Saturday, June 26, 2010

Thursday, June 17, 2010

A Poemz by Matthew Crawley

A carnival of loopy hounds,
the dreamers who stuck to their bubble guns

A strange paradise, this part time anarchy
down by the riverside (with little sunken boats)

A red-mist history built the kitchen table,
and philosophers who sit here are drunken and will never remember your name
(but you are always welcome)

*

A carnival of loopy hounds,
emptied halls, saved by mad philanthropy,
to be filled by g-g-ghost echoes until summer hits

A strange paradise, these batty streets,
coarse closed windows (we are not open on Wednesdays or Saturdays sir!)
when all you wanted was a delicious little feast

A red-mist history swims around in here,
dried up conk-a-rete basin a-full of words like "DROP" and "AROMA!"
(and but and you don't quite feel welcome hmmm)

*

A carnival of loopy hounds,
limping and sniff-snouting, for old times sake
Hound! You stink! You reek!
and the dreamers stick to their bubble gum

A strange paradise, in the silly night
pacing about the labyrinth (we're new here, just looking thank you)
Ahoy! You on the river! Take this! And this!
and for the rest of the night a little feast and some fire

A remissed history and some piraticals built this castle
scattered amongst are courthouses and cubicles
(like a tornado that gifts gifts in-stead was about)
and we are always welcome, they said
and we are always welcome.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

i love telling about the form of things, now people are running, it's impossible not to feel the rain even if you were blind but in a town you have to assume the whole burden of all the close people, are you scared yet, instead of practically owning the trees and squirrels that light up your room like private property if we were in the woods together.

Friday, June 4, 2010

2:27
2:50




.. .... ..
.. .... ..
When a woman has her back turned, you don't know whether she's smiling or scowling.
'I don't know if you're a detective or a pervert.'.. .... ..
Private thought is shielded by the clatter of bells, as a wash of light disguises a familiar face. It is the ghost on a throne, and the woman next door; the touch of cold skin and the illusion of the stage.
.. .... ..
background music provides a wall of sound which obliterates the presence of everyone, including oneself.
this anonymous privacy renders the moral qualities of the artist irrelevant; she may be a liar and a cheat, a murderer, a sneak and a thief.
-Lyn Hejinian, A thought is the Bride of what thinking