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Carlo C Gomez Jan 2023
~
Mermaid in a manhole
suffering hibernation sickness
she drinks in every sob like wine
her oceanic call reverberates
whilst speaking dead languages
into the receiver
but slipping off melancholy
and blown a wish
by hide-and-seek lips
she chooses an unfamiliar light

****** with scissors
throbs of undamaged energy
from her vernal equinox
but in love with a bad idea
and beyond the minimum safe distance
she no longer plays at fragile volumes
and careful times
hands playing butterfly
pinch nippled skin
she chooses an unfamiliar light

~
Carlo C Gomez Jan 2023
rhapsodic pastoralism
as beguilingly bucolic as tempera gardens,
where nature’s wild beauty
is domesticated and made
into a safe space for dream and play,
reverie and revelry.

with the bright dawn
chatter of birdsong
it seems to reach your ear across distance,
like a girl singing happily to herself
while walking down the road
on the other side of your garden wall.
Carlo C Gomez Jul 2022
He kinetically arrived
with 1973.

Night is the longest day,
here come the warm jets,
served on a cold plate.

Play it back at half-speed
and you've got auditory wallpaper,

it must be as ignorable
as it is interesting.

His own world spins within a device:
cacophony of sound
mixed in a blender
and xeroxed;
a little snake guitar,
a little Leslie piano

— music to resign you
to the possibility of death.

Then came 1983
and beyond just him.

Tamper tantrum hotline,
amplifiers on the balcony,
secretly taping Edge
and Adam Clayton
on a 4th of July.

The numbered streets
and desert rain
add soul to this heartland,
it's the gospel truth
he wiped the deck clean.
(sort of and maybe).

His device spins within its own world:
manageable hums,
danceable drones,
welded into night;
daytime variations
held together
no better (and no worse)
than a cloud.

Then there's sfumato:
music without lines or borders,
in the manner of smoke
— theatrical fog
— a different kind of blue.

Densely layered,
so impossible to track,
this being lost in
the magnetic hush
of airports and
  other strange kiosks,
it all falls into a creative lull.

Guess it's time for
Oblique Strategies...
Ces Sep 2020
An ethereal and spiritual atmosphere
A presence that cannot be seen
but felt by a heart full of yearning
Music devoid of rhythm and consonance
That seeps into the deepest crevices
of a mind that longs for the infinite
Such an enchanting melody that permeates
the room. A dreamworld opened up
by nothing but the artful arrangement
of sound.
Haley Harrison Aug 2020
A full Moon on the horizon of a powder-blue sky

The gentle breeze of Dawn passes me by,

caressing my cheeks like a lost lover,

soft as the clouds which in the distance hover.


I turn around, my back to the Moon:

the melody of daybreak begins its silent tune.

The first gossamer threads of Dawn's embrace,

cobwebs of brightness, Light made of lace.


A lonely bird towards the Moon flies,

hoping in vain to stop its goodbyes;

and my romantic soul melancholically sighs,

attempting to imprint the image in my eyes.


As the sunrise ripens, a celestial fruit,

it robs the lunar ambience, grabbing its loot.

And it basks in the riches that it slowly steals,

in brilliant ombre shades, as the Moon - defeated - reels.


The night's companion quietly fades,

ethereal pallor on now greyish shades;

no more powder-blue, grey turns to white -

it's the bed of clouds, prepared for the nightlight.


You've done your job, illuminating the way,

to travellers and dreamers, lest they go astray;

Rest for a while, take a little break,

until Sun retreats - then you can awake'.


The Poets' Lamp, nocturnal glow,

you'll shine again, with stars in tow.
20.4.2019.
Orakhal Aug 2020
The energy push against unwanted things
Is the same energy creating unwanted things
J J Jul 2020
Fortonuate palms skim the dogeared surface
Of the snakes and ladders without clear direction--

Hot tea and foggy glasses. Familiar lips
That look as young as ever when they smile.

Sun melting in the clouds like mollases
While the breeze lifts and plays with

Our clothes.

Hollow words served as concierge
For this used up body-- orbs and a silhouette,

That's all you get as it's all I was perceived as

And all I've left to give.

But here I don't have any will to offer.

I've gave you everything and how peaceful

It is to be contempt replaying another day.
Relax, begin to Imagine you are in the proximity
to immerse yourself into a precious moment.
It is that needed time you have brought into being, and is intrinsic
to experience composure, equanimity.
Smooth - melodic - ambient music with simple cause,
low and soft will, in its incipiency invalidate
trending previous troublesome thoughts,
silkily, sauntering, lingeringly pauses,
to softly embrace your audible senses
with silence which conveys complete assurance,
that the here and now is yours, no-one elses,
ataraxia created by you, for your true inner self,
It continues; envelops remaining unsettled interruption
embraces the heart, and encourages serenity,
all the remaining negative, solicitous intellection
are temporarily, tipped out of your consciousness,
you are experiencing them leave, then transcended
with blissful tranquillity for your indulgence.
You are asleep with your eyes open, it feels so benefic,
the mind is calm and clear no longer confused.
Melodious sound continues to provide atmospheric
momentum to this sensibility folding into the soul.
Joyfully you are enduring moments of pure inner solitude and
wrapped in perfect peace, consciousness uncommitted.
There is no expectation of time, not at all
just the psyche drifting, changing shape, density, profundity.
You feel wonderfully restituted, calmed; uplifted.
You sense it, knowing, this absence of tension you sought,
this, your perfect you, is transient and will slowly begin to regress, reluctantly,
relinquishing this blissfully serene, conditioned emotional stillness, to be restored.

Then you turn the telly on!     All gone.

Michael C Crowder        March 5th 2019
the power of clearing one's mind, so reality erases the experiences
Victoria Myron Sep 2018
Gold, gold, gold-we are enchanted
cold cold cold - ... almost immovable

shiksa sings songs, sings songs softly,
how the willow rustled and the petrel screamed





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2009
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