swans

"Doesn't really matter, you know, what kind of nasty names people invent for the music. But, uh, folk music is just a word, you know, that I can't use anymore. What I'm talking about is traditional music, right, which is to say it's mathematical music, it's based on hexagons. But all these songs about, you know, roses growing out of people's brains and lovers who are really geese and swans are turning into angels - I mean, you know, they're not going to die. They're not folk music songs. They're political songs. They're already dead."
Jude, I'm Not There.

Illustration of goose from here.

Thursday, September 6, 2012

obra

(i read a thousand sentences everyday
and one time when i was fifteen i
came across one that i didn't understand)

Your fingerprint was carved by God,
out of slate and marble.
He picked out diamonds
for your eyes
and pearls for your teeth.

Your words are
woven by Monet;
your nerves,
spun by spiders.
Your hair, curled by
rolling hills;
Your touch,
scorched by cider.

Yet this is a
mere caricature
of you.
You are no
Michelangelo masterpiece;
you are no
Sistine Chapel cherub.

You are you are you;
and that is the miracle,
the artwork,
the goldmine.

(but now i do:
you are like someone i made up in my head)

written by M at 12:22 AM

1 comment:

  1. AnonymousSeptember 22, 2012 at 7:25 PM

    This is beautiful, as is the rest of your writing. Admittedly, I frequently stalk your page and swoon over your writing style. *shifty eyes*

    ReplyDelete

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