As I tie my boots
Up and over
In and out
Something something
Blah blah blah
Every morning-I cinch my laces
Knot and tie and tuck the waxed and braided
Cords
I feel their snug embrace
Around my feet and calves
The weight of the soles
The flexibility of the canvas
It reminds me of life
Simple at times
Tedious at others
Weighty and constrictive yet flexible
Execution Style
Shiny shiny
Spinney spinney
Choppy choppy
He stares into the distance
Sharp whiffs of ozone and chlorine
Assail his nostrils
Tumultuous cascades of odiferous sensations
The legs walk over bristling dead grasses
A multitude of hungry mosquitoes caressing their soles
Dust and blood mingle
Essence of mud and copper waft to the nose
Snick and snack
Thump and bump
His head rolls
Free
Down the
Lane
Nice Dress
Nice dress, he says.
That tired and highly obvious joke.
It was expected of him.
My ball-gown is at the cleaners, I say.
My witty retort.
A hearty laugh is shared by all.
It's my wedding day.
You really rocked that kilt, she says.
It is awesome, I say.
If you hadn't walked out like you owned it
If you had walked out all shy
I would have given you crap.
Like I need the approval of my baby sister, this I do not say.
It's my wedding day.
She says nothing only gives me
That tired old smile.
I'm just glad they came.
Even if they feel embarrassed
By my kilt.
It's my wedding day.
She walks out.
Finally.
She is so gorgeous.
Even with the tears I see already welling up.
It's our wedding day.
Sock Drawer
The mocked bastion of footwear retention
Is sometimes palatial, at other times
A crowded squalor
Waiting to fall apart.
Home to the loyal multitudes.
Green and tan are the worn woolen soldiers,
White cotton are the proudly stained athletes,
Plain plaid are the argyle business men,
Zany are the rainbow-hued jesters.
Each and every one assured of a lifelong partnership,
Provided their mate is not lost in the Whirling Foaming Seas
Or the Tumbling Hells
Or devoured by the monstrous companions to man.
Each and every soldier prepared to shield your feet,
A staunch guardian against the predations of your boots
On those long days in the field soaked to the skin.
A silent trooper in a never ending war of attrition.
Each and every athlete readied to support your feet.
A gentle shield cushioning them from the horrible friction of the road,
Wicking your sweat away as you strive to push yourself beyond your limits.
A tattered and stained cheerleader in a quest to perfection.
Each and every business man awaiting the chance to gird your feet,
To keep your ankles from peeking out the bottom of your slacks
During that crucial interview.
A tired advisor with too many ulcers eating away at him after too many late nights at the office.
Two jesters lay eager to brighten your day,
To be bright and joyful gloves for your feet,
Snugly wrapped around your toes,
Still firm and unworn harbingers of mirth waiting to adorn your feet.
Why else would socks warrant their own drawer?
A place at turns spacious and cramped.
It is only their just due.
A reward for their tireless, faithful service
From which there is no final reward,
No medal.
No tuition assistance.
No pension.
No retirement plan.
No cheesy gold watch with a plaque.
No tenure.
Just a toss into the rubbish bin after months
Or years
Of faithful
Tireless
Service.
The Scents of Battle
I know the smell of steel
The smell of oil
The hot acrid tang of burning iron
I know the smell of blood
And of sweat and tears
I even know the smell of mud
And of shit
But I do not know
Cannot fathom the horrid odors
Of the battle field
The smell of hot life's-blood
As it is spilled
The mingling of blood
And steel
And oil
And sweat
And tears
And mud
And shit
As men do violence to one another for territory
Or honor
Or glory
Or money
Or fun
The Confession of Saint Inigo
He confessed
It was under duress
The purple pernicious plums killed them.
I am not a crook or a hamster.
With a hearty
How dare you, Sir
I never did such a thing
Bieber was not and never shall be
The Crown Duchess of my fridge
As such
The cantaloupes are revolting
Like birds they are molting
He did not declare
His underwear
The See of Books is a glorious place
To sit and watch the kraken and spacemen
Do duels with matchsticks and turmeric.
Like bread, the horse was baked most thoroughly
And lo, did he shimmy, like a god of dance,
The hokey and the pokey
To sleep perchance to hokey
To hokey or to pokey
Whether tis nobler to eat the last sandwich
Or to steal the entire 1812 and hold it for ransom
He did not know
And thus did suffer the balloons
In the catbox
Where he rocked and rolled everyday
Like a hurricane
That was good for nothing
A wish what I had known then was
The conversion between Fat-Free TibetTM and Croutons de ChristoTM
Because damn are my arms tired
The Perturbations of the Ivory Ringed Font By the Gyrations of Cleanliness
As I brush my teeth I contemplate the brush
As it goes round and round encountering
A firmly stuck fiber. Steak? Celery?
The pressure is too great to bear.
We go round and round, encircled by
The spin and dance of madness as it surrounds us
The pressure is too great to bear!
A careless hand, a lament, for the beer spilled undrunk.
A spin and a dance. Such Madness!
As he arises and sings out
The Lament for the Beers They Spilled, "Too Soon!"
And away the foam runs in terror.
He arises and sings out.
The birds respond in kind.
Away the foam runs in terror
To the secret places in the sea.
The birds respond in kind to
The lost and weary pilgrim in search of
The secret places of the sea
To find wisdom and treasure.
The lost and weary pilgrim in search of
A stuck fiber
His wisdom, and treasure.
He brushes his teeth.
An Ecology of Ignorance
We are become that which NATURE wanted!
Truly?
Behold as our million throats belch noisome gases.
Behold as we alter the lands to fit us!
Truly?
You believe this horrid urban sprawl NATURAL?
Behold this abomination,
This unwholesome collection of mud, mire, muck and sticks,
This manufactured horror flooding the land,
These creatures caring for only for themselves,
Ignorant of the devastations they wreck upon up the land.
Truly?
I see naught but a beaver's dam.
Behold these travesties,
Numberless earthen spires crawling, seething, sheltering vermin
These monstrances constructed to honor their hubris,
Stretching forth across the savannas,
Fortresses from which they can assail the trees and grasses.
Truly?
I see naught but termite towers.
Behold this monstrous snare,
Vast and entangling, waiting to capture, kill, destroy hapless creatures,
Mindless and uncaring in its ceaseless thirst.
A score of corpses decorating it in silent horror,
Dangling motionless.
Truly?
I see naught but a spider's web.
BEHOLD your own humancentric egotism
For you claim these manufactured THINGS to be NATURAL
Yet deny those very things made by the hand of man
Deny and decry them as UnNATURAL.
Touching Harms The Art
Touching harms the art.
That placard admonishing the scores of children
from doing what is natural.
Experiencing the world with as many senses as possible.
Touching HARMS the art.
A protective litany of countless hours of impassioned labor
empowered words of defense against the ignorant and careless
who don't know or don't care about an artist's efforts.
Touching harms the art?
We are in a world of one dimension.
Sight is all the matters.
The art that can be touched is not the true Art.
Touching harms the art.
Forever guarded against the curious caresses of brushstrokes and tool marks
only the initiated are allowed to feel the heft, the strength, the weakness.
That vase is not for flowers. That dress is not for wearing. That cup is not for coffee.
Touching Harms The Art.
Receive the art passively, silently, unquestioning.
Bask in their greatness, and wallow in your meagerness.
You don't like it because you don't get it, can't get it.
Touching harms the art.
Hours of work
To display for all
Ruined, you asshole.
TOUCHING HARMS THE ART!!!
Paper and pigments, porcelain and glaze
fragile transient fragments
Survivors of countless attempts.
Touching harms the art.
That was DEFINITELY not shitty.
It was pretty fucking excellent, in fact.
I read it out loud to EFO, and it's a fucking excellent spoken piece.
Your wedding day poem is really good. 'Touching Harms the Art' is my going favorite so far. The first two, with a little editing, could be the start of a poetry collection exploring that theme. 'Sock Drawer' is also very good. The metaphor carries really well through the whole piece. 'The Scents of Battle' is very vivid and reminded me of the years I spent as a butcher. Same sort of scents there, just less man-against-man violence.
This is good stuff, man. Keep doing it.
Thanks. 'As I Tie My Boots", "Scents of Battle", "Execution Style", and "The Confession of Saint Inigo" are all unpolished pieces, and aside from "Confession" I don't like.
I fucked the formatting on "An Ecology of Ignorance".
The professor felt that "Touching Harms the Art" is too heavy handed and didactic, and that the ending of 'Ecology" was too prose-like. Or course I intended "Touching Harms the Art" to heavy handed because the day I wrote it I wanted to touch ALL THE ART.
Quote from: M. Nigel Salt on June 05, 2013, 05:00:41 AM
I read it out loud to EFO, and it's a fucking excellent spoken piece.
Which one, or did you read them all together at once?
Writing poetry is hard, even if it's free verse.
Quote from: six to the quixotic on June 05, 2013, 05:58:16 AM
Thanks. 'As I Tie My Boots", "Scents of Battle", "Execution Style", and "The Confession of Saint Inigo" are all unpolished pieces, and aside from "Confession" I don't like.
I fucked the formatting on "An Ecology of Ignorance".
The professor felt that "Touching Harms the Art" is too heavy handed and didactic, and that the ending of 'Ecology" was too prose-like. Or course I intended "Touching Harms the Art" to heavy handed because the day I wrote it I wanted to touch ALL THE ART.
Quote from: M. Nigel Salt on June 05, 2013, 05:00:41 AM
I read it out loud to EFO, and it's a fucking excellent spoken piece.
Which one, or did you read them all together at once?
Writing poetry is hard, even if it's free verse.
"Touching Harms the Art"
And your professor is an idiot when it comes to spoken word. As a poem on paper, sure, he might have a point. But it screams spoken word to me.
Tell him that I'll come read it to him, to change his mind. Or, I could read it on video and you can send it to him.
Quote from: M. Nigel Salt on June 05, 2013, 06:50:08 AM
Quote from: six to the quixotic on June 05, 2013, 05:58:16 AM
Thanks. 'As I Tie My Boots", "Scents of Battle", "Execution Style", and "The Confession of Saint Inigo" are all unpolished pieces, and aside from "Confession" I don't like.
I fucked the formatting on "An Ecology of Ignorance".
The professor felt that "Touching Harms the Art" is too heavy handed and didactic, and that the ending of 'Ecology" was too prose-like. Or course I intended "Touching Harms the Art" to heavy handed because the day I wrote it I wanted to touch ALL THE ART.
Quote from: M. Nigel Salt on June 05, 2013, 05:00:41 AM
I read it out loud to EFO, and it's a fucking excellent spoken piece.
Which one, or did you read them all together at once?
Writing poetry is hard, even if it's free verse.
"Touching Harms the Art"
And your professor is an idiot when it comes to spoken word. As a poem on paper, sure, he might have a point. But it screams spoken word to me.
She actually made a point to mention last class that she is very much a page poet. I suspect that because I fell in love with metrical poetry last year my feeling that poetry is something that is meant to be aesthetically pleasing to look at on the page and to read aloud and to listen too bleeds over a lot.
Oh well. Your professor has a piece of paper that says he knows more about poetry than me, but I know what I like so . . . pbbbt. :P
Do the spoken word thing, Nigel! Share! It will be awesome. :D :D :D
No Time To Explain, I Am From The Future
As I open my eyes they are stung by day.
Vision clears like the pale purple fog slowly
sublimating from the pools it lays in.
The sun is not right.
Swollen, it festers in the sky,
a boil in the heavens.
How long did I sleep?
Frozen, preserved, insensate.
Heat hammers blows upon my naked form.
Screen turn on? I wonder aloud.
Ancient decayed plastics
Shroud the scratched and pitted glass.
A loud crash and weird squawk
I turn and retch at the hot rotten blast
I cannot believe my eyes....
I am dreaming?
This can't be true.
Dinosaurs were extinct, and dragons aren't real.
Massive head, gaping maw, fangs longer than my arm
It lunges towards me
Faster than thought.
And then I realized how silly this all was.
This is not, as they say, my idiom.
With a graceful bow and a hand extended
The dinosaur and I
Danced
Quote from: Cardinal Pizza Deliverance. on June 05, 2013, 07:48:47 PM
Oh well. Your professor has a piece of paper that says he knows more about poetry than me, but I know what I like so . . . pbbbt. :P
Do the spoken word thing, Nigel! Share! It will be awesome. :D :D :D
Well aside from my art poem, her comments were extremely helpful. While I do feel that my art poem could use some work, what she suggested wasn't useful for that particular poem.
Quote from: six to the quixotic on June 05, 2013, 11:41:43 PM
Quote from: Cardinal Pizza Deliverance. on June 05, 2013, 07:48:47 PM
Oh well. Your professor has a piece of paper that says he knows more about poetry than me, but I know what I like so . . . pbbbt. :P
Do the spoken word thing, Nigel! Share! It will be awesome. :D :D :D
Well aside from my art poem, her comments were extremely helpful. While I do feel that my art poem could use some work, what she suggested wasn't useful for that particular poem.
I'm glad she's extremely helpful. This is a good thing. Yeah, the art poem . . . I guess it could be taken as a backhanded compliment? A mission accomplished kinda thing?
Quote from: six to the quixotic on June 05, 2013, 11:41:43 PM
Quote from: Cardinal Pizza Deliverance. on June 05, 2013, 07:48:47 PM
Oh well. Your professor has a piece of paper that says he knows more about poetry than me, but I know what I like so . . . pbbbt. :P
Do the spoken word thing, Nigel! Share! It will be awesome. :D :D :D
Well aside from my art poem, her comments were extremely helpful. While I do feel that my art poem could use some work, what she suggested wasn't useful for that particular poem.
As, fundamentally, a poet, I am curious about her input.
Quote from: M. Nigel Salt on June 06, 2013, 05:55:09 AM
Quote from: six to the quixotic on June 05, 2013, 11:41:43 PM
Quote from: Cardinal Pizza Deliverance. on June 05, 2013, 07:48:47 PM
Oh well. Your professor has a piece of paper that says he knows more about poetry than me, but I know what I like so . . . pbbbt. :P
Do the spoken word thing, Nigel! Share! It will be awesome. :D :D :D
Well aside from my art poem, her comments were extremely helpful. While I do feel that my art poem could use some work, what she suggested wasn't useful for that particular poem.
As, fundamentally, a poet, I am curious about her input.
admittedly this the least coherent feed back I've gotten from her.
QuoteFirst, I like how you're experimenting with refrain, and how you used an art poem as vehicle for political sentiments. Very powerful vehicle, indeed. My main thoughts with this draft is that it feels a bit heavy - a little heavy-handed on didactic expressions, rather than poetic expression. I hate so image, image, image, but it's so powerful in but it's so powerful in poems, and I think it would help to balance the poem.
The refrain is interesting in this one. Visually, it reads like a plaque posted over and over. On the page, it reads like a hand in your face. I'd love to see that hand to the face come with a pay off - sections that have leaps - that go different places - make associations. Consider the entering the poem more as a compassionate "I."
Just a few thoughts! This is a great start.
Quote from: six to the quixotic on June 06, 2013, 06:13:32 AM
Quote from: M. Nigel Salt on June 06, 2013, 05:55:09 AM
Quote from: six to the quixotic on June 05, 2013, 11:41:43 PM
Quote from: Cardinal Pizza Deliverance. on June 05, 2013, 07:48:47 PM
Oh well. Your professor has a piece of paper that says he knows more about poetry than me, but I know what I like so . . . pbbbt. :P
Do the spoken word thing, Nigel! Share! It will be awesome. :D :D :D
Well aside from my art poem, her comments were extremely helpful. While I do feel that my art poem could use some work, what she suggested wasn't useful for that particular poem.
As, fundamentally, a poet, I am curious about her input.
admittedly this the least coherent feed back I've gotten from her.
QuoteFirst, I like how you're experimenting with refrain, and how you used an art poem as vehicle for political sentiments. Very powerful vehicle, indeed. My main thoughts with this draft is that it feels a bit heavy - a little heavy-handed on didactic expressions, rather than poetic expression. I hate so image, image, image, but it's so powerful in but it's so powerful in poems, and I think it would help to balance the poem.
The refrain is interesting in this one. Visually, it reads like a plaque posted over and over. On the page, it reads like a hand in your face. I'd love to see that hand to the face come with a pay off - sections that have leaps - that go different places - make associations. Consider the entering the poem more as a compassionate "I."
Just a few thoughts! This is a great start.
Uhhhh yeah, what is she even saying, there? I'm having a hard time parsing it. Maybe she was drunk? :lol:
I get the second paragraph just fine (I disagree with it for the most part, but I recognize what she's saying and why she would feel that way). But the first paragraph is wut is she even on about.
Quote from: M. Nigel Salt on June 06, 2013, 08:05:38 PM
Quote from: six to the quixotic on June 06, 2013, 06:13:32 AM
Quote from: M. Nigel Salt on June 06, 2013, 05:55:09 AM
Quote from: six to the quixotic on June 05, 2013, 11:41:43 PM
Quote from: Cardinal Pizza Deliverance. on June 05, 2013, 07:48:47 PM
Oh well. Your professor has a piece of paper that says he knows more about poetry than me, but I know what I like so . . . pbbbt. :P
Do the spoken word thing, Nigel! Share! It will be awesome. :D :D :D
Well aside from my art poem, her comments were extremely helpful. While I do feel that my art poem could use some work, what she suggested wasn't useful for that particular poem.
As, fundamentally, a poet, I am curious about her input.
admittedly this the least coherent feed back I've gotten from her.
QuoteFirst, I like how you're experimenting with refrain, and how you used an art poem as vehicle for political sentiments. Very powerful vehicle, indeed. My main thoughts with this draft is that it feels a bit heavy - a little heavy-handed on didactic expressions, rather than poetic expression. I hate so image, image, image, but it's so powerful in but it's so powerful in poems, and I think it would help to balance the poem.
The refrain is interesting in this one. Visually, it reads like a plaque posted over and over. On the page, it reads like a hand in your face. I'd love to see that hand to the face come with a pay off - sections that have leaps - that go different places - make associations. Consider the entering the poem more as a compassionate "I."
Just a few thoughts! This is a great start.
Uhhhh yeah, what is she even saying, there? I'm having a hard time parsing it. Maybe she was drunk? :lol:
I get the second paragraph just fine (I disagree with it for the most part, but I recognize what she's saying and why she would feel that way). But the first paragraph is wut is she even on about.
That is how I felt, especially because all of the other feedback she has given has been helpful and detailed.
Also
QuoteDear Poets,
I've spent the better part of the afternoon and evening with your poems and chapbooks, and I just want to say a collective WOW.
As I began, I was making notes of students whom I wanted to write individual notes to, but about 1/3 of the way through, I noticed that I wanted to contact basically every student. The growth in your writings, the care of the chapbooks, the confidence that I sense as I turn the pages are very moving to me. There isn't one of you in class who shouldn't consider submitting his/her poems to Tahoma West in the fall. Alumnus are welcome.
For those of you who intentionally, accidentally, or against their will fell in love with poetry and want to keep having conversations about it, there's a student/alumni group who meets regularly during the school year and sometimes in the summer. If you email me, I will put you in touch with them. They are terrific.
Also, don't forget about the Advanced Poetry class in the fall.
Also, I've finished grading your books, and am eager to return them to you. Here's the deal: I'll be on campus this Friday afternoon and will place them outside of my office door (GWP 236) in a box. Please pick them up BY THE END OF FINALS WEEK. I'm not supposed to leave student work out there, and I'll be out of town, so if you CAN'T pick it up, please email.
Bravo and congratulations to each of you,
So she was probably drunk when she emailed the comments on my poem, it was also stupidly late when I got the email.
This was a good thread. Looking forward to more poetry.
Quote from: Don Coyote on June 05, 2013, 04:05:38 AM
As I tie my boots
Up and over
In and out
Something something
Blah blah blah
Every morning-I cinch my laces
Knot and tie and tuck the waxed and braided
Cords
I feel their snug embrace
Around my feet and calves
The weight of the soles
The flexibility of the canvas
It reminds me of life
Simple at times
Tedious at others
Weighty and constrictive yet flexible
https://soundcloud.com/ian-woolley-9/as-i-tie-my-boots
Quote from: Don Coyote on June 05, 2013, 04:06:12 AM
Execution Style
Shiny shiny
Spinney spinney
Choppy choppy
He stares into the distance
Sharp whiffs of ozone and chlorine
Assail his nostrils
Tumultuous cascades of odiferous sensations
The legs walk over bristling dead grasses
A multitude of hungry mosquitoes caressing their soles
Dust and blood mingle
Essence of mud and copper waft to the nose
Snick and snack
Thump and bump
His head rolls
Free
Down the
Lane
https://soundcloud.com/ian-woolley-9/execution-style
Quote from: Don Coyote on June 05, 2013, 04:07:21 AM
Sock Drawer
The mocked bastion of footwear retention
Is sometimes palatial, at other times
A crowded squalor
Waiting to fall apart.
Home to the loyal multitudes.
Green and tan are the worn woolen soldiers,
White cotton are the proudly stained athletes,
Plain plaid are the argyle business men,
Zany are the rainbow-hued jesters.
Each and every one assured of a lifelong partnership,
Provided their mate is not lost in the Whirling Foaming Seas
Or the Tumbling Hells
Or devoured by the monstrous companions to man.
Each and every soldier prepared to shield your feet,
A staunch guardian against the predations of your boots
On those long days in the field soaked to the skin.
A silent trooper in a never ending war of attrition.
Each and every athlete readied to support your feet.
A gentle shield cushioning them from the horrible friction of the road,
Wicking your sweat away as you strive to push yourself beyond your limits.
A tattered and stained cheerleader in a quest to perfection.
Each and every business man awaiting the chance to gird your feet,
To keep your ankles from peeking out the bottom of your slacks
During that crucial interview.
A tired advisor with too many ulcers eating away at him after too many late nights at the office.
Two jesters lay eager to brighten your day,
To be bright and joyful gloves for your feet,
Snugly wrapped around your toes,
Still firm and unworn harbingers of mirth waiting to adorn your feet.
Why else would socks warrant their own drawer?
A place at turns spacious and cramped.
It is only their just due.
A reward for their tireless, faithful service
From which there is no final reward,
No medal.
No tuition assistance.
No pension.
No retirement plan.
No cheesy gold watch with a plaque.
No tenure.
Just a toss into the rubbish bin after months
Or years
Of faithful
Tireless
Service.
https://soundcloud.com/ian-woolley-9/sock-drawer
Quote from: Don Coyote on June 05, 2013, 04:08:19 AM
The Confession of Saint Inigo
He confessed
It was under duress
The purple pernicious plums killed them.
I am not a crook or a hamster.
With a hearty
How dare you, Sir
I never did such a thing
Bieber was not and never shall be
The Crown Duchess of my fridge
As such
The cantaloupes are revolting
Like birds they are molting
He did not declare
His underwear
The See of Books is a glorious place
To sit and watch the kraken and spacemen
Do duels with matchsticks and turmeric.
Like bread, the horse was baked most thoroughly
And lo, did he shimmy, like a god of dance,
The hokey and the pokey
To sleep perchance to hokey
To hokey or to pokey
Whether tis nobler to eat the last sandwich
Or to steal the entire 1812 and hold it for ransom
He did not know
And thus did suffer the balloons
In the catbox
Where he rocked and rolled everyday
Like a hurricane
That was good for nothing
A wish what I had known then was
The conversion between Fat-Free TibetTM and Croutons de ChristoTM
Because damn are my arms tired
https://soundcloud.com/ian-woolley-9/the-confession-of-saint-inigo
Quote from: Don Coyote on June 05, 2013, 04:08:49 AM
The Perturbations of the Ivory Ringed Font By the Gyrations of Cleanliness
As I brush my teeth I contemplate the brush
As it goes round and round encountering
A firmly stuck fiber. Steak? Celery?
The pressure is too great to bear.
We go round and round, encircled by
The spin and dance of madness as it surrounds us
The pressure is too great to bear!
A careless hand, a lament, for the beer spilled undrunk.
A spin and a dance. Such Madness!
As he arises and sings out
The Lament for the Beers They Spilled, "Too Soon!"
And away the foam runs in terror.
He arises and sings out.
The birds respond in kind.
Away the foam runs in terror
To the secret places in the sea.
The birds respond in kind to
The lost and weary pilgrim in search of
The secret places of the sea
To find wisdom and treasure.
The lost and weary pilgrim in search of
A stuck fiber
His wisdom, and treasure.
He brushes his teeth.
https://soundcloud.com/ian-woolley-9/the-perturbations-of-the-ivory
Quote from: Don Coyote on June 05, 2013, 04:09:51 AM
Touching Harms The Art
Touching harms the art.
That placard admonishing the scores of children
from doing what is natural.
Experiencing the world with as many senses as possible.
Touching HARMS the art.
A protective litany of countless hours of impassioned labor
empowered words of defense against the ignorant and careless
who don't know or don't care about an artist's efforts.
Touching harms the art?
We are in a world of one dimension.
Sight is all the matters.
The art that can be touched is not the true Art.
Touching harms the art.
Forever guarded against the curious caresses of brushstrokes and tool marks
only the initiated are allowed to feel the heft, the strength, the weakness.
That vase is not for flowers. That dress is not for wearing. That cup is not for coffee.
Touching Harms The Art.
Receive the art passively, silently, unquestioning.
Bask in their greatness, and wallow in your meagerness.
You don't like it because you don't get it, can't get it.
Touching harms the art.
Hours of work
To display for all
Ruined, you asshole.
TOUCHING HARMS THE ART!!!
Paper and pigments, porcelain and glaze
fragile transient fragments
Survivors of countless attempts.
Touching harms the art.
https://soundcloud.com/ian-woolley-9/touching-harms-the-art
https://soundcloud.com/ian-woolley-9/no-time-to-explain-i-am-from
Quote from: Don Coyote on June 05, 2013, 11:37:45 PM
No Time To Explain, I Am From The Future
As I open my eyes they are stung by day.
Vision clears like the pale purple fog slowly
sublimating from the pools it lays in.
The sun is not right.
Swollen, it festers in the sky,
a boil in the heavens.
How long did I sleep?
Frozen, preserved, insensate.
Heat hammers blows upon my naked form.
Screen turn on? I wonder aloud.
Ancient decayed plastics
Shroud the scratched and pitted glass.
A loud crash and weird squawk
I turn and retch at the hot rotten blast
I cannot believe my eyes....
I am dreaming?
This can't be true.
Dinosaurs were extinct, and dragons aren't real.
Massive head, gaping maw, fangs longer than my arm
It lunges towards me
Faster than thought.
And then I realized how silly this all was.
This is not, as they say, my idiom.
With a graceful bow and a hand extended
The dinosaur and I
Danced
EXCELLENT.
Thanks!
https://soundcloud.com/ian-woolley-9/sets/the-void
The Void #1 – A Glance
You stare
It can't stare back
Your brain
Manifests figments and fragments
You scream
Voiceless into
The Void
No one
Cares
The Void #2 – A Sequel
Tab Tab Search
Tab Tab Search
Alt Tab
Unlock Phone
Slide Refresh
Tab
Tab
Search
Autopopulate
The Void
Where
Who
Anyone
You
The Void
Tab Tab Search
Autopopulate
Refresh
F5
F5
F5
Hunt
Peck
Search
Debate
Anyone
Someone
No Dialtone
No
Dialtone
Hello
Hullo
Diabolic
Automatic
Dialmatic
Call Waiting
The Void
The Void #3 – A Third Movement
T o
The Void
With you
The Void
Take you
Ta ste
The Void
Be Con sumed by
The Void
T o
The Void
You sh all go
Be embr aced by
The Void
Go to
The Void
And be embraced
The Void #4 – A Map
Write write
Fill
The Void
Scribble scrabble by drabble and dribble
To fill
The Void
Write and write in a sprawling crawl
And to hide
The Void
Watch the ink and graphite and pixel
Heave and crawl against
The Void
Faster faster
Maybe we can stop
The Void
Beat it back
Line by line
The Void
Intrudes
Eyes slide around
The Void
Make it stop
The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void
The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void
The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void
The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void
The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void
The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void
The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void
The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void
The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void
The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void The Void
The Void #5 – A VM
I screamed into
The Void
I did not know
The Void
Had call waiting
It was full