"interludes" poems
Friendship
Friendship is not a jewel or a coin or a gift
Jewels and coins and gifts don’t die
Friendship is not a flower or blown glass;
Friendship is not fragile
Friendship is not a poem or a melody
Because friendship cannot be forgotten
Friendship is a symphony
With grand overtures
Melodic harmonies
and unforgettable phrases
punctuated
by
Attacking staccatos
Vibrant arpeggios
then peaceful interludes
And sometimes
rests
Followed by thoughtful segues
All held together by a coherent structure
called
Respect
Apr 11, 2021
Apr 11, 2021 at 8:55 PM UTC
*Shall I speak of autumn leaves while summer doldrums reign?
Wistfully, I wait for frost to paint my window pane.
Dare I yet imagine smoke from chimneys wafting forth?
Can you taste the chilling breeze that lingers from the north?
There is no time like autumn, when relief from summer's sway
Gives rise to fireside interludes and sweet rolls in the hay.*
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 9:25 AM UTC
. what?
between MC hammer...
and men at work...
there's a choice?
come on...
you could have given
me an easier question,
like... Debussy
contra Satie...
or, like...
egg yolk or egg white?!
point being...
i'd love to see
christopher lambert
play the role of
raiden in that... mortal kombat
game made into a motion
picture...
you know...
if i owned a PS2...
i'd still be a gamer...
but i never owned a PS2....
or the metal gear solid 2
gaming experience...
not the PS1 experience
fighting ****** mantis*...
you know that hack / cheat...
when you switch controller
slots...
when ****** mantis* is
giving his grandiose speech..
and you switch the controller
ports, so that in in the game
you're not predictable...
final fantasy 7?!
completed it with a walk-through...
sorry... homework...
that being said:
all of Friday night and all of
Saturday morning...
and some Tenchu....
wacky-Jacky...
cow later chow,
enter mein...
choppers chop chop...
these days?
i game...
when i take a ****
i figured... if there are people who
take a book to the crapper...
i'll take a game...
war robots....
you know what's fascinating?
the interactive applicability of
a game...
team-work...
mesmerizing...
the whole gaming
structure drifted from a narrative,
to a congregational dynamism...
solipsism unraveled...
i dig the whole team work,
while taking a ****
love it... 5 stars review...
but am i a gamer...
do i not think that
a.i. is a revamp of Pinocchio?
no...
but metal gear solid?
a ******* solid game
on PS1...
you would be talking to a gamer
if i was allowed to buy
a PS2 console...
oh right...
i read books and listened to music,
and ended up writing anti-routine /
anti-technicality poetry /
anti-rhyme poetics....
my bad;
"we're" calling a revision
of chess in play;
yeah... sorry...
i was never into paragraphs,
with dialogue interludes...
for me...
poems were always above
a structural stature of paragraphs;
something to do with
haiku or... whatever came out of
Godzilla's mouth.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 11:05 PM UTC
*Piano Cello Interludes
I am listening to music,
piano with cello interludes,
thinking about you.
I hear the passionate sadness
mourning from the cello
as the piano weaves hollowness
and melancholy from black and white
minor keys.
I feel the disconnect
between the requiem’s movements
and the reality
of an alive, beating
but confused, sullen heart
fighting to be free.
~~~
It always amazes me
to hear the bow guiding the strings
in pulsing tempo
to the fingers caressing ivory
in such a way
that only a smile
can answer in return,
allowing for a kiss of life
in the midst of chaos
and death.
~~
In moments like this
I want to sit beside you,
place your hand in mine
and tell you all I have learned
and know;
all the secrets
that wander through my mind;
even those held in
dark recesses,
cobwebcluttered
and filled with spent emotions.
~~~
But I know I can’t.
Not because I don’t want to,
nor from fear,
though, to do so is scary
since it would mean giving you
my heart.
No, not because of this.
Rather, cause
I don’t think
this is what you need
or want.
~~~
Life is complicated,
complex in its existence
and it is this contradiction
between desire’s want
and equality’s need;
between what’s flesh
and what’s fantasy;
between art, aesthetics
and reality,
that guides my choices.
It’s how this contradiction
interpenetrates,
thereby shaping
and changing reality.
It is this contradiction
I hear,
feel and taste
in the weaving of piano and cello.
Music living with us in the gutter,
while enticing us to look at the stars.
~~~
I am listening to music,
piano and cello interludes,
I see vast galaxies,
nebulae,
and shooting stars,
Knowing this,
this music of you,
will last a lifetime.
~~~
~~Aztec Warrior/redzone 2.24.14*
enjoy the music that goes with this poem
https://youtu.be/QgaTQ5-XfMM
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 4:41 PM UTC
I grew into you like vines, delicately covering a brutalist form with a love I only know. My heart is submerged in a little ocean, its depth grew in me as I carried the weight upon my soul. The waves painted me blue, reminding me of all my sad lullabies.
Your name is a possession and embodies all that you are (it's the only way to keep you.) If I got the chance to love you, maybe I'd be much more than a supernova, devouring its life until the very end, traversing the boundless space, and it would leave traces in a thousand years; my love for you would still resonate, like the haunting interludes played by a piano in the epilogue of a song.
Feb 11, 2024
Feb 11, 2024 at 2:55 AM UTC
Fertile earth’s seductive sorcery
Like ephemeral effulgence’s effluent effusion
Can lead you to believe that it’s not a travesty
Like life’s visceral intuitive eternal is not lost in subtle evasive confusion
Life’s virile translucence reflects this glow
Like an aorist ensemble of interludes transposition
Can lead you to believe that you’re in the know
Like omnipresence presages omniscience’s ubiquity is existential exigency’s peroration’s exposition
Corporeally preternatural metaphysical mystique
Like a mirador bartizan tableau panorama
Can inspire us to rise above its critique
Like spatiotemporal’s telemetry incarnate is creation’s vivid intrepid cyclorama
Spectral verve’s liaison’s consortium
Like eclectic synectic’s conclave’s fatidic
Can leave you lost in germane compendium
Like terminus thrall’s apriori inclination is transcendental accession’s endemic mnemonic
Monad’s transitional majestic splendor
Like residual harmonic vibration’s resilience
Can autonomously evoke and vicariously render
Like rubato’s actuator’s prospectus revealed is orchestration rendition’s intriguing brilliance
Eidetic preterit’s aesthetic amendments
Like protractive analyses’ dimensional delineation
Can lead to cogent salacious enticements
Like phantasmagoria’s fantasia fantastication’s magniloquence is sultry solace’s ostentatious ideation
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:07 PM UTC
I can feel us on the edge here
this narrow ridge we’re hiking
it’s thin enough in places
that I’m nearly certain we’ll
topple down the side
But we haven’t yet and
it could be your acrobatics
or mine
that’s got us still balancing
in an act a professional
tightrope walker
would balk at
We’re daring though
and the view from up here
so far is breathtaking
and the thrill of chill wind
against our faces
exhilarating
The peak not yet in sight
shrouded in soft white fog
that was forecast to disappear
by noon
instead it’s rolling down the side
thickening and reaching
for us
Our view goes white with gray
eddies loosely defined
interludes of curling air
the pebbled ground slowly fading
so we clasp our hands together
it’s less stable but
comforting
as the mist swirls between us
Soon there’s nothing
no outline
the last wisp of your hair
is gently consumed
into this vaporous world
where only a touch
obstructs
surreal isolation
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 2:13 AM UTC
You have my breath taken.
You have my whole world shaken.
Your love gradually healed my pain.
I yearn to be a recipient of sweet kisses in the rain.
Let’s dwell in the mist of bliss.
I’ll wait for my winter hug and summer kiss.
These are my intimate thoughts.
Interludes of profound emotions.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 2:42 AM UTC
when you get to know me,
you enter a galaxy
with endless
affectionate interludes,
ecstasy & dreams,
desires.
but beware of the black holes
that hold my demons.
don't be scared when they
when they welcome you with
anxiety and aggression.
because they're not real
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
Sugar nightmares haunt children
Nancy harlequins cane them
Oh, child of mine
your life you did,
away,
sign.
Force fed familiarity with already branded emotions,
irregular realities and clouded surreal formalities,
so very many humans’ form dichotomies
out of our shared mute gray;
spinning constant self-important prose.
So very many humans share so much,
so little,
not often
doing little to soften
all of their emotional blows
trying hard to strike enigmatic pose.
Oh, child of mine
the heart of utilitarian method
has receded in incredulous fashion
followed by authoritarian apologies;
the majority is not icecream people
spreading simple good thought,
but generations fraught
with trivial conformist ideologies.
We are all hiding our seams
with creative masks
and self created tasks.
Oh, child of mine
your prescription reality is revealing itself as Atlantis,
sinking and shuddering into Quaaludes
with frightening psychotic interludes.
Emotions paint
stained lurid faces,
dancing with
ludes effecting movement,
nudes of swaying and repose.
You arose deeming so much rightfully yours
waltzing through seemingly already opened doors.
Holy curb their anti-Christ
Consider your aging soul
Oh, child of mine
Belief of awareness in action
understand the probability of dissatisfaction,
Stop!
treating the moment as a bleak bridge to the next inaction.
Eventually ponderous thoughts form
resembling an orrery,
an incessantly philippic story
orchestrates your oleaginous personality.
Oh, child of mine
Youth flees and your mind
takes once again to the seas,
a vexing penumbra of perception.
Bathos permeates the fathoms of an obstreperous life
and if you still care,
lament that this meaningless congeries
of moments
inspires only delusion,
no disillusionment.
Eventually a lilting threnody
leading 'tween burning pews of proposed serenity
and the following bumping callithump
will firmly stamp you into black infinity.
Oh, child of mine
You've used the switch
too much
too often
coupled with lofty scoffing
giving the innocent up as offering
to the
mechanical engine
of organic creation.
Sep 1, 2010
Sep 1, 2010 at 11:05 AM UTC
We never listen to albums from beginning to end anymore.
Thanks, Spotify.
Sorry for sinning, Taylor Swift.
And I guess there is an owed apology to ACDC and the Beatles because you aren't on there either.
But guess what.
Today I actually listened to an old favorite from beginning to end.
(not you guys though)
Good News for People Who Love Bad News.
Every song. In order. And it threw me back to ninth grade,
Faster than even my favorite photograph could.
The lyrics made me scream them and the even the (three) interludes made me smile.
And you're right, Taylor,
It was a work of art.
Good thing it was nearly free
(99 cents for three months)
Or else my morning would have not have passed so swiftly. Or so modestly.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 5:28 PM UTC
In the mind of a poet deep secrets lie dormant, waiting to be revealed
deep in the crevices of the primordial subconscious lie answers to
unasked questions, wordless thoughts, unspoken desires
The poet pours forth a veritable fountain of verbose interludes
choosing each word carefully to project the perfect mood
as a painter paints in hues and shades, the poet paints in words
in verbs and nouns portraying visions of thoughts and feelings
creating a work of art ... a picture can paint a thousand words
But in the mind of a poet a word can paint a thousand pictures
to choose just the right word to portray just the right emotion
to convey just the right thought - this is the art of the poet
And in the mind of a poet, every word is integral to the whole
every single word is seen as necessary to express the perfect thought
the perfect meaning, the perfect expression of mind and soul
In the mind of the poet, the creator is the creation creating the creator
the poet becomes as a god, creating from darkness and void
Writing into existence with sentences new creations, bringing new life
expressing new visions, new revelations...
In the beginning was the word
And the Word was in the Mind of a Poet.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 2:01 AM UTC
What have I done to you?
My lambs ear child grown thorns
Along the backbone of our narrative
Each vertebra a catastrophe
And I can’t make skeletons fall in love with me
No matter how much flesh I force on them
And in the interludes of the symphony they wrote for us
I taught you dark by darkness
I watered you with gasoline
And snatched each word from off your tongue
I sprayed fresh poison into your lungs
And I can still recall
The twelve tears
Blurring that birthday
That suffocating epiphany
Of this-has-gone-too-far
And these aren’t scars
They’re time bombs
Landmines in the marrow of your bones
And this is not a ********* throne
It’s an electric chair
Look at me I dyed my hair
And I mourn us with the black around my eyes
Here we are we walk this line
I ask you how you are
And you say “fine”
And I am shocked at how much those thorns sting me
Every ******* time.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 9:58 PM UTC
many interludes of laughter pealed
from a jovial kookaburra
who sat high on the elm tree's branch
gaily chortling to himself
as the dawning sun rose
of such merry tidings
the bird did bring
uplifting
was his
joy
######
he'd
given
the new day
a jolliness
the mood of much glee
making his chuckling tones
the sound great to listen to
enlivening the heart's spirits
with a bright awakening call
ever so happy in the morning staging
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 6:55 AM UTC
I can see myself wasting away
and
drooling on the carpet,
playing guitar
in empty rooms,
sitting in old bones.
no one is there to hear it
but it still plays,
it still comes through
like that—
with or without an audience,
with or without reason,
with or without permission,
as if it was more important
to be born than to be noticed or polite.
if I make it
to those old bones
and empty rooms,
to that guitar,
what will it sound like?
will I hear melodies of connection,
threnodies of yet un-lived sorrows,
interludes of foggy nobility?
I am deaf to the music of my life
but if I listen closely
I can hear death
playing music in another room
behind
a closed door.
Aug 23, 2025
Aug 23, 2025 at 7:54 AM UTC
(start with a bow and a swish)
we are a thousand beating symphonies
variations of a familiar theme
treble clefs and four/four rhythms
chord progressions up to E
(sorrow and anger and love and hate)
arpeggios and interludes
minuets quadrilles and waltzes
the refrains, the fermatas, the reprises
we are a thousand sweeping overtures
(the last note rings through an empty auditorium)
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 4:48 PM UTC
professional phone calls
seeping with the excess of formality
much like the strangers in your living room
who call themselves family
and the only room to breathe exists
in the interludes between conversations
in this limbo
you're sometimes caught
thinking about a girl who doesn't
love you
or the rugged edges of a face
resembling your father's
laps of repetition
dial, pause, voicemail
scripted dialogue left
from the same lips
which never found the right words
sometimes the steady ring
summons expectations of an answer
a voice without a body
to meet your work demands
or the simple silence
drawing you further into the void
marking progress
in tally sheets
tangible records of what you
have and have not done
measured by the 10-5 hourglass
before you're allowed to leave
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 12:36 PM UTC
I REFUSE TO LOSE…
Most dudes are confused,
Stuck between the two,
Wondering if the one is really you,
Or if their mind is playing tricks,
So they just never mind, which is a terrible thing to do.
It’s easy to walk away, and just say,
“I’ll try another day”
Or “I’ll try another way”
The answer is right in their face.
Fear of commitment is what it usually boils down to,
Afraid…
Afraid they’ll give you all their trust, just to get played.
But I’m not confused nor afraid,
See, I’m confident in my confidence,
I know that you’re the way.
You’re the path that god has paved,
And I won’t be led astray.
I’m not like those other dudes,
Confused minds have made them fools,
Fear filled hearts have changed their moods,
I’m smarter, so many mistakes, I know, I grew,
It’s altered my personality and my point of view,
On love, relationships and even you,
You see I’m ready to do, what I know have to,
Packed my thoughts, I’m ready to move,
But there is a problem between us being two,
And my love that problem is you.
Still I REFUSE TO LOSE.
Most girls know what to do,
Confident on who to choose,
No hesitation, no interludes,
No deep thinking, it would just prelude
To lose, who they wanted to give all their love to.
It’s easy to say, “We’re meant to be”,
“He’s meant for me”,
And “Just wait, you all will see”,
Or “I do!”, really fast, before the question has been asked.
Fear of loneliness is the problem
When you look inside,
Afraid…
Afraid they’ll be alone for the rest of their lives.
But those girls are nothing like you.
You're unsure what to do,
Indecisive with your decisions.
Your insecurity has you imprisoned,
Steel bars made from your blurred vision,
And you’ll never break the tension.
You’re not like other women,
Your mind is not confined,
It’s just your heart being blind.
You’ve made mistakes but have yet to grow,
Past regrets will stunt your growth,
You have to Learn, Live and Love to make the most,
Throw away those futile, feudal thoughts,
And let me show,
You don’t have to worry
About those problems and mental feuds, When you REFUSE TO LOSE.
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 12:15 AM UTC
silence rings aloud
waiting to be broken by you
with a litany of praises
my name as interludes
murmured against my skin
falling from your tongue
slipping through your lips
squeezed between the steady pulses
this is truly all we need
there is something so beautiful
about the tranquility of silence
but: my name sounds so lovely
when you are breathless
Mar 14, 2021
Mar 14, 2021 at 5:49 PM UTC
Fertile earth’s seductive sorcery
Like ephemeral effulgence’s effluent effusion
Can lead you to believe that it’s not a travesty
Like life’s visceral intuitive eternal is not lost in subtle evasive confusion
Life’s virile translucence reflects this glow
Like an aorist ensemble of interludes transposition
Can lead you to believe that you’re in the know
Like omnipresence presages omniscience’s ubiquity is existential exigency’s peroration’s exposition
Corporeally preternatural's metaphysical mystique
Like a mirador bartizan tableau panorama
Can inspire us to rise above its critique
Like spatiotemporal’s telemetry incarnate is creation’s vivid intrepid cyclorama
Spectral verve’s liaison’s consortium
Like eclectic synectic’s conclave’s fatidic
Can leave you lost in germane compendium
Like terminus thrall’s apriori inclination is transcendental accession’s endemic mnemonic
Monad’s transitional majestic splendor
Like residual harmonic vibration’s resilience
Can autonomously evoke and vicariously render
Like rubato’s actuator’s prospectus revealed is orchestration rendition’s intriguing brilliance
Eidetic preterit’s aesthetic amendments
Like protractive analyses’ dimensional delineations
Can lead to cogent salacious enticements
Like phantasmagoria’s fantasia fantastication’s magniloquence is sultry solace’s ostentatious ideation
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 2:47 AM UTC
Shuddering violently throughout
the void of life,
desolate anomalies keep
harboring corruptive interludes
of transgression
This...transgression...if you will...
engrosses all in its path
with...
Defiance.
A hostile challenge to
venture upon
all crossroads
which leads towards Poseidon
Thence,
Maraudering throughout these crossroads,
devastation itself pulverizes
all hope, rending it futile
for those who wish to aid
Caliginous clouds set the tone...
for the sullen events lurking near...
However,
This, only but a mere
beginning
Soon we shall
Intro the Wicked
Oct 31, 2010
Oct 31, 2010 at 4:23 PM UTC
Solitude helps me find shelter in pain
the inspiration comes as a form of retaliation
against the incertitudes of the heart
interludes of interwinding moments.
Words only write themselves
if there's suffering to be had;
ageless solitude is immortal
like ghosts of loves past.
Love in the time of cholera
love in the time of aids
uncertain loves in the times I live
I roam the Earth without being part of it
only certain of my own existence
in any given moment, time or place
I live where I don't belong
and yet I don't belong where I live.
Solitude has bonded
with what is left of me
scrapping together the remains of my soul
becoming one with my bones.
Like a mortal disease
and yet its bitterness
taste better than any sweets
I wouldn't trade it for anything that breathes,
anything that touches the Earth
anything that sees the Sun.
My notepad becomes
engulfed with it's aroma
and it's aura escapes through my pores
turning this pen into a sword
stained with my revenge
there is nothing I wouldn't dare to say
if my heart is ravaged with pain
painted with disdain
repossessing my very being
that it wouldn't dare to lose;
Solitude feeds my spirit
better than any muse.
Anything that ever needed
to be said or written
has seen the light of day
Solitude finds a way
to re-arrange the alphabet
when words are scarce,
when nothing comes my way
I will take these scribes
when my flesh only knows darkness
not seen by the sun,
but in one with the Earth.
Dec 26, 2009
Dec 26, 2009 at 2:47 PM UTC
Hello again, heartless friend.
So slyly in the backgrounds blend.
Your veering vanish, vaguely here.
Your gaze of increments - insincere.
Healer of the hearted scars.
Swallower of the heavened stars.
The paths in which we dream and delve.
Allow the doubling ones to twelves.
Slices of the eternal elude.
Movements of monstrous magnitude.
A hesitant dawdle. A lingered delay.
The mountainous sway is steered away.
Hoarded heaps of hourglass bliss.
Outnumbered by wasted nothingness.
With interludes of want, of miss.
To slowly morphed indifference.
The pendulums that abruptly swing.
The burdens they still hope to bring.
The envied earn of Earth's endeavor.
The better late. The better never.
The eerily empty echoed need.
The blossomed tree from planted seed.
The curse of a continuous grief.
The ever stealthy, silent thief.
The cogs, gears, hours and hands.
The burn of beauty, bleak and bland.
The coziest, surrounding choke.
The whelm from the transparent cloak.
The running out. The ever essence.
The grand keeper. The watchful presence.
The potential of the plainest plan.
The currency of the wisest man.
What horrors - hallowed by the tick.
Will sound for both healthy and sick?
Will compose secrets, never told?
Will fumble flame to frigid cold?
The end stays always promptly nigh.
For the intimate, infinite blink of eye.
I fear your wasting, more and more.
The constant count to twenty four.
Unresurrectable and second to none.
Airborne, regardless of having fun.
As retrospective wisdom blinds.
Our youthful hopes and manic minds.
On and on. From time to time.
Song to song and rhyme to rhyme.
Betrayer of all mice and men.
Less of if and more of when.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 6:39 AM UTC
a facsimile of happiness
a continuous depression filled with interludes
of sunsets shimmering off loving eyes
neither logic nor morality warm beds
so we keel over, head long into midnight streets
groping for lips to kiss
ears to listen
hands to caress
******* to obliterate
for Newton's apple to drop
or Buddha's lotus to blossom
for Gabriel's sword to rip chests open
some are enslaved to absolute subjectivity
a tattered rag flapping on the wind
they are forever drowning drowning drowning
dooming any who dive in to save
they can not step back and observe the play
they are the play: the king, the jester, the soldier
the longing maiden, bitter spinstress, sword-smith's daughter
the prideful hero or stubborn villain
the country bumpkin chopping wood
the raving madman in the wilderness
oblivious to the back-drop or matrices
the paradigms of passion
the translucent chemical pulleys
the perpetual violations of history
******* them
even in the womb
the birth of an idea is the most wondrous phenomenon
the booming I AM forever resounding
it is a big-bang of metaphysical splendor
it is the unity of art-science-religion
the holy trinity of being
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 11:07 PM UTC
In the heart of the cavern, light
that stands ancient behind time, beyond
phenomena, the observer of melodies;
This is where it all began,
those aeons lost when the mollusc
heeded the call to man.
Inward, stalked by worry and loss,
an inversion of the lines of time:
beyond the zero point of recollection,
where zoom microcosms of possibilities
a realm not realm, but like that
an existence beyond existence.
Here, arose an affliction, in
curled expanses that exist as some among
an infinitude of potentials,
worldlines, some dark and featureless,
others growing and meaningless
and some like here where sentient,
observatory, a shadow grows around
the probing ray of infant awareness.
and so the ascent, from light to light
through alleys of darkness. Vast,
the beginnings and interludes
between phantasmagoria; What
accedes of in slumber, the knowledge
of things and nothings.
And up even until the day when
the babe says 'mine'.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC