onomatopoeias proved to us the existence of actual realities with our inability to encode them given our phonetic vectoring of assertion and amiable frames to conduct the practice of farming (e.g.), onomatopoeias showed us the boundaries, we can hardly write the sound of rain with the 26 notables, so we turn from the practice of onomatopoeias and raise the flag of imagery with so so many comparative associations, like, like, like / akin to.
after i ate cat snacks
i realised two thing...
a. cats have a really coarse palette
in terms of taste-buds
b. i never intended my poetry
to be read, esp. by me,
so it seems i'm looking for
an orator; a bit like chopin
looking for a pianist
to play the silencer notes
of scores, written in the realm
of chaos of surd musical notation,
gangrene on the page;
readily amputated,
i never write to speak it,
i'm looking for a slave to do the fiasco
for me - sounds cruel,
but i guess kindness comes at a price.
he's just a pianist and gets to be called
an artist - let' just say he's a learned
decipherer of scores...
london was built on grime & grit...
liverpool was built on ore-land (northern eerie land),
my heart was left in scotland...
i never write for oration -
i left my heart in scotland, dancing on the roof
of the old college (of law).
honestly, the thinking of musical composers
always fascinated me, that schizoid-arena
of near-to-miss theological theory of
predestination working in them,
the ability to see the sound lag of a violin
or a cello, decipher it and note it down
in the universal language of music,
forget Esperanto... noting down the sound
of a raindrop, a hammer striking a nail,
i'm jealous of this enigma... i truly am
and i am unabashed by it...
my musical expression seems so dumb and quartered,
i've been given the rhythm section of the composition,
the parameters of punctuation...
i'm not jealous of prose writers,
they're the ones that say: an opera for an hour -
they define the longevity of the **** thing,
i possess power over yawns and impromptus
of the orchestral cowbell known as the silvery triangle.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
onomatopoeias proved to us the existence of actual realities with our inability to encode them given our phonetic vectoring of assertion and amiable frames to conduct the practice of farming (e.g.), onomatopoeias showed us the boundaries, we can hardly write the sound of rain with the 26 notables, so we turn from the practice of onomatopoeias and raise the flag of imagery with so so many comparative associations, like, like, like / akin to.
after i ate cat snacks
i realised two thing...
a. cats have a really coarse palette
in terms of taste-buds
b. i never intended my poetry
to be read, esp. by me,
so it seems i'm looking for
an orator; a bit like chopin
looking for a pianist
to play the silencer notes
of scores, written in the realm
of chaos of surd musical notation,
gangrene on the page;
readily amputated,
i never write to speak it,
i'm looking for a slave to do the fiasco
for me - sounds cruel,
but i guess kindness comes at a price.
he's just a pianist and gets to be called
an artist - let' just say he's a learned
decipherer of scores...
london was built on grime & grit...
liverpool was built on ore-land (northern eerie land),
my heart was left in scotland...
i never write for oration -
i left my heart in scotland, dancing on the roof
of the old college (of law).
honestly, the thinking of musical composers
always fascinated me, that schizoid-arena
of near-to-miss theological theory of
predestination working in them,
the ability to see the sound lag of a violin
or a cello, decipher it and note it down
in the universal language of music,
forget Esperanto... noting down the sound
of a raindrop, a hammer striking a nail,
i'm jealous of this enigma... i truly am
and i am unabashed by it...
my musical expression seems so dumb and quartered,
i've been given the rhythm section of the composition,
the parameters of punctuation...
i'm not jealous of prose writers,
they're the ones that say: an opera for an hour -
they define the longevity of the **** thing,
i possess power over yawns and impromptus
of the orchestral cowbell known as the silvery triangle.