Poetry, music, cuisine, philosophy and religion, experimental, if it's the norm I'm out the door
This is experimental noise poem. Me vox, 4 Tibetan singing bowls concentrating on two primarily and echo phase strings so there is a more ominous undercurrent throughout. This may be a download with book, I don’t know. It may still not be distorted enough as I passed out working on editing at the very end and lost all I had served as a movement between rooms of the vast to claustrophobic drone upon drone.
Three instruments and me. Obviously about the silent corners we fear in our minds, and that those who push the hardest they are strong inside are usually crumbling with fear from deep inside; and then, they point and say it’s you, it’s you whose life and actions cause the curses in your mind, and in ‘yours’ too Psychology Today noodlers. Yeah, right view takes work. And then: Nope. Not me. Sorry y’all. I claim nothing of who you are and dedicate this song to me. So if I want to write hate mail, me to me, who cares, I am more open than the sea; so I hate me about love or a sincere heart showing pain then I can hate me, I can hate me all I want and equally love even more opening up right view, right view as supernatural, as we know, right view is where it all begins; and these are yours and all those screaming blue meanies you seem to adore, yeah I give a hand out to touch the finger of your blue meanies in mind theft and word chores. Then I just smile and laugh. The sun shines too hard for some. If you are on FB you are known. uh the photo is ironic hahaha just making fun of myself
I can openly dedicate this to the works of Peter Hammil and no one can send me hate mail. I love it! Peter Hammil is part of the jazz prog rock band Van der Graff Generator.
I do a lot of these but keep them hidden. This one just felt like sharing as it brings in a great many of my thoughts on self and love, unity-verse.
After reading the songs of Milarepa when he entered his cave above Demon Lake, a famous lake in North India where it is believed an octopus like demon lives. Thing is that the area is amazingly beautiful and the evil from west of there has not yet destroyed the life of this mountain region, where Pakistan cannot earthquakes try, so the Hundred Thousand Songs of Milarepa continue. Here there were three demons waiting in his meditation and sleeping cave to taunt him and to convince him they were minor angels here to bring him news of God. Milarepa saw the grinning death, as our Southern Blues sees that devil smile grinning into hell, so did he, so he sang them songs to mesmerize them and seduce them into a state of wonder. He was then able to disperse of them, as we should of those around us in whom we see thievery, deception, slothful slinking taking of what is you and these are marks of minor Deceptors. Stare down the shrouds that hide their nature and you will see, and then what? Sing. Charm. Seduce and lead them down into your own “demon lake” and as far away as possible before they suck away every touch of love, peace, in your soul.
Extended. new piano track, drum track. When I finished i realized I had been so sick for a month that all I wanted to do was see a revolution in this land of ours. Toss all government workers elected or not off the payroll and start over with people who pass civics tests, who have studied the humanities, who understand more than two languages, who are not fascists, who see government as for the people, to elect those who READ legislation, find the insurance Paul Ryan types and Paul Ryan and hang him on nearest lynching tree you can find right next to fat empty headed me me me shit for brains Trump. Burn this shithouse down and start again. INSURANCE FOR ALL> and the government workers from the bottom up have the same as we do and they lost it after their terms, no lifetime on our dime. There is a philosophy in this work of music and that is it, and more. And if not, dig the sounds and feel the dawn open up her eye to the world below. Very few souls are left to see.
Dawn showed itself and I heard this melodic drone shoveling death wings and swords out of my mind, baring my teeth at death and saying fuck off not yet, I will not play your games, I will not live your lie, no,
not yet you devil’s mate, I will not open all the piles of death letters at my door, I ain’t ready yet, no, not yet, I know when you want me really, Oh I know your drums and fife corps at the rivers edge.
7 levels Yamaha grand, full string orchestra, crotales, timpani, Bossendorfer grand, French horns and probably a string thing or two whispering its way around the orchestration and bombast. It is a eulogy, nonetheless, this is a eulogy. I hope you feel the consoling measures as well as angry timpani and horns here and there. Maybe feel how she smiled, and then a prayer to be had for her life, her soul, and those she loved.
This is as in the title, a eulogy, so there are up lifting and joyous moments but the leit motif one of sadness and loss.
Bess Burkett was loved by us all and those beyond. I hope this piece does her justice. I thought on her all night, then worked on this for a few hours, slept a few and started on engineering this Peace and I was fine with it in tone and effect.
politics philosophy phenomena
"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." Ps 147:3
Pen to paper
Musings and books from a grunty overthinker
Aspire To Inspire
Poetry by Charles Joseph
Photography
garden ponderings
𝙳𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚋𝚒𝚐! 𝙻𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛!
Dreaming in Music and Writing by Mel Gutiér
Immature poet imitate...but the mature one steal from the depth of the heart
IN MEMORY EVERYTHING SEEMS TO HAPPEN TO MUSIC -Tennessee Williams
Welcome to my world.
Welkom op de blog van Discobar Bizar. Druk gerust wat op de andere knoppen ook, of lees het aangrijpende verhaal van Harry nu je hier bent. Welcome to the Discobar Bizar blog, feel free to push some of the other buttons, or to read the gripping story of Harry whilst you are here!
a resource for moving poetry
confessions are self-serving
politics philosophy phenomena
"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." Ps 147:3
Pen to paper
Musings and books from a grunty overthinker
Aspire To Inspire
Poetry by Charles Joseph
Photography
garden ponderings
𝙳𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚋𝚒𝚐! 𝙻𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛!
Dreaming in Music and Writing by Mel Gutiér
Immature poet imitate...but the mature one steal from the depth of the heart
IN MEMORY EVERYTHING SEEMS TO HAPPEN TO MUSIC -Tennessee Williams
Welcome to my world.
Welkom op de blog van Discobar Bizar. Druk gerust wat op de andere knoppen ook, of lees het aangrijpende verhaal van Harry nu je hier bent. Welcome to the Discobar Bizar blog, feel free to push some of the other buttons, or to read the gripping story of Harry whilst you are here!
a resource for moving poetry
confessions are self-serving
politics philosophy phenomena
"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." Ps 147:3
Pen to paper
Musings and books from a grunty overthinker
Aspire To Inspire
Poetry by Charles Joseph
Photography
garden ponderings
𝙳𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚋𝚒𝚐! 𝙻𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛!
Dreaming in Music and Writing by Mel Gutiér
Immature poet imitate...but the mature one steal from the depth of the heart
IN MEMORY EVERYTHING SEEMS TO HAPPEN TO MUSIC -Tennessee Williams
Welcome to my world.
Welkom op de blog van Discobar Bizar. Druk gerust wat op de andere knoppen ook, of lees het aangrijpende verhaal van Harry nu je hier bent. Welcome to the Discobar Bizar blog, feel free to push some of the other buttons, or to read the gripping story of Harry whilst you are here!
a resource for moving poetry
confessions are self-serving
H Lamar Thomas' Blog 
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