draft? rough draft.
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