|Random feed from "the hits".|
BeardNow a lot of you don't know this,Beard by oddlyaromatic
but I'm a really good singer.
People often ask me how I sing so well.
The answer is borderline obvious,
but I give it nonetheless:
facial hair. Carefully groomed.
When I trim this beard, I sing.
I hum. I do some orating.
I'm not shaping hair, really,
I'm shaping tone.
A beard attenuates the voice's
harsher qualities, which travel
along the cheeks, as is well documented
I go at it like a Bonsai master.
"Some… where over the rainbow…"
That's what you'll hear from my bathroom
of a Saturday morning.
"Way… up… high..."
The beard smooths,
it softens, it makes your voice
like a blanket.
People just want to wrap
themselves up in it.
I'm talking about your Barry Whites,
your Bobby McFerrins, your Ronnie Drews,
your ZZ Tops, your Ray LaMontagnes,
your Cat Stevenses, your Pavarottis...
and your early Kings of Leon.
This isn't just off the top of my head.
These are prepared words
based on careful research.
I don't need advice from a gardenThe timber-fenced yardI don't need advice from a garden by oddlyaromatic
overrun with weeds and ivy leaves
says you've lost your way,
you should be eating from trees like a giraffe -
you have the neck for it, it says.
But this year's memories
are shaping up a treat:
I get out of bed, dress myself,
undress myself and get back into bed,
occasionally omitting one of the four steps,
or doing the same thing twice.
Other things happen too,
but are not reinforced by repetition
and if this year was a day, it would contain
only these four steps
and your beautiful lips.
Good Evening, and Welcome to the Poetry ReadingSince you have all come to hear poems,Good Evening, and Welcome to the Poetry Reading by oddlyaromatic
when poems are freely available in book form,
I assume you are here
because for some reason or other you felt obliged,
or this kind of thing is the kind of thing you want to support,
or maybe it just feels good to be here. That's okay too.
I'm not sure why there are so few/many of you,
but—surely—it is the prevailing condition
of poetry in this area, and such a number
in such a place represents the deplorable/commendable
level of local investment in the arts and culture,
for which those responsible should be duly applauded/castigated.
I'm afraid you will be hearing six kinds of poetry this evening,
which is to say there will be slow poems, fast poems,
loud poems, quiet poems, poems about tea, and of course,
poems that we are not really sure are poems at all,
of which this is arguably the first. Emergency exits are available
in case the rhetoric is literally inflammatory.
Heckling is permitted whenever I hold up this sign,
but at other times, for y
F CityF CityF City by oddlyaromatic
The city is fused futile,
fuel for fun-lovers finding
former friends' formal furnishings forbidden.
It is friendly fowl
for feasting flower-sellers fornicating Frenchwomen -
frightening foreign frippery.
It is four fortnights' fine forte fingering
The city is firmly fastened,
festooned for festivity,
frolicking free from frenetic financial fuckedness.
It is Finely Fried Frederick's final frying:
City 1The city is fullCity 1 by oddlyaromatic
of memories – in the cars,
on the busses,
walked into the footpaths,
exhaled by the smokers;
in some way all the same,
how they hold the cigarette and shudder.
How they talk to you
You hold them awkwardly,
every shaking sob and
draw long, deep breaths.
The crazy thing is that
you actually understand,
pat I've-been-theres on shoulders and arms
in the smell of some stranger's hair
on the fundamental shitness
|Random feed from "the hits".|
|I write poetry, plays, and music. I've published, read, and had work performed in Ireland and the US. I now live in Atlanta, play the banjo, and work for a small folk music label. I don't know what to do with my DA account any more, except occasional outbursts.|