|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".|
No Train For YesterdayI spend two & a half smiles on strangers,No Train For Yesterday by krissie
drink a bottle of casual words
& head down a silent street, accompanied
by muted endeavors of faceless clowns.
It's a tired, malnourished day, strained
over frail dusty bones of hours
& as I run my hand along a minute,
it feels like leather, worn from wear.
You still arise in idle thoughts:
the way you stopped to watch me at
an ambiguous train station up north.
You were the streetlight that blinked on
& off in futile attempt to murder wind
while snow raced horizontal lines
& hurried past large metal doors.
You seemed to revel in movement,
smoothed air with your skin
as I headed on. Gave shelter
to a misplaced thought & lost another
in muddy puddles behind my temples,
aching now, condensed for spare.
The smell of old liquor & masculinity
still lingers in my nostrils' memory.
You asked for clarity in all I said
out of spite & I couldn't find the words.
Shreds of sentence fragments tasted bitter
& I washed them down with another
The Book of WhooshThe Book of Whoosh by Pachunka
retinally swooshing a consistently different electrapicture
to my mind
whenever I or my wake-up clock want them to.
simulating outdoor conditions on a 2D plane
on my bedroom wall.
under the control of nobody in particular,
looking for magic answers magic love.
table for twotable for two by sumalangitnawa
table for two please
by the back wall
close to the kitchen
we need an anchor
tell us the waiter's name
he serves dry merlot
in opaque wineglasses
i know you and no one else
the core is real, you've seen it
but our existence is in question
unsettled fluid mind
if you please
table for two, and an anchor too.
table for two
dec 31, 2001
|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.|