Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Song of 81 Poems, XXXII




Tea makes spirits too rich to follow,
Cunning lunatic, I'll come to you,
   to start your body blossoming.

Start weekly, sweet daughter you must choose,
Discover the thread of memories.
   This will reach you, for my mind is in heaven.

Imagine there, absurd passions,
   influencing her watery luscious memories.

Sanguine Friday is here.
Blue maid, psychedelics for a studio head,
   He has no green to hold her, chocolate.
So guts earth?
If to compose form,
   questions are under way, more damage, oh dear.
Sanity makes a scratch part - the key is glorious women's praise.

You did dance surreal, neurotic,
Hence water lost her sanguine will,
   from damaged smoke.
That animal I saw nailed me, and oh I'm sure,
   will do some manic canvas.
He models Mama,
   Come here, I'm all about bed work.

They lost some part.



Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 
38 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61
 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81


Saturday, July 27, 2013

Song of 81 Poems, XXXI




Nine, mellifluous silhouettes asked:
   "A sharp, from G?

"Lie to the wife. Act!"
 Summer comes but if we cared,
 Hypocritical losses would part ways.
 Get to see you leaning,
   towards an impression.
Share about our sleep.
     Eat and talk emotion.

There is mind . . .

Baby I create music.
As a genie, there are paragon effects,
We faithful captured an original symbol,
   reversed the self upon air,
What still music is.

Like we care'd about cunning trouble.
How capture cramps this life as communication.
   Sweet dishes give Death a chameleon.
Who thought no sand men come?

Still, passionate Gloria's picture paint is stuck.
   Why? Some worry.
So let's write a wry, mean joke. Confront the hard part.
The studios don't impress like this.

From silhouetted songs, music has joy.



Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 
38 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61
 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

Song of 81 Poems, XXX




They put paint on, got burned
     since she's all electric.
Sister, fly here.
Take your spotted slug,
     seed it on Crete.

Rhythmic sex uncovers a milky picture.
April balanced to create individual music.
The Self, her absurd dirty little sleep, appears free.
     Days to damage mad sculptures, electric instruments, her babe-like body.
Give that passion, and manipulate her party needs.

My fear relates how a dirty canvas comes.
     To do your representation of art.
How darkly we observed life, we chose a deep laugh, not fire.
     They wanted a horny bed of empty mouths.
Respect us - we feel who chooses.
     Freely, they timed our faithful performing arms,
     lived up to sound.
Hash freedom about death

A fresh life on Crete,
     Mother of film wants luscious delusions.
     For sure she will.
Henceforth, her husband, an angel, 
    would hedge our bets.
Letters, like silent patients,
     a curious turgid festoon tells the subject's trouble.

Every pithy surface, does chant
     over her angry story.
Think, walk, an idea is stuck.
     
At least have her. 



Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 
38 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61
 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81


Friday, July 19, 2013

Song of 81 Poems, XXIX




When that girl-gal robs all nature's thought,
 See on Crete, night songs.

Glorious, no community.
Emotional, a fiery surreal companion lusts for a fool,
   Unaccustomed to save his strength.

Live bold and laugh.
   Share my songs, PM smokes,
You all can think and see an experiment -
   Life's electric daughter around you.

Who wants this?
   A street not only drives, you draw it,
Play, the silhouette will come to you.
   So dark sister, speak out, laughter heals too.

Up and back, who wants up? Down?
   Witches hear gnashing something from the period,
The date on the original letter.
   Her money's on that canvas,
   Yelled, as I sculpt society.

So paint with a figure-like metaphor.
an innocent experiment .... above,
   Imagines colors programmed.
He would then chant romance. "East!"

He said it. If her brother, marries one secret night!
   "Choose the old soft ritual."
"See romance! Look sharp, win at dice."
After beauty, my greatest curses kiss
   where the "no's" take space.

Until non-passion would you love,
   a dysfunctional right average man?
Discover peace, do please try to sing.
Brother! Empty your sister's howl.
   Did we care, or trust?
Take my sloth, not to juggle, or feel ample.
   Your mama bears with us, in opaque secrecy.



Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 
38 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61
 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81


Sunday, July 14, 2013

Song of 81 Poems, XXVIII




"I'd attack his space and confront thy wench."
Think of pressure to give dates."
    A fit husband plays rank.

Down around her, oh we've wrecked this . . .
Composed in passion, the studio is a super space.
   Dazzle more to suffer less opinions.
Please imagine our itch.
We observed your harmony here,
   done, like you need borderline film.

Oh why must we then manipulate?
   Find more sugar over some absurd instrument?
Dry rhythms mount trouble, I never could care.
He caught some bird laughing from chocolate and smoke.
   Never will I manipulate.
Can Mother's dish diagnose, which of us have nerve?

I'm jealous, absurd,
     less time up to share money and sculpt.
Oh master, please model all of us, as time pressures red paint.
   I'm impressed. 

Kiss water, and serve me tea.



Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 
38 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61
 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81


Saturday, July 13, 2013

Song of 81 Poems, XXVII




"What are you on boy?
Dead beings act through night energy"
    Maybe all that talk's behind them
Harmony cured our children.
    The greater psychic Delphic husband,
        was before his time.
Confront her and soar with no guilt.

Witch, if we make a star, hold fast!
    Time will choose the cruising dude,
To the be the sweet guile of his sister.
Peace with music knows no damage.

"She's all." The rub? "Say I resented this writing,
    Emotional sex about our sleep."
Make psychedelic through time and power.
    I could learn a color language.
Angry summer competitors need a slimy,
    curvy and emotional snake.

"Know", Mother sat down and fell out,
     a glorious sanguine end.
"Temper your dysfunctional companion. Always scream ''."
    "Try our instrument work."

Need we end this dazzle?
I see a need can please me, an awesome praise.
    I won't observe death, so alleviate my sweet anger.
How mean with junk, take our old cigarettes in break.
Was empty made to sculpt facts in some way?
    Clever character! The finger, must take thee.

Sculpt him blind.
Fiery mother don’t let yourself fill our wild sky.
   Be all, Let us dance here.
I am smoke, all these words are silhouettes,
Crushed, he breaks a new bad song over it all.
    Come, I sense bed music.


Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 
38 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61
 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Friday, July 12, 2013

The Song of 81 Poems



The "Song of 81 Poems" is a work in progress, an experiment in weaving composing and performing ritual poetry.

Ultimately it will consist of 81 poems, woven multidimensionally from Muse Poems I  and Muse Poems II which were composed between 2006 and 2011.


These poems resulted from collaborative paintings made with models, who served as companions in a ritual of poetic 'listening', and helped in the composition of poetry by choosing words at random, listening for the sounds they made, and putting them in order on pieces of cardboard. 

The mythology exists in every human being alive, and so could be contacted, and given reign to 'compose' subconscious content.

As ritually composed works, both the Muse Poems, and the 81 Songs, are rule driven compositions. They are works in progress. Each is a ritual that is performed by reading. There were rules for composition, and there are rules for changing and altering the works. It is very tempting to 'edit' these works, with conscious 'mind'. But this is not the purpose of the project. My other writings are 'mind' driven but in these works I perform a ritual process, the rules of which are the only vehicle into form. I render the results here on the blog without attachment to outcome.

At some point in the future I'll write a piece detailing these rules of composition. But to those that are interested now I'll say that they are very much the same kinds of procedural steps taken when performing a ritual of any kind. Rituals cannot be changed, or shortened arbitrarily.

Some changes happen naturally in spoken language. For instance if a performer can't avoid making a mistake, that is allowed. The phrase, 'He gave then it to her', read repetitively, will reorder itself and become 'He then gave it to her.' In time the adverb may move forward again, yielding 'Then he gave it to her'. Eventually, 'then' falls off the sentence altogether. The simple statement 'He gave it to her' has enough immediacy to render the word 'then' redundant.

Ritual however insists on order. In a ritual sequence the word 'then' is likely to stay a long time. This is reason that ritual texts are so resistant to change. Remember the purpose of ritual is the preservation of order, of sequence.

Bhramanic ritual provides procedures for removals of obstacles, with the help of Ganesh. There are also procedures for correcting rituals that were incorrectly performed. So words in poems become 'obstacles'. Invoking Gansesha is the first step. After that, it's just technique.

The best analogy is untying a particularly difficult knot. Even the best tied shoe will contort the lace into a chaotic tangle. Whatever the mess, any knot may be untied, in reverse. This is the essence of Ganesh. In this era of religion bashing we forget that pagan gods stand for abstract principles. They are toolkits, ways of accomplishing ends.

For me, the chief 'obstacle' in this work has been discovering and learning the techniques of ritual modification. I've let painfully cretinous sequences of words stand in these posts. They are the roughest and crudest drafts really, far from being poems in the conventional sense. Remember, I'm not employing poetic consciousness, authority, or will, or choice in these compositions. Each change occurs through the use of a particular ritual grammar. Since this blog is the tablet where these works are composed, I've been forced to meditate for hours upon the sequences in order to learn the rules.

This means my readers have been subjected to every version of every piece, from the crudest first draft to the posts as they currently stand.

If asked the question - how did you end up with this? I would, be able to show from the moment the first Muse Poems were laid out upon pieces of cardboard, how the evolution has occurred.

How 'concrete' became 'see on Crete'.

This is an experiment in language.

Brahmanism was/is a linguistic culture; linguistic ritual dictated the evolution of Sanskrit as well as Sanskrit meter and prosody. Sanskrit most likely evolved as a ritual language in order to preserve early human technologies. Getting order, and sequence right in a string of behaviors, Sanskrit made into a science.

I'm trying in my own fumbling way to replicate this process of evolution in English.

Certain words have tended to repeat themselves over and over, in both the Muse Poems and later the Songs. These were incantations to me, the one discovering the process at work. For example, 'discover', 'understand', 'share, and 'investigate' were prevalent in early versions of these works, exhortations to the performer to learn what was actually happening with the word order and meaning of these works.

It was natural when seeking to uncover sequences that 'made sense' with my models that I would record, wherever possible, exhortations to 'understand'. Since replication, from the Muse works into the Songs, many of those uses became redundant.

Many instances were removed using ritual rules. Such edits are not arbitrary or choice driven. One can make the change, but ritual sequencing may call for the removal of the word in another place, or, may insist that it stand.

Ritual naturally evolves, and edits itself once these rules become automatic. What I refer to as "round trips", sequences that repeat exactly in almost mirror like fashion, are then fodder for excision.

Palindromic phrasing thus may be simplified. For instance ABFAZBA may be shortened to FCZ. "Love to give to love" can become "give". FAZ becomes an irreducible element, like a word.

This grid of links is to each of the 30 songs that have been composed to date.

Completed? In fairness they never will finished, not as long as I read them.



Song of 81 Poems:

  1    2    3    4    5    6    7    8    9
10  11  12  13  14  15  16  17  18
19  20  21  22  23  24  25  26  27
28  29  30  31  32  33  34  35  36
37  38  39  40  41  42  43  44  45
46  47  48  49  50  51  52  53  54
55  56  57  58  59  60  61  62  63
64  65  66  67 68   69  70  71  72
73  74  75  76  77  78  79  80  81  

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