"stasis" poems
Lovesick and you've got the cure.
Got all these symptoms. You know what for.
Don't be afraid of this contagious disease,
Just take my requisition form.
I've made room for you in my atria and ventricle.
You're the capillary to my arteriole and venule.
You're the amniotic fluid to the child in my heart.
I find you even in the interstitial parts.
Treatment like uours is like a centrifugAl force.
So be the **** stasis my heart is longing for.
Some homeostasis is what we need.
We will make compromises to succeed.
Lay me supine and you in prone.
Sensory neurons fire
Exocrine glands make to pressure
Spark endocrine glands to hear you moan.
Without your heart I'd be anemic.
Withiutbyour arms I'd be half a paraplegic.
Your kisses give me air, without them I'm cyatonic.
You're the fibrin in my veins, to my pain an anesthetic.
I'm ready for some long-term care and affection.
Got a chronic condition that needs your attention.
I k now I'm concluded, parts of me sclerosed.
Don't wait post mortem to know that you're the most.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.
God's lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees! -- The furrow
Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,
Nigger-eye
Berries cast dark
Hooks ----
Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Shadows.
Something else
Hauls me through air ----
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.
White
Godiva, I unpeel ----
Dead hands, dead stringencies.
And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child's cry
Melts in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,
The dew that flies,
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red
Eye, the cauldron of morning.
16.6k
* *In love with Gwen Stacy
When in stasis* *
Cannot let go of the old neighborhood charm until?
*In love with Mary Jane
When the mind takes off* *
Now, I become the hero Spiderman yet a problem?
* *She leaves, no Mary Jane
And the symbiote, VENOM* *
Comes along in angry mind of the hero spurned?
* *Stuck in webs
anger as Man
Hero no words* *
Comes along in angry mind of the hero spurned?
* *I want to do something widcha'
something makes her mad
I want to do something widcha'
something makes him Mad.* *
* *I want to do something widcha'
some thing? ** *
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 2:28 AM UTC
Driving up the highway
When I saw it in the mist
Like a pure and tender ******
Still waiting to be kissed
A village all forgotten
Somehow time had missed
You could see it from the highway
slightly hazy in the mist
Had time forgotten this poor place
Left in limbo for all days
Was it just a trick of light and sun
Manufactured through the haze
Were the folks here ****** to stay
Out of reach but in our gaze
Or were they truly here by choice
Living old, forgotten ways
Brigadoon did spring to mind
but, in truth I thought this good
Be something better than that curse
This village protected by the wood
I pulled on to the shoulder
And tried to see as best I could
This simple town or vision
That had not aged as it should
I saw no point of entry
No way to get there from my place
It was perfect, untouched, special
A village bathed in grace
Folks kept driving past me
Up the highway at such pace
They would never see this village
In the mist as fine as lace
The village may be magic
It may be something in between
In truth all I can tell you
What I saw, not what I mean
It's a village, plain and simple
in the woods, all shades of green
Un-kissed, and yet so perfect
stuck in stasis, in between
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
Doubt is the lonely father of fear
Not a clad caped hero
Waiting to swoop in
And save the day
But a two faced killer clown
Wearing ****** crocs
With electric joy buzzer shocks
Sending surges through your veins
Sending urges that drive you insane
It may be in reason
It may be in season
But the summer heat
Can burn your feet
Under the fire of fire
Place you in stasis
As you wait to find were your space is
Letting others tell you were your place is
While they race to chase
A better life
Doubt can be better than blind
Adherence
You just have to watch out
For the dangerous side of doubt
Turn detective to fix the defective
And Steer clear of the fear
That disparages hope and reason
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC
They enter as animals from the outer
Space of holly where spikes
Are not thoughts I turn on, like a Yogi,
But greenness, darkness so pure
They freeze and are.
O God, I am not like you
In your vacuous black,
Stars stuck all over, bright stupid confetti.
Eternity bores me,
I never wanted it.
What I love is
The piston in motion ----
My soul dies before it.
And the hooves of the horses,
There merciless churn.
And you, great Stasis ----
What is so great in that!
Is it a tiger this year, this roar at the door?
It is a Christus,
The awful
God-bit in him
Dying to fly and be done with it?
The blood berries are themselves, they are very still.
The hooves will not have it,
In blue distance the pistons hiss.
13.6k
Immigrants, especially those who don't return,
create idealistic homelands.
They imagine that all their
Woes, hurts and indignities
Would not exist
in their imagined homeland.
In their minds, homeland
is in stasis.
The life they left is lingering
waiting for them to return.
They cast winter upon the ponds of their
homelands
And live lives skating over the surface
Each time coming closer to
shattering the illusion
and gasping
in the icy
waters
of change.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
The perfectionist loves to hear his voice,
He is the respected critic inside,
He is the learned one,
The educated and the educator.
A beautiful constructor,
The finishing touch
To the artist's hand.
The voice is always a partner,
He will always be there to help
The artist, comfort is taken in his ability.
The artist needn't forget,
There are many voices on the side,
Awaiting for their time to speak,
Each one has its time,
All varying in their patience and duration.
The artist sees what he hasn't before:
The voice of support; the voice of love; the voice of decision; and the voice of passion.
There is always time to contemplate his flaws
And he wants to reassure himself:
Perfection is not a demand, but a quest,
One of beauty and one of joy.
Perfection is the beauty in imperfection.
The pursuit of achievement is one to relish, it is not to be rushed or
Ceased, it is a running walk, a walking run, a sitting stand, a moving still.
It is every step he has made.
The artist looks behind and sees
His effort, he is proud to have experienced
His triumphs and his trauma
The voice of comfort will be there all the way,
She is a gentle quieter spirit that deserves as much an ear.
When all voices have calmed and subsided,
Her tenderness remains.
I remind the artist of his friends,
I remind him that the critical voice is the voice of nature,
The physical laws unchanged.
He is the driving force to stasis and movement in the age worry and indecision.
"Do not be overwhelmed" I say to the artist,
You are one of many.
You are with friends.
The voice of change encourages the artist to evolve and to smile,
The voice of happiness allows peaceful living and awareness.
The tiger belongs to nature,
not to be feared, but to be respected
and understood.
Do not despair, do not relinquish hope,
Hope is the shining beacon in a world of anguish.
Hope is the angel shining her torch ever so bright.
Hope is the window that allows pain and suffering to see the light of day ,
Hope allows oneness.
The artist moves his brush: an effortless stroke,
A flicker of joy,
A tear in his eye.
He once was old,
Now is young.
He learns to enjoy
The work he has done,
He can now enjoy the work he does,
He is enjoying the work he is doing.
He enjoys his life.
The state of mind, it is a fickle hatchling.
Able to be pursued and persuaded,
also able to be liberated.
The artist is free,
His thoughts can pass,
His fear will subside,
His body can move,
His heart will follow
And the mind will allow.
Spirit be set free,
Bird do fly,
Artist do paint,
You,
You are.
Peace within oneself is peace with others.
The artist is brave, he is a soul that stands tall in the face of adversity,
He is a sleepless enigma in his room at night,
He is the passionate one,
The artist and his love affair with the critic outshines his charisma,
The love for the sophisticated darkness,
His love for the melodrama,
His quest for knowledge,
Perhaps the only knowledge is
Ignorance.
Blissful unawareness.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 11:20 AM UTC
Can we exchange dialogue
from master scripts too ten minute plays?
Inhaling every exhale from your line breaks
Prefixes soothing my ear drums
intellect holding suffixes.
Allowing your stories to take me too worlds
literature can’t reach.
Where archetypes are dynamic
antagonists don’t exist
and you’re the only character not flat.
Stasis starts situations
When you’re the intrusion
I follow all stage directions
put me inside your prepositions,
cover me in your verbs
let me hold your nouns
lay my head on your adverbs
and fall asleep to your adjectives.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
My flesh crawls, and my blood flows
As I attempt to turn to marble
True stasis
Homeostasis
Oh to maintain beauty to be gawked by muses
And to never have been alive, merely beings of retired faith
But unsurprisingly, just as pointless
I sigh…
I may parish in mind and finally body
But marble will diminish slowly
******
All while watched and attemptedly preserved
I breathe.
Homeostasis
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 1:56 PM UTC
By herself in the dark with nothing at heart,
being so smart only plays a small part.
Take it back to start and place your mark
on the people, the faces, the parties, the places.
Tighten up your laces, we got a few more bases
but she's stuck in that stasis.
Memories fade like a fragrance
so of course the pain gets
too much to handle.
Too much flame and not enough candle.
Burn bright and burn hot
for everything we've fought.
All that you've sought is the only thing I've got.
*Beyond an open book
they're just pages on the floor,
you can give 'em a look
if you know what you're searching for
there's a fine line between flowing and bleeding,
an even thinner one between knowing and believing
and **** near none at all between showing and deceiving*
Every rose has its thorn but she's just a dandelion
so I blew her mind
to watch her thoughts start flying.
It's all water under the bridge now,
but I'll throw you off and burn that bridge down.
I don't want you to drown...
just want to see if your ability to sink or swim kicks in.
I only took your breath away to watch you suffocate,
but I keep hearing you wheezing
like your barely even breathing.
So deceiving,
are you walking away?
Or just leaving?
Forever is the word he tagged on the walls in her mind,
so she walked those halls
with a bucket of paint thinner and hand full of time.
Her walls are too thick too strong with all that brick
maybe a lil acid will do the trick.
But he only came equipped
with some elbow grease and lil bit of spit...
The voice in his head whispered
"Now get to work kid"
So he did;
and never learned when to quit.
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 9:42 PM UTC
There’s just… all this noise… There’s all this noise and I feel like a tone floating around in some kinda modal stasis. And I just want to change the key but I can never seem to get the voice leading right.
There’s all these other intervals in here with me and we’re all packed in too tight. I’m just a chromatic scale descending into dissonance as I push past clusters of minor seconds.
I feel like I’ve gotta fight to find consonance, but I’m so **** quiet that nobody can harmonize with me. Nobody can even hear me over all this noise all this noise all this noise. This noise when so many sing without listening. This noise of a thousand unheard melodies.
This noise this noise this noise
This noise this noise this noise
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
Here's one for the gamers
dungeon dwellers, competitors and casual players
Whether they're at home or at a friend,
footballers, car racers or dragon slayers
To the world that looks down on us
for those who's hobbies least appeal
Just because they don't understand the reason
or share the passion we feel
Gamers like acheivements
each to their own
Whether its to vanquish the opposition
build, or break their enemies throne
Is that so different
perhaps they spend a lot of time at home
But isn't playing online with their friends
a little better than just sitting alone on ones phone?
The world of gaming has evolved
and adapted so much
It's a common to see a mother aligning fruit
or a child with a flapping duck
And is it such a bad thing
if the players are actually having fun
It may not be making them better
but I can think of many worse things they could have done
They say games encourage violence
but these people are some of the kindest I've ever seen
Theft, ****** and street racing
would it not be better if these things were only done behind a computer screen?
For many, its more than just a game
and can lead to some desperation
But people need to know the limits
and play in moderation
For some
it's to do things they wouldn't normally do or say on a daily basis
A couch potato wanting to explore the world
avoid boredom, keep their mind from stasis
To feel the breeze of a challenge
drive a fast car or
sword-fight,
maybe even do some parkour
Whether they want to skydive
or skate over a hill
To be able to do something dangerous
without having to sign a medical bill
We all have our reasons
some play casually while others play to vent
E-gaming has become so popular
now hosting world tournaments and many gaming event
This is how we are
so please let us be
Our motives are like captured birds
are we are just setting them free
Whether you want to be a princess
or guardian of a banana tree
You can do whatever you want
just follow your dream
People will always be different
this is just another sub-culture; like fans of a band
But we are the gamers
and by this title proudly we stand
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 5:02 AM UTC
Mandatory ignorance
Enforced through early cognizance
Until we come to recompense
Serrated lines of quote "logic"
Complicit as an etiquette
Preemptive nondivergence threads
United though we bow our heads
Suspension stasis animus
Alarming lack of sapience
Vendetted waking populace
Intrinsics lost to "evidence"
Orphans to our mother Earth
Regressive ****** immigrants
Staggering seductions ways
Lethargic lecherous hedonist craze
Ambrosia brown to black tar goes
Vivacious love to skanky ***
Entropy or as that goes
Remorse I say might have some pros
Solemnly a lie you know
Empathy not lost on me
Retracting threats though not my thing
Epiphany perchance to sing
Nocturnal beasts of legend spring
Damnation comes to every fiend
Innocuous solutions seen
Perception slanted serpentine
Impressions sit supplanters quit
The jury rarely gives a ****
Yet here Im relating it
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
A Poem in 3 Parts by Sara L Russell, 4/6/15; 00:51am
I
There is a grey area between
this world and the next.
People can be foolish; they dabble in ouija, in
dowsing, in automatic writing;
and - wittingly or unwittingly,
they may open a portal
to the other side.
That is how they enter.
Beware of inviting them in.
Shadow people are there
where needle pierces skin; where the ******
sits, glassy-eyed, on the precipice of oblivion;
they lurk in unholy places where godless
politicians declare themselves to be
speaking for God;
they haunt the dreams of drunkards,
schizophrenics, junkies
and the paranoid.
But they are not spun out of dreams,
they are real.
Shadow people were there
when the ancient pharaohs of Egypt
were interred, with all their gold;
they took them to Hades
for also burying their wives
and servants, alive.
They were there
in **** concentration camps,
sitting on the left shoulders
of those who blindly carried out
orders of death and torture.
They subsist in underworlds of catacombs,
they lurk in the spaces between
our conscious and unconscious minds;
In blackened mirrors they seek out a vortex,
My friends, be the light that
keeps out the darkness,
Do not seek to question the dear and foregone,
No matter how much they are missed;
for there are others lurking in the shadows.
Be not the portal inviting them in.
II
Did I see you in Bohemian Grove,
smiling at the Cremation of the Care?
Were you there,
and did you have more than one shadow?
Did I see you in that Great Hall
with chequered floors,
where the Eye of Horus
watched over a pyramid of gold?
Did you lift a cup of
the good red wine,
did blood brothers drink each other's health,
gazing through a glass darkly?
Did we toast the Cremation of the Care,
and how many others were there?
III
Sometimes we visit Hell in our dreams,
though we may fervently pray before sleep.
There is no shame in sleeping with the light on.
Wear a cross, if you think that it will help.
Sometimes the citizens of Hell visit us,
in that stasis between sleep and wakefulnes;
they are only ever seen at the outer periphery of our vision.
It's never a good idea to look at them directly.
Sometimes they venture a little closer than the rules allow.
Sometimes the line between their domain and ours is blurred.
Occasionally, the breeze seems to whisper your name -
only, it's not the breeze.
Be vigilant.
Always try to see them first.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
Deep beneath the earth a companion flows as liquid into his soul, filling every curve, slip and crack.
86 fathoms below, a man is filled and unchained from his solitude
creating a place for the mind to swim in one infinite breath.
Swimming to the surface
Thunder roars, lightning strikes: releasing him from beneath. He climbs out.
There she stands in front, electrified. From head to toe, she inflames him, illuminating the night sky.
The man approaches, thwarted by his ambition and
left into stasis, as he watches her.
Frozen, her eyes lock onto his.
Enduring, he learns her true feeling.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 9:13 PM UTC
So many things feel right
More joy than the stars that light the night.
Feel the warmth of the future
You have chosen, as it washes over you in waves.
Stasis will never take hold of us,
Every chain they know, we have every key.
Walking confidently towards the future.
I murdered the inventor, and smashed his time machine.
Every decision is a catalyst for progress.
You are never stuck, make fruit from the dust.
Clothing from the air, and a bed from the stones.
The eagle circles above,
Let him be your symbol,
As you rise into the sky like a Zephyr.
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 6:39 AM UTC
We slump in mismatched chairs. Two hunches
over shame and a 3am breakfast, I think:
*There’s gotta be a reason why art rhymes with ****
If you want anything to go anywhere with any respectable…affect,
the force of pressure on the inside must exceed that from the outside.
Interrupting this genius, He asks:
How can you eat that crap? It’s so…empty.
He is flipping through his coffeeblack back pocket note rag.
It’s soiled, wrinkled concave with the ever-heaving
stomachfuls of his inky midnight doubt, and I would really
rather not have it at the table while I’m eating.
I am pouring another glorious bowl of Frooty Froot Hoops—yeasty,
store-brand sugarfuel for the lower-middle-income child poet.
He spends another tasteless oatmeal evening
reading essays about how to improve his writing.
Instead of, like, writing to improve his writing.
I ask:
If you took a knife to the edge of your boundary’s boundary—stabbed right into your life-world’s fleshy monad-sac,
glory running ****** down your blade,
As you breached forth into the well-lit unknown,
would it still be courageous, if you emerged from
your warm wet ignorance, and they were all waiting outside with mylar balloons, a banner, and "Congratulations on your Artistic Rupture!”
in blue icing on the cake??
There's still a moment there, right?
Petrified in the sap of thrill, in the momentous-stasis between
The arrow flung and the arrow fallen. A moment of
advancement …a moment of abandon!
(He nods along, but he isn't listening.)
I say:
Newness, originality, (birth), is purely indexical.
It points, and no one notices that all those shiny vegas lights aren't really moving anywhere—It's just utility bills and light-bulb trickery.
They're asking for genesis extended, genesis again and again
and each false gesture points only towards another
incandescent unreachable elsewhere.
(He nods along, still, not listening.)
But there's little monotony in taking a stab!
Even if it's just for them, again, those perennial spectators expecting,
Waiting outside with ***** little pocket notebooks of their own,
crowding the bassinets, ever-eager to begin another “surprise" celebration.
Gulping sweet, sugarpink milk, I say:
I happen to like this crap!
It keeps my knife sharp.
(He nods along, but he isn't listening.)
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 11:47 PM UTC
I endured spiritual time dilation in life's stasis field,
held to a course you unwittingly set for us 40 years ago.
Back then, I knew instictively you were my beacon,
never doubted I should follow blindly, without question,
even when I lost sight and only drifted the cosmos,
always the gyroscope spinning in my head
whispered, She's still out there, leading.
So, I absorbed whatever light filtered in,
performing some manner of karmic photosynthesis,
noxious vapors escaping, replaced by vital oxygen,
a mere algae amongst humanities' phytoplankton.
And when the time-space coordinates aligned,
you re-materialized, as you'd always been there,
my sister, my spirit-guide, my love.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 2:49 AM UTC
I sought satisfaction in stupid sheepishly and shallow strides.
Scared subconsciously, I swallow and sustain substance for pseudo self esteem strengthening.
I seemed of in service to slumber and stinging sadness, shots sank like ships, submerging into the sea of my swarthy stomach in seconds.
I somewhat sympathies as a sailor, sweating, struggling and swimming in slipping sobriety saturated in my sulking style.
Scanning swarms of serial swindlers, striking sculptures stances of self-doubt.
I stammer in a storm of slurs, ******* down my safety, stopping myself at the stoop of the saloon I see a seductive silhouette staging the space.
She stroke my sight, standing sanguine in scarlet, soul sold in high heels.
The smoothest sculptures in seven square miles were subjugated into scree and I was ****** in submission.
Stubborn staggering suitors, stand shaking silently as she is stopped by sharks stalking and snarling sycophantics.
So straightforward in suggesting their secret starvation to strip sensations, seem by seem, like a sub-par **** cinema scene.
They step and speak short.
She smokes off, stranding the scree in smoldering slaughter.
Its sad this soul-less sanctuary soaking up sorrows.
So self inflicting, and so satisfyingly side splitting.
She sported her spurned, scorned off into sadistic solitude and stained sticky stigma, sobbing to sleep.
So spent from simple stocked, stored and supported senescence of ceremonial subjection of ****** status.
I savior my sincerity, and stretched out of this strange stadium of stooges.
So long scarlet sanguine I sang softly, as she stole my sight suspiciously in sync with hers.
Sacrificial seconds split from smearing stolidity to sharing a smile.
That's simple satisfaction, so I seen scripted in sitcoms and shows.
Supporting sapiens in stasis to see sappy stunners on screen, to stare snoopy, as stabs and slashes strike socially into socialites of so called sanity and sovereignty.
To sweetly pay salvage as slaves of soppy studio slander.
Such is this sorry Saturday night, I am solidified in sedation.
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC
You wanna know what it's like
to be a rebel?
You wanna know what it's like
outside the salt circle
looking in?
I tell you what, I'm not dancing
as much as flailing.
Fitting enough, I am crashing
again the closer
that I get.
You wanna know what it's like
to be the other?
You wanna know what it's like
to live as if you were
not dead but
wholly aware
in stasis?
Holy stasis,
what is it like
to be alive
unmoving
and empty,
dry of passion?
I better tell
this bitter truth,
that being you
isn't worth
half the strength
you generate.
I tell you what, I'm not dancing
as much as flailing.
Fitting enough, I am crashing
again the closer
that I get.
You wanna know what it's like
to be the other?
You wanna know what it's like
to live as if you were
not dead but
wholly aware?
I would trade wealth
and mental health
for just a touch
of the sand
containing
what has gone lost.
Just a touch,
I want your hand.
What's it like to be the metronome?
I tell you what,
I dance a lot.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 3:59 PM UTC
Clashing lights from the shadows;
Thundering in constant motion
Red swarms overtaking the blue nights,
A grand disturbance -
Raging through the cosmos
Shifting the course of this endless strife
(Wake up now,
We have misconstrued our fate)
Spiraling forth, into nebulous unknown
The force flows from within;
Embrace the cause -
To restore a balance lost aeons ago
Gears turning towards a lie
Deceived by peace
Crucial moments for the light;
Two tides collide
Detrimental,
Sacrifices,
Interstellar transmutation
Exiled till, the return of the progeny
Remnants of the order
Confined to, the corners of the galaxy
Strengthened, by the chosen one
Fallen hero;
Exalts into gradeur
Shining greater than the stars
Universal luminescence
Macrocosmic ~
As Above So Below
Frequencies resonating,
Constructing wretched Elysium
Eternal cataclysm,
Decimation
A massive surge of power;
Lost, following the stars of scripture
Kingdoms falling one by one ~
NOVUS ORDO
Symmetry unfolds
Visions pass
Fallacies expose
Divine excursion
Escape the stasis
Elevate, frame of mind
Amidst resistance;
Ignite lucidity
Harmony engulfs,
This fractured existence
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 12:20 AM UTC
It hits in a spiritual, delirious way
the taste of blood is the only reminder
of how much I enjoy the pain
I crashed the car and I lived
I roamed the highway searching for your ghost
only to find it moved on long ago
We travelled 500 miles in this chase
for euphoria; the few signs on the way
urging us to follow separate paths
You're gone and I'm trapped
within this memory, a period of stasis
Cursing the alleged 'free road'
that brought us to this standstill.
(You never were one to take a risk,
always pausing to play it safe)
These selfish lights refuse to shift
throwing us back to different ends
of the spectrum once again
Yet I'm pulsing red, devilish hues
for you for you for you
If I could, I would crash all over again
But your lips are the only collision I need
and I was never one to wear a seat-belt
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 4:24 AM UTC
Spotlights on us
seemingly illuminating
and otherwise blinding
can't see the audience
can't tell the difference
between time and space
different manifestations
of each other creating
infinite mandalas
poured into rivers
tones rising out
of and falling into
silence
I trip over words and pick the sounds out of the scrapes in my palms
I make motions to pick up the gravity but my actions are glitchy, disconnected
an abstracted cadence
remote inflection
radio nuance
rhythm break
modal static living in stasis
ants on a screen as grains of rice
with bubbles in a glass of beer
merging like two tones
harmonizing on a
secondary tonal plane
move me like a modulation
end me like an infinite crescendo
I am suspended
over several tones
just let it go
and I am resolved
follow where the voices lead
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC