michaeltheblind
hang me out
being hardly more than a gentle attempt at a web log
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What white weather will give me writers block?
What water on windshield is washing my words away?
Which whippoorwill will warble some soft recompense
Yeah I know that I’m not making enough sense
but don’t you also see a sheet of ice upon our shared fence?
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Things to note
Or stuff i hope you’ll get,
And both are wishes aimed at
Sewing indemnity into the fabric of the sound
- a dusty, tobacco-burst-finshed Chromaharp sits upon a whitish formica table with classic foldable sections on either end
- An iphone rests six and two inches below, upon a green seat cushion that very well matches the peacock pattern of the tablecloth which hangs askance beneath the Chromaharp, tuned up above for the first time in ages
- This Chromaharp built with bars refracting mostly seventh and diminished chords as far as I can tell causing me to question its usefulness i.e. why it hasn’t been tuned before now
- Chords chosen in order of nostalgia or some such
- Iphone records pretty nicely when placed correctly and pretty weirdly when put in the right place however this time the cushion is crucial
- Any distortion or long reverb trail is intentional and does reflect the views of the instruments and individuals involved
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How does this sound - we all just kiss the ground and take a look around?
Take a look around to see everyone the same - headed back to from where they came.
In the place where you live, where you work where love;
Take a look around, at the sky crashing down.
You can hide digging for gold, hide until you’ve half grown old - relive the old day to day, call yourself your getaway.
Or hide digging for oil,
revel in the spoils,
swallow the best parts, throw the bones to the sharks.
Then take a look around headed back to where you were.
Mark the exits -
“his and hers”
or whatever you prefer.
You get to spend it all on nothing, you get to eat it all yourself. You get to tell them all to go to hell - say the only thing you know how to cast like a spell.
You get to greet the rest of us when we get to where you are; Meet us all with open arms, string us up like Christmas charms -
and now get down on the ground.
Get down on the ground.
Get down on the ground.
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Run for yr life
Said the poet to the thief
On his way to steal some more verbs
Run around in circles thinking everything’s alright
That trouble stuff is for the birds
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The Moon
Is one
Big nothing
We can't ignore
Try as Try
Ignore we can't
Nothing big
One is
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I wasn't walking and I wasn't driving
I told my friends I must of been flying
The night that we gave away and left
So so little to go on
Oh go on and pretend it could ever be how it was
I convinced myself that but not in so many words
Mine were a prayer and a song never written
But you probably already knew that
And the moonshine washed over everything
I took it so hard that I didn't even sing
And the house it never was empty
And my solitude never left me alone
And the darkness on both sides of the glass
Terrified me so I never asked
I've been talking to our better angels you see
They reminded me there's so much more that I could be
Like a light that goes on and on and on and on
But only if I want it to
And a sermon just happened to happen sometimes
Between blank verse, prose, and misbegotten rhymes
We so hopelessly pantomime telling ourselves
We believe. We believe. We believe
And the truth is right where we left it
Where the sky it could collect it in time
And the rain came down like a parade
And you came back to me in the sound that it made
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Why can i never sleep in Spring?
Is it all this currency spilling from birdmouths and flowers'-pouts, building my moons into elephantine shrines for later veneration?
Or the apposite?
Variations welcome.
Please
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Monday After
My mother taught me of the moon,
The same one
which terrifies and fascinates me
to this day
She would point
in its direction,
and say, Boo
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All of the dogs I know bark, at the moon and otherwise. In this there is no family of uncapsized silence. Life's potential for noise is greatly overwhelming, and coupled with its capacity for fearful joy, on top of being highly incontrovertible, makes it the one big fress it licks, and the only mess that matters.
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Once I gambled a penny thought on a zillionaire scheme to have less and more at once
Brilliant but ill-conceived, like me
My plan mountained its mitts into the Vulcan mind-meld of dreamt things,
and I awoke,
A pauper with a quarter to spare anyone who asks
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This is not for all of us,
Though, perhaps parts
Could be,
This disavowed distortion between you
And me
Something old once
Leaped the hair's breadth, breathing
Fire and brassnotes aplenty upon hardened
Hearts beating eardrums unwelcomed
That tragedy, those
Excuses want meaning
Like I want none
My desire for exception doesn't exist
beyond your hopefully imaginary, opposite need
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Only a Song
I know what I have been told
Pretty sure it's lies
Trying to remain childlike
I disbelieve my sight
Idiots in aftermaths
They dance and sing despite
The story of the gory rain
That fell from such great heights
And oh
It just doesn't seem right
All the old appetites
Don't hold up to the light
I knew you so long ago
But then again too soon
The freedom-fighter side of your family
Grew up to be the woman in the moon
And have you thought of me
Since I preoccupied your flights of fancy
Do you even realize
That the clemency was goddamn guarantee
It just doesn't seem wrong
When it's only a song
Drifting soft through the dark
And oh
I just cannot keep singing
It's always only the beginning
https://michaeltheblind.bandcamp.com/track/only-a-song
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