April 16, 2009 at 6:25 pm | Posted in poetry, prosepoemthingy, writing | 9 Comments
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by Herbie Hancock, tag writing with soundtrack, the sheerest of self indulgences, barely more than grey smoke curling around her hips and manifest in a blaze of red across a spring valley, the rushing of water and inevitable tumbling fishyfish til reaching land we discover Canteloupe Island herbiehancockstyle, insert missing link haha.

What purpose is there in bald description, or vast arrays of explication splashed across the night sky, it must be an arrangement by which we can chart some …
Ari! get back here son. There’ll be no chasing of horses for you,

Ari abandoned,

August 18, 2008 at 6:27 pm | Posted in prosepoemthingy, writing | 14 Comments
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Somewhere inside someplace else
he mumbles, ari abandoned into
the starry night, just grab it by
the scruff of the neck, boy,
but make sure you do it light,

I told him, I said, you’ll never get one of those things to stop for you. They’re made of light, they’ll be faster than you even going backwards but does he listen. Off chasing horses again. And we are left here, my darling, with this tiny fire contained in the desert at night, said Sunonhead into the emptiness as he struck damp flints and smiled.

di’spell’ing the ego,

August 7, 2008 at 6:57 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 17 Comments
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haha, once said and done again, the right way to spell
he said, now somewhere here is a pointed purple hat,
a silver moon over a lost isle and he is running out of patience.
Is he off chasing some wild tale again,
odd dreams of strange exchanges between various creatures,
transmission by osmosis perhaps Bill? Who knew?
Ari, he shouts into the ebbing light
but too late his son has gone,

Ari remains undisciplined.

July 9, 2008 at 5:31 pm | Posted in writing | 14 Comments
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Sunonhead stands on one leg, one hand shielding his eyes from the morning sun and the other holding his spear. He is pretending to be in a old seafarer’s quick line drawing of an aborigine looking out over the desert. But it is wrong, sometimes he thinks for one man to pretend to be another. We are all manifestations of the one soul, the old man had said and he relaxed and looked back over his shoulder. She is asleep, curled up as though hugging the radiant warmth from the core of the planet.

He had to admit he was lost and he hoped that when she awoke she will have dreamt them somewhere new. Ari was off again, chasing horses the silly bugger. Sunonhead had resigned himself to the inexplicable madness of his son and the permanent impresence of his errant father. He was lucky though he thinks as he attempts to light the fire with damp flints again that he occasionally overheard her conversations with the old man and had managed to translate some of them into a language of simple symbols easiest remembered when rhymed. I am such a monobrained and hairy old Caliban he thinks.

Ari has heard the jingle of hips and is off, fleeing into mad pursuit of some wild maned creature who uses stars for camouflage and who has a secret spell, when she smiles it means other people are happy,

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