k-w-blenkhorn - Hello Poetry

While washing tarnished hands; The waters run black, spiraling down An even darker abyss. Call it a drain. Fitting for the moment just Before the tub empties And the dejected gargle rings out. All hope and sense of a future drained; Never to escape the tomb that is this earth. Dirt and rock; rock that fuel fire Paves the way to opportunity But not worth the blood it takes To retrieve it. Whose folly? Whose fault? We are now stunted, brought to A sudden and violent halt. Brings to mind one of many Bad clichés about eggs; Numerical or transportation. Is that how they felt? Cracked, spilling themselves But still not able to stain The black gold, the treasure’s of the deep. Not caved in, but bottoms up Digging deep enough to reverse gravity Calling out; “That was our livelihood those where their lives neither will return, neither could survive.”

0

Feb 24, 2013

Feb 24, 2013 at 1:02 PM UTC

k-w-blenkhorn

The Great Collapse

While washing tarnished hands; The waters run black, spiraling down An even darker abyss. Call it a drain. Fitting for the moment just Before the tub empties And the dejected gargle rings out. All hope and sense of a future drained; Never to escape the tomb that is this earth. Dirt and rock; rock that fuel fire Paves the way to opportunity But not worth the blood it takes To retrieve it. Whose folly? Whose fault? We are now stunted, brought to A sudden and violent halt. Brings to mind one of many Bad clichés about eggs; Numerical or transportation. Is that how they felt? Cracked, spilling themselves But still not able to stain The black gold, the treasure’s of the deep. Not caved in, but bottoms up Digging deep enough to reverse gravity Calling out; “That was our livelihood those where their lives neither will return, neither could survive.”

29

Perched on a shelf surrounded by its products; the multitude of moments, caught and hung on hooks. A black eye, engulfing all that comes into focus. The series of mechanisms transform life into stills with a single mechanical shriek, a flash, and the exposure to light. Seizing the world through an optic lens: a reflection of the concrete embedded onto 35mm film. The amnesic lag, from op to development lets time for nostalgia to set in, and each image invokes a myriad of memories. But behind the automation, there is the overwhelming urge to contour time. To trap it in a wooden frame and exhibit it like a trophy. All the while unaware that moments cannot be captured for currency. There are times when I see the world through the apparatus of a camera. But the shutter speed is set for too long and everything develops into a blur.

0

Feb 24, 2013

Feb 24, 2013 at 12:58 PM UTC

k-w-blenkhorn

A Symbol is a Promise

Perched on a shelf surrounded by its products; the multitude of moments, caught and hung on hooks. A black eye, engulfing all that comes into focus. The series of mechanisms transform life into stills with a single mechanical shriek, a flash, and the exposure to light. Seizing the world through an optic lens: a reflection of the concrete embedded onto 35mm film. The amnesic lag, from op to development lets time for nostalgia to set in, and each image invokes a myriad of memories. But behind the automation, there is the overwhelming urge to contour time. To trap it in a wooden frame and exhibit it like a trophy. All the while unaware that moments cannot be captured for currency. There are times when I see the world through the apparatus of a camera. But the shutter speed is set for too long and everything develops into a blur.

19

Best enjoyed listening to the B-side of Tom Wait’s Heart Attack and Vine The needle pierces the old dusty vinyl; cue anticipation. An amalgamation of artificial nostalgia and the feeling like someone carved a six-inch valley in the middle of your skull. A Gravelgarglingchainsmokeingdevil (God when he’s drunk) spilling guts at thirty-three revolutions per minute. And with each screaming note there is not violence, but the sensational. Tell me about jersey girls and china white. All I want to do is ride upfront. Light cigarette off of cigarette and fail in attempts to pronounce the place names (shu•be•na• cadie, Ko•uchi•bou•guac (when I was a kid I though it was Capital A)). Maybe real music is found within silhouettes of silence. Standing on the marsh flats gazing up at the abyss. The stars reign down over the tide that is coming in the bay and the ice, cracks and echoes with a natural reverb. I think I am creature driven and derided by vanity. Or maybe its just time to flip the record.

0

Feb 24, 2013

Feb 24, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC

k-w-blenkhorn

Cap-Pelé

Best enjoyed listening to the B-side of Tom Wait’s Heart Attack and Vine The needle pierces the old dusty vinyl; cue anticipation. An amalgamation of artificial nostalgia and the feeling like someone carved a six-inch valley in the middle of your skull. A Gravelgarglingchainsmokeingdevil (God when he’s drunk) spilling guts at thirty-three revolutions per minute. And with each screaming note there is not violence, but the sensational. Tell me about jersey girls and china white. All I want to do is ride upfront. Light cigarette off of cigarette and fail in attempts to pronounce the place names (shu•be•na• cadie, Ko•uchi•bou•guac (when I was a kid I though it was Capital A)). Maybe real music is found within silhouettes of silence. Standing on the marsh flats gazing up at the abyss. The stars reign down over the tide that is coming in the bay and the ice, cracks and echoes with a natural reverb. I think I am creature driven and derided by vanity. Or maybe its just time to flip the record.

19

I wish inspiration could be injected intravenously, without delay. That I could wrap a rubber band around my arm and pull it tight with my teeth. Then give myself several swi- ft slaps with my middle and index fingers to the inside crook of my arm to pop the vein. Then without look- ing, (because I am afraid of needles) slowly insert the thin metal spear in my skin and puncture the vein. Draw back a bit of blood and watch it mix with my concoction. Then voila: ins- tant inspiration. If only I could buy words by the bot- tle, so I could guzzle them down by the quart. And they could mix and swirl, swash and stir, with all my other ****** fluids. They could seep into my veins, via my stomach lining, and warm my body with a toxic glow. The words would blur my vision, mu- ddy my senses, and stumble my step. Then, after I consume more words th- an I can handle, I would projectile vo- mit and spew the words all over the page. Then the next morning I could rearrange the words into something remotely coherent. But there is no such luck. Instead I have to go toe-to-toe with each word, each syllable, with the utmost precision and vigilance. And let me tell you, these word “St- ing like a butterfly and float like a bee”. I give a left jab, a right hook, a shot to the kidneys, but it does no good. Most of the time I am on my heels; forced to be on the defense But of course I take a hit, or twenty- two. Until I am punch drunk, and everything is brilliant to me.

0

Feb 24, 2013

Feb 24, 2013 at 12:54 PM UTC

k-w-blenkhorn

Punch Drunk

I wish inspiration could be injected intravenously, without delay. That I could wrap a rubber band around my arm and pull it tight with my teeth. Then give myself several swi- ft slaps with my middle and index fingers to the inside crook of my arm to pop the vein. Then without look- ing, (because I am afraid of needles) slowly insert the thin metal spear in my skin and puncture the vein. Draw back a bit of blood and watch it mix with my concoction. Then voila: ins- tant inspiration. If only I could buy words by the bot- tle, so I could guzzle them down by the quart. And they could mix and swirl, swash and stir, with all my other ****** fluids. They could seep into my veins, via my stomach lining, and warm my body with a toxic glow. The words would blur my vision, mu- ddy my senses, and stumble my step. Then, after I consume more words th- an I can handle, I would projectile vo- mit and spew the words all over the page. Then the next morning I could rearrange the words into something remotely coherent. But there is no such luck. Instead I have to go toe-to-toe with each word, each syllable, with the utmost precision and vigilance. And let me tell you, these word “St- ing like a butterfly and float like a bee”. I give a left jab, a right hook, a shot to the kidneys, but it does no good. Most of the time I am on my heels; forced to be on the defense But of course I take a hit, or twenty- two. Until I am punch drunk, and everything is brilliant to me.

42

Cubic zirconium eyes, and a tip toe too far that I'm tittering on the cusp of something that is even remotely coherent. I've been repeating sentences in my head, over and over again so I'm not to forget it. This waltz with reality is getting tiring, and my wits are too dull to cut this rug. I believe that there is an old saying about that but I could be confused with something other then words. I never did like the number seven masquerading as cylindrical. Never the less, there is just three more steps, and a skipped heart beat, and then, and only then I can finally come to my conclusion.

0

Oct 3, 2011

Oct 3, 2011 at 12:07 PM UTC

k-w-blenkhorn

I wanted diamonds but I'll settle for these;

Cubic zirconium eyes, and a tip toe too far that I'm tittering on the cusp of something that is even remotely coherent. I've been repeating sentences in my head, over and over again so I'm not to forget it. This waltz with reality is getting tiring, and my wits are too dull to cut this rug. I believe that there is an old saying about that but I could be confused with something other then words. I never did like the number seven masquerading as cylindrical. Never the less, there is just three more steps, and a skipped heart beat, and then, and only then I can finally come to my conclusion.

14