More poetry experiments

December 29, 2009

So I oneword-ed today and got “birdhouse”:

Jail being a “birdhouse”
Does that mean that prisoners can fly?
Does that mean that they can sing?
(Though I have no idea why.)

And liked it decent and didn’t get much out of the word besides, so I looked at other people’s entries for birdhouse and found:

“Bad word followed by another and yet an other. What complete nonsense.” (Hat tip: TiganMurda)

Which is much more fun and made me write this weird rhythm psuedo-Alice in Wonderland knockoff:

Another, another, another! These words wander aimlessly despite even rows,
Hustling along through meaningless space, enduring no ends! Oh, but a line ends,
Does it not? And a poem ends, at least not accounting for a reader’s thought!
But you’ll have no end as such yet–No, words are not done with you,
Though you may do away with them. Go on, stop! Defy your eyes from this page,
You should find yourself hardly in a position of power, for these lines do exist
Far past your life’s in like! The poem means no evil, friend, in knowing it will outlast you,
Knowing it can grow and frolic unending in new childrens’ minds; you may well be immortal with it,
For its gloating is only known through the eyes of your own thinking eyes!

A little chiptune…

December 26, 2009

Just messed around a bit the other day. Nothin’ crazy. Enjoy!

Quick Story

December 23, 2009

“Table it,” he said with a smirk. (She gently pushed the paper over to the side.) “The platters ain’t silver here. They ain’t even tin.”

And then I did this: (Kinda rough, might touch it up some and lengthen it later. I like it, though.)

Hands of horror! The stricken man knows not the world
That holds him so fearfully in the grasp of their minds,
For what could be known but such unnatural curvature,
Staggeringly jagged, beautiful if made by man
But not when partly man himself! “Know your home!”, they screech!
“Find your way to a refinery! Know smoke, know fire!”
If he could cover up his face with hands he would,
And yet he is indestructible but by feelings.
He takes their stones better–harsher things, words,
They may well be cast in steel. He once raised a hand to quell them.
It seemed like he had just halfway uncurled a fist,
But eternally held in the position. They opposed his cling to life with horror.
O! If only you could be a noble statue to be beheld!
He has wished many times for his fingers to be burnt, melted,
And then molded to hold another close–
But then he thinks on the pain of heat for them, and like times before,
Knows the sadness of walls.

Some wallpaper poems

December 22, 2009

Because I’ve been bad about updating during finals the past couple of weeks, here’s a few short poems, too. I went to and got the word “wallpaper”, and in sixty seconds wrote this:

There’s nothing left
But the wallpaper
I couldn’t rip away

Even the walls have deserted us

But I didn’t love it and thought it was kinda depressing, so I wrote a couple more. Here’s one in meter:
Keep on Readin’ on?

“We’re not done yet!”

December 22, 2009

{A Phonograph Recording: Part 1}

[Kinda gimmicky, kinda rough, kind of a test run for doing more. But that’s part of the blog, I guess.]

…”We’re not, and you know why!”

Holiest of hells, I muttered to myself in my head. The guy’s not going to let me jump this proverbial boat, is he? Promptly after yelling that like murder down at me from up on top of the sewer pipe, he grabbed the top edge of the pipe, swung in, and dashed down with a misplaced sense of heroism. I just stood for a minute, letting the words sift through me, before confirming with myself that, yes, the guy was nuts. Maybe one of these days he’ll run into a pillar somewhere, I thought once again. That’d be a nice sigh for me.

I should say: My business is strange, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned from it, it’s that strangeness is a relative concept. Keep on Readin’ on?

Victory Jingle Thing

December 3, 2009

These are way too much fun to make.

Listen online:

Direct download:

Beautiful Thing of the Day

December 1, 2009

In Manhattan, one of the subway trains emits two distinct pitches, back and forth in a beatless rhythm, whenever the train is in motion. Always the same two. It’s an odd sort of beauty, the kind you can’t un-notice once you do, even though you find yourself hardly minding that fact at all.