http://www.odeo.com/channels/93304-Poetry ArielleBryant no <p>just a little taste of my poetry, needless to say I write a <span class="caps">TON</span> and these are just a few that I think would sound nice when spoken.</p> just a little taste of my poetry, needless to say I write a TON and these are just a few that I think would sound nice when spoken. just a little taste of my poetry, needless to say I write a TON and these are just a few that I think would sound nice when spoken. en-us 40 Wed, 08 Nov 2006 15:43:45 -0800 Wed, 08 Nov 2006 15:43:45 -0800 http://www.odeo.com/episodes/2364380-Fire-On-Jones-Ave When I see a fire, I think of everything in me that is flamable. The women in wicker chairs rock babies like rifles on slings, while the fire department enjoys the empty practice hall blazing in the perfumed, weightless air of autumn. In goes the hay, out come the flames. There’s a battle of oxygen in the front lawn, quick someone! Does anyone know CPR? The wood is old, the town is small, yet they cramp together to watch the porch curl like a party favor, like an old flip flop. When I see a fire, I think of how long the wood must have bragged to the brick about its strength and stature. The men talk of physics and molitov cock tails, singing their songs of what it once was, and what five story sky-scraper is to come. In goes the water, out comes the smoke. The creeping black flows down the gutters, quick someone! Zip up the bag before I’ve looked too much, before all I see are open windows and a door flung tragically wide, the martyr’s mouth is splintered, it’s burried at the foot o... When I see a fire, I think of everything in me that is flamable. The women in wicker chairs rock babies like rifles on slings, while the fire department enjoys the empty practice hall blazing in the perfumed, weightless air of autumn. In goes the hay, out come the flames. There’s a battle of oxygen in the front lawn, quick someone! Does anyone know CPR? The wood is old, the town is small, yet they cramp together to watch the porch curl like a party favor, like an old flip flop. When I see a fire, I think of how long the wood must have bragged to the brick about its strength and stature. The men talk of physics and molitov cock tails, singing their songs of what it once was, and what five story sky-scraper is to come. In goes the water, out comes the smoke. The creeping black flows down the gutters, quick someone! Zip up the bag before I’ve looked too much, before all I see are open windows and a door flung tragically wide, the martyr’s mouth is splintered, it’s burried at the foot of a parking garage. When I see a fire, I think of everything in me that is flamable. The women in wicker chairs rock babies like rifles on slings, while the fire department enjoys the empty practice hall blazing in the perfumed, weightless air of autumn. In goes the hay, out come the flames. There’s a battle of oxygen in the front lawn, quick someone! Does anyone know CPR? The wood is old, the town is small, yet they cramp together to watch the porch curl like a party favor, like an old flip flop. When I see a fire, I think of how long the wood must have bragged to the brick about its strength and stature. The men talk of physics and molitov cock tails, singing their songs of what it once was, and what five story sky-scraper is to come. In goes the water, out comes the smoke. The creeping black flows down the gutters, quick someone! Zip up the bag before I’ve looked too much, before all I see are open windows and a door flung tragically wide, the martyr’s mouth is splintered, it’s burried at the foot of a parking garage. tag:odeo.com,2006-11-08,2364380 Wed, 08 Nov 2006 15:43:45 -0800 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1772840-Moon-man tag:odeo.com,2006-08-23,1772840 Wed, 23 Aug 2006 20:18:03 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1748428-Chaque-Matin every morning. every morning. every morning. tag:odeo.com,2006-08-19,1748428 Sat, 19 Aug 2006 08:48:24 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1748427-World-War-Three this one got first prize in a poetry contest. this one got first prize in a poetry contest. this one got first prize in a poetry contest. tag:odeo.com,2006-08-19,1748427 Sat, 19 Aug 2006 08:42:37 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1748426-A-Sunny-Thunderstorm mm one of my favorites mm one of my favorites mm one of my favorites tag:odeo.com,2006-08-19,1748426 Sat, 19 Aug 2006 08:40:52 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1748415-Behind tag:odeo.com,2006-08-19,1748415 Sat, 19 Aug 2006 08:38:32 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1748420-Pillow-Man haiku…..notttt about nature haiku…..notttt about nature haiku…..notttt about nature tag:odeo.com,2006-08-19,1748420 Sat, 19 Aug 2006 08:37:33 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1748419-Quater-Treasure it’s a Haiku.. but not about nature. it’s a Haiku.. but not about nature. it’s a Haiku.. but not about nature. tag:odeo.com,2006-08-19,1748419 Sat, 19 Aug 2006 08:36:52 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1748418-Porn-and-Poetry tag:odeo.com,2006-08-19,1748418 Sat, 19 Aug 2006 08:36:03 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1748417-Water-Tower tag:odeo.com,2006-08-19,1748417 Sat, 19 Aug 2006 08:35:00 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1748413-So-Hollow tag:odeo.com,2006-08-19,1748413 Sat, 19 Aug 2006 08:32:39 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1747861-Scrambled-Eggs me makin scrambled eggs. i know it’s weird. me makin scrambled eggs. i know it’s weird. me makin scrambled eggs. i know it’s weird. tag:odeo.com,2006-08-18,1747861 Fri, 18 Aug 2006 22:04:15 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1747857-Ditched Virgin wheels, Oh how often I call you this! Your sanctity changes so frequently upon the passanger seat. I think I’ll just fold it up, strap tape around it, bold and yellow and taught to repel with rubber. There isn’t anyone other than myself. I’ve never been alone on this road, save one misadventure from an airport and there’s a haunting feeling of ” I don’t give a shit” (this sassy numbness) as my eye lids clamp like close pins skinning the smoky openning of my brain. He isn’t here, and I’m just fine, save one misunderstanding why he didn’t even say a word as he got into the other car. Virgin wheels, Oh how often I call you this! Your sanctity changes so frequently upon the passanger seat. I think I’ll just fold it up, strap tape around it, bold and yellow and taught to repel with rubber. There isn’t anyone other than myself. I’ve never been alone on this road, save one misadventure from an airport and there’s a haunting feeling of ” I don’t give a shit” (this sassy numbness) as my eye lids clamp like close pins skinning the smoky openning of my brain. He isn’t here, and I’m just fine, save one misunderstanding why he didn’t even say a word as he got into the other car. Virgin wheels, Oh how often I call you this! Your sanctity changes so frequently upon the passanger seat. I think I’ll just fold it up, strap tape around it, bold and yellow and taught to repel with rubber. There isn’t anyone other than myself. I’ve never been alone on this road, save one misadventure from an airport and there’s a haunting feeling of ” I don’t give a shit” (this sassy numbness) as my eye lids clamp like close pins skinning the smoky openning of my brain. He isn’t here, and I’m just fine, save one misunderstanding why he didn’t even say a word as he got into the other car. tag:odeo.com,2006-08-18,1747857 Fri, 18 Aug 2006 22:02:09 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1747858-Gazebo http://so-pretty-when-i-cry.deviantart.com http://so-pretty-when-i-cry.deviantart.com http://so-pretty-when-i-cry.deviantart.com tag:odeo.com,2006-08-18,1747858 Fri, 18 Aug 2006 22:00:33 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1747417-Losing-your-virginity Mother makes buds out of cigarette butts smashed into the clay dish, though it may not have intended to be used this way, given to her some countless Mother’s day ago. Daughter lays on her back , her tan legs like the orange filters that stuck out at nasty angles from the mess of unkept ashes, thinking about the hundreds of Sunday’s that went to waste, though she never inteded to be used this way, and how her mother never taught her she was only an animal. Mother makes buds out of cigarette butts smashed into the clay dish, though it may not have intended to be used this way, given to her some countless Mother’s day ago. Daughter lays on her back , her tan legs like the orange filters that stuck out at nasty angles from the mess of unkept ashes, thinking about the hundreds of Sunday’s that went to waste, though she never inteded to be used this way, and how her mother never taught her she was only an animal. Mother makes buds out of cigarette butts smashed into the clay dish, though it may not have intended to be used this way, given to her some countless Mother’s day ago. Daughter lays on her back , her tan legs like the orange filters that stuck out at nasty angles from the mess of unkept ashes, thinking about the hundreds of Sunday’s that went to waste, though she never inteded to be used this way, and how her mother never taught her she was only an animal. tag:odeo.com,2006-08-18,1747417 Fri, 18 Aug 2006 20:55:42 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1470965-They-Call-Him-A-God tag:odeo.com,2006-07-12,1470965 Wed, 12 Jul 2006 06:57:10 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1397840-My-husband tag:odeo.com,2006-06-26,1397840 Mon, 26 Jun 2006 18:53:18 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1308922-yes-I-m-a-bitch tag:odeo.com,2006-06-09,1308922 Fri, 09 Jun 2006 22:21:27 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1300614-yes-this-is-me-shy tag:odeo.com,2006-06-09,1300614 Fri, 09 Jun 2006 02:56:54 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1300708-yes-this-is-me-shy tag:odeo.com,2006-06-08,1300708 Thu, 08 Jun 2006 20:02:49 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1287035-Summer-Thunder tag:odeo.com,2006-06-06,1287035 Tue, 06 Jun 2006 19:37:14 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1272608-la-mer tag:odeo.com,2006-06-03,1272608 Sat, 03 Jun 2006 00:48:41 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1262821-Caution tag:odeo.com,2006-05-31,1262821 Wed, 31 May 2006 16:34:17 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1252514-Wind-sock-therapy A wind sock on the porch light that my little sister made tilts to the right in the cricket screams, a polka-dotted oblique frey of blueish tissue paper spinning the red yarn into a helix. My mother is in the kitchen washing dishes, dad talks about my drunk grandma who couldn’t even find her words long enough to pin them up, like a tissue paper wind-sock made by a second grader. And there’s a notebook and a pencil at the far end of the table, (my father’s place) commanding me, demanding whatever it is that’s been making me this way, and asking what’s wrong with him to have made such his daughter into such a bitch. Pots clang, from the door frame comes an urge to show him something to impress a spectacle of sound, phasered to a slur of words and maybe he’d hang it up on the porch light so that it spun like a silent wind-chime, absorbing the edatious calls of the crickets like brandy to grandma’s liver. A wind sock on the porch light that my little sister made tilts to the right in the cricket screams, a polka-dotted oblique frey of blueish tissue paper spinning the red yarn into a helix. My mother is in the kitchen washing dishes, dad talks about my drunk grandma who couldn’t even find her words long enough to pin them up, like a tissue paper wind-sock made by a second grader. And there’s a notebook and a pencil at the far end of the table, (my father’s place) commanding me, demanding whatever it is that’s been making me this way, and asking what’s wrong with him to have made such his daughter into such a bitch. Pots clang, from the door frame comes an urge to show him something to impress a spectacle of sound, phasered to a slur of words and maybe he’d hang it up on the porch light so that it spun like a silent wind-chime, absorbing the edatious calls of the crickets like brandy to grandma’s liver. A wind sock on the porch light that my little sister made tilts to the right in the cricket screams, a polka-dotted oblique frey of blueish tissue paper spinning the red yarn into a helix. My mother is in the kitchen washing dishes, dad talks about my drunk grandma who couldn’t even find her words long enough to pin them up, like a tissue paper wind-sock made by a second grader. And there’s a notebook and a pencil at the far end of the table, (my father’s place) commanding me, demanding whatever it is that’s been making me this way, and asking what’s wrong with him to have made such his daughter into such a bitch. Pots clang, from the door frame comes an urge to show him something to impress a spectacle of sound, phasered to a slur of words and maybe he’d hang it up on the porch light so that it spun like a silent wind-chime, absorbing the edatious calls of the crickets like brandy to grandma’s liver. tag:odeo.com,2006-05-29,1252514 Mon, 29 May 2006 18:50:19 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1223663-Dream-Sickness The upheaving of torpeedo noises makes me feel at home; (steady two-second gunshot rythems) far off in a homey, steely echoed distance. I can hear Hanna, sitting upon Mt. Olive, with her arms driven hard into the sharp sky and she bleeds, like she had shoved her hands through the unseen shards of such a clear dream, such a spotless window that speaks our language of suburban love and 3 okock traffic, only to shrivel in my whomb and pass right by me like the dumbed cars that warped by like headless shopping carts, on Compton. The upheaving of torpeedo noises makes me feel at home; (steady two-second gunshot rythems) far off in a homey, steely echoed distance. I can hear Hanna, sitting upon Mt. Olive, with her arms driven hard into the sharp sky and she bleeds, like she had shoved her hands through the unseen shards of such a clear dream, such a spotless window that speaks our language of suburban love and 3 okock traffic, only to shrivel in my whomb and pass right by me like the dumbed cars that warped by like headless shopping carts, on Compton. The upheaving of torpeedo noises makes me feel at home; (steady two-second gunshot rythems) far off in a homey, steely echoed distance. I can hear Hanna, sitting upon Mt. Olive, with her arms driven hard into the sharp sky and she bleeds, like she had shoved her hands through the unseen shards of such a clear dream, such a spotless window that speaks our language of suburban love and 3 okock traffic, only to shrivel in my whomb and pass right by me like the dumbed cars that warped by like headless shopping carts, on Compton. tag:odeo.com,2006-05-22,1223663 Mon, 22 May 2006 17:24:55 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1175122-Sophmore-street tag:odeo.com,2006-05-15,1175122 Mon, 15 May 2006 22:29:57 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1165107-les-mains-hands so-pretty-when-i-cry.deviantart.com so-pretty-when-i-cry.deviantart.com so-pretty-when-i-cry.deviantart.com tag:odeo.com,2006-05-14,1165107 Sun, 14 May 2006 18:30:56 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1152476-kroger kroger For twelve.ninety-nine you can buy a soggy wet pile of dying heartbeats and hip-bone wanna-be’s, a weeks worth of lunch money all for anti-food, oh the irony. kroger For twelve.ninety-nine you can buy a soggy wet pile of dying heartbeats and hip-bone wanna-be’s, a weeks worth of lunch money all for anti-food, oh the irony. kroger For twelve.ninety-nine you can buy a soggy wet pile of dying heartbeats and hip-bone wanna-be’s, a weeks worth of lunch money all for anti-food, oh the irony. tag:odeo.com,2006-05-10,1152476 Wed, 10 May 2006 16:58:47 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1116482-Palms-On-Purnell There are no palm trees in this part of North Carolina, but I raised my arm out of the window, like a lonely branch to the hot black heavens cupping the moon in my palms, even though the silver light evaporated around its edges ( just as you always did ) never quite settling into something tangible, in my hands. There are no palm trees in this part of North Carolina, but I raised my arm out of the window, like a lonely branch to the hot black heavens cupping the moon in my palms, even though the silver light evaporated around its edges ( just as you always did ) never quite settling into something tangible, in my hands. There are no palm trees in this part of North Carolina, but I raised my arm out of the window, like a lonely branch to the hot black heavens cupping the moon in my palms, even though the silver light evaporated around its edges ( just as you always did ) never quite settling into something tangible, in my hands. tag:odeo.com,2006-04-29,1116482 Sat, 29 Apr 2006 13:01:34 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1116437-Living-in-the-Triangle She licks her lips when she see him coming. I lick mine when I see hers split with a pathetic, pink curiosity over the plump skin that makes me know that she doesn’t see it for a thin second. She licks her lips when she see him coming. I lick mine when I see hers split with a pathetic, pink curiosity over the plump skin that makes me know that she doesn’t see it for a thin second. She licks her lips when she see him coming. I lick mine when I see hers split with a pathetic, pink curiosity over the plump skin that makes me know that she doesn’t see it for a thin second. tag:odeo.com,2006-04-29,1116437 Sat, 29 Apr 2006 12:50:37 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1076218-Trailer-Sickness Topple head, all red and wirey like a spun metal string. Smelling of a metallic stringincy (hairspray?) or some aerosole baby. Nauscious jaw. Sick, sick in a polka-dot sleep, and flip-flop saliva, made me see the whites between the smudges. The inverse consentration that a fever brings, thinking too fast for the speed of speech with a muscle temple in my teeth, I clench clench until the molars break and free me. Topple head, all red and wirey like a spun metal string. Smelling of a metallic stringincy (hairspray?) or some aerosole baby. Nauscious jaw. Sick, sick in a polka-dot sleep, and flip-flop saliva, made me see the whites between the smudges. The inverse consentration that a fever brings, thinking too fast for the speed of speech with a muscle temple in my teeth, I clench clench until the molars break and free me. Topple head, all red and wirey like a spun metal string. Smelling of a metallic stringincy (hairspray?) or some aerosole baby. Nauscious jaw. Sick, sick in a polka-dot sleep, and flip-flop saliva, made me see the whites between the smudges. The inverse consentration that a fever brings, thinking too fast for the speed of speech with a muscle temple in my teeth, I clench clench until the molars break and free me. tag:odeo.com,2006-04-26,1076218 Wed, 26 Apr 2006 16:51:00 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1066975-Thunderstorms-and-pudding-snacks haha i wouldn’t even call this a poem,its just a random thought i had while i was eating pudding snacks during a thunderstorm Thunderstorms are a lot like pudding snacks. There’s that big sandwhich of thickness, up there in the atmosphere, the sweet humidity that crams in on both sides.Opaque as the saturated cloud of chocolate. Then the sudden flash of vanilla, tangy cream of light that whips up the dark ground into a lighter shade, a graze , just for a split little lick of a second. Thunderstorms are like pudding snacks. Nature’s way of having desert, and now i’ve made a link with one so natural and another oh so unnatural thing, that will make you crave pudding, whenever it rains. haha i wouldn’t even call this a poem,its just a random thought i had while i was eating pudding snacks during a thunderstorm Thunderstorms are a lot like pudding snacks. There’s that big sandwhich of thickness, up there in the atmosphere, the sweet humidity that crams in on both sides.Opaque as the saturated cloud of chocolate. Then the sudden flash of vanilla, tangy cream of light that whips up the dark ground into a lighter shade, a graze , just for a split little lick of a second. Thunderstorms are like pudding snacks. Nature’s way of having desert, and now i’ve made a link with one so natural and another oh so unnatural thing, that will make you crave pudding, whenever it rains. haha i wouldn’t even call this a poem,its just a random thought i had while i was eating pudding snacks during a thunderstorm Thunderstorms are a lot like pudding snacks. There’s that big sandwhich of thickness, up there in the atmosphere, the sweet humidity that crams in on both sides.Opaque as the saturated cloud of chocolate. Then the sudden flash of vanilla, tangy cream of light that whips up the dark ground into a lighter shade, a graze , just for a split little lick of a second. Thunderstorms are like pudding snacks. Nature’s way of having desert, and now i’ve made a link with one so natural and another oh so unnatural thing, that will make you crave pudding, whenever it rains. tag:odeo.com,2006-04-25,1066975 Tue, 25 Apr 2006 18:20:40 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1066892-RearView tag:odeo.com,2006-04-25,1066892 Tue, 25 Apr 2006 15:44:37 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1066887-windows I like the way the window slides open like it was never meant to be closed. And i can see through the sandwhich slot like a mailbox drop, on the white pannels that are new, but made to look old. I like the way the window slides open like it was never meant to be closed. And i can see through the sandwhich slot like a mailbox drop, on the white pannels that are new, but made to look old. I like the way the window slides open like it was never meant to be closed. And i can see through the sandwhich slot like a mailbox drop, on the white pannels that are new, but made to look old. tag:odeo.com,2006-04-25,1066887 Tue, 25 Apr 2006 15:40:07 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1064529-Rearview tag:odeo.com,2006-04-24,1064529 Mon, 24 Apr 2006 16:36:31 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1061719-Recycle We are tin cans, paper clips and dirty strips of old magic-marker paper. We revolve in threes arrows to trees to air , to mere biodegradable breeze. Love is garbage but it is only we who make it into usable shit like Jesus cups and Hudini bags while we cycle into molten words made of coke-bottle glass. But you can’t marry a poet like Lazarus, you can’t kiss like the lizard’s tail. So before the rip of the cannon or the stake to the palm we disintegrate like the hindu heart; We are tin cans, paper clips and dirty strips of old magic-marker paper. We revolve in threes arrows to trees to air , to mere biodegradable breeze. Love is garbage but it is only we who make it into usable shit like Jesus cups and Hudini bags while we cycle into molten words made of coke-bottle glass. But you can’t marry a poet like Lazarus, you can’t kiss like the lizard’s tail. So before the rip of the cannon or the stake to the palm we disintegrate like the hindu heart; We are tin cans, paper clips and dirty strips of old magic-marker paper. We revolve in threes arrows to trees to air , to mere biodegradable breeze. Love is garbage but it is only we who make it into usable shit like Jesus cups and Hudini bags while we cycle into molten words made of coke-bottle glass. But you can’t marry a poet like Lazarus, you can’t kiss like the lizard’s tail. So before the rip of the cannon or the stake to the palm we disintegrate like the hindu heart; tag:odeo.com,2006-04-21,1061719 Fri, 21 Apr 2006 20:03:06 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1061716-Flirt The streetlight split the blurs making our shadows run inky into the sewers. Your whipping sweetness of tongues plays feeble attempts at courtship. The rubbers on the bottom of my shoes scream with giggles and flirty eyelashes, yours are heavy and awkward with bad lines and hair-combing hands. Asphalt rivers smell smoky like my eyes, dusted with dusky browns and auburn curls. Ears in pockets and hands receiving brushes of somethings, anythings, the grins are overwhelming. My words wound him, he is mesmerized I can tell. I’ve memorized his visage but the secrets are far too frail on Leland drive for anything more than grazes of fleshy teasings and wishful, light-polluted Hawaiian eyes. The streetlight split the blurs making our shadows run inky into the sewers. Your whipping sweetness of tongues plays feeble attempts at courtship. The rubbers on the bottom of my shoes scream with giggles and flirty eyelashes, yours are heavy and awkward with bad lines and hair-combing hands. Asphalt rivers smell smoky like my eyes, dusted with dusky browns and auburn curls. Ears in pockets and hands receiving brushes of somethings, anythings, the grins are overwhelming. My words wound him, he is mesmerized I can tell. I’ve memorized his visage but the secrets are far too frail on Leland drive for anything more than grazes of fleshy teasings and wishful, light-polluted Hawaiian eyes. The streetlight split the blurs making our shadows run inky into the sewers. Your whipping sweetness of tongues plays feeble attempts at courtship. The rubbers on the bottom of my shoes scream with giggles and flirty eyelashes, yours are heavy and awkward with bad lines and hair-combing hands. Asphalt rivers smell smoky like my eyes, dusted with dusky browns and auburn curls. Ears in pockets and hands receiving brushes of somethings, anythings, the grins are overwhelming. My words wound him, he is mesmerized I can tell. I’ve memorized his visage but the secrets are far too frail on Leland drive for anything more than grazes of fleshy teasings and wishful, light-polluted Hawaiian eyes. tag:odeo.com,2006-04-21,1061716 Fri, 21 Apr 2006 19:59:39 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1061711-Scales My throat scoops oxygen by the bowl-full, so deep my lungs are jungles with it, I’m screwed with the speed. It shoves in me in every which direction. Estranged fingers peel my glasses from the blank rush of blood of my face, to see trough the fuzz of the way – too- clarity that is bubble wrapping me to the white house. Everything is everywhere, I am beyond strong. I am over stretching strength, it is a dead thing in my hands as I lick it from its grave. Convulsive, outweighed; gravity is attractive when I see the cliff, when I measure the roof from the ground with a thumb and a squint. Black things, black things on the ceiling. Its too bright the way my lamp scratches at my hair and bounces back with its golden agony. My throat scoops oxygen by the bowl-full, so deep my lungs are jungles with it, I’m screwed with the speed. It shoves in me in every which direction. Estranged fingers peel my glasses from the blank rush of blood of my face, to see trough the fuzz of the way – too- clarity that is bubble wrapping me to the white house. Everything is everywhere, I am beyond strong. I am over stretching strength, it is a dead thing in my hands as I lick it from its grave. Convulsive, outweighed; gravity is attractive when I see the cliff, when I measure the roof from the ground with a thumb and a squint. Black things, black things on the ceiling. Its too bright the way my lamp scratches at my hair and bounces back with its golden agony. My throat scoops oxygen by the bowl-full, so deep my lungs are jungles with it, I’m screwed with the speed. It shoves in me in every which direction. Estranged fingers peel my glasses from the blank rush of blood of my face, to see trough the fuzz of the way – too- clarity that is bubble wrapping me to the white house. Everything is everywhere, I am beyond strong. I am over stretching strength, it is a dead thing in my hands as I lick it from its grave. Convulsive, outweighed; gravity is attractive when I see the cliff, when I measure the roof from the ground with a thumb and a squint. Black things, black things on the ceiling. Its too bright the way my lamp scratches at my hair and bounces back with its golden agony. tag:odeo.com,2006-04-21,1061711 Fri, 21 Apr 2006 19:50:56 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1061709-Grave-Singing Sanity is for the sane and we are, nonetheless, opposites of this case but oh how I love the taste of being so whole-heartedly out of our minds. Sanity is for the sane and we are, nonetheless, opposites of this case but oh how I love the taste of being so whole-heartedly out of our minds. Sanity is for the sane and we are, nonetheless, opposites of this case but oh how I love the taste of being so whole-heartedly out of our minds. tag:odeo.com,2006-04-21,1061709 Fri, 21 Apr 2006 19:48:07 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1061707-Chris-Martin The chords come through smooth and warm, hot-chocolate in my hears. His voice is playing in harmony, not thick like wind, but whisking strings of blipping lips. I lip-sink them like sticks of seduction and rubber body parts. The tone of him squeaks higher in my temples, breaking blood cells clear from my veins. Neck rolling back, letting the weight of my head force the music lodged in the crevices of my spine to break free. It’s hailing bullets out of my vertebrae, sloppy and directly relieving. Words sift through my hair follicles to my cartilage and fingers, to the atmosphere. Bones to the sky, I blow them to bits as they make my insides synchronize with existence. The chords come through smooth and warm, hot-chocolate in my hears. His voice is playing in harmony, not thick like wind, but whisking strings of blipping lips. I lip-sink them like sticks of seduction and rubber body parts. The tone of him squeaks higher in my temples, breaking blood cells clear from my veins. Neck rolling back, letting the weight of my head force the music lodged in the crevices of my spine to break free. It’s hailing bullets out of my vertebrae, sloppy and directly relieving. Words sift through my hair follicles to my cartilage and fingers, to the atmosphere. Bones to the sky, I blow them to bits as they make my insides synchronize with existence. The chords come through smooth and warm, hot-chocolate in my hears. His voice is playing in harmony, not thick like wind, but whisking strings of blipping lips. I lip-sink them like sticks of seduction and rubber body parts. The tone of him squeaks higher in my temples, breaking blood cells clear from my veins. Neck rolling back, letting the weight of my head force the music lodged in the crevices of my spine to break free. It’s hailing bullets out of my vertebrae, sloppy and directly relieving. Words sift through my hair follicles to my cartilage and fingers, to the atmosphere. Bones to the sky, I blow them to bits as they make my insides synchronize with existence. tag:odeo.com,2006-04-21,1061707 Fri, 21 Apr 2006 19:45:53 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1061703-To-the-Virgin-Pedestrian My left foot makes folly of the dead grass beneath, as I am surrounded in a mass of that heavy thickness of summer heat that Virginian’s are born swallowing. I am riding on the thermal distortion that rises on the horizon of the asphalt, to another sidewalk, another bending , winding dying street. They are all my never ending enemies. Naked prey, ankles bathing in inches upon lakes of crooked creeks that overflow only in my presence. Summer is foul, nothing is sweet as I wade in these waist-high weeds. Their little inhabitants crawl up me with armies of their invisible half-dozens. Deep inhales, I sift the humidity in my mouth and finally eat the oxygen through the cracks of my teeth. What a shame, we thought it was a clear sky, but the ceiling is absolutely saturated with sun, a cone of blue flame, and now we are bursting like tiny kernels beneath the fury of awesome energy My left foot makes folly of the dead grass beneath, as I am surrounded in a mass of that heavy thickness of summer heat that Virginian’s are born swallowing. I am riding on the thermal distortion that rises on the horizon of the asphalt, to another sidewalk, another bending , winding dying street. They are all my never ending enemies. Naked prey, ankles bathing in inches upon lakes of crooked creeks that overflow only in my presence. Summer is foul, nothing is sweet as I wade in these waist-high weeds. Their little inhabitants crawl up me with armies of their invisible half-dozens. Deep inhales, I sift the humidity in my mouth and finally eat the oxygen through the cracks of my teeth. What a shame, we thought it was a clear sky, but the ceiling is absolutely saturated with sun, a cone of blue flame, and now we are bursting like tiny kernels beneath the fury of awesome energy My left foot makes folly of the dead grass beneath, as I am surrounded in a mass of that heavy thickness of summer heat that Virginian’s are born swallowing. I am riding on the thermal distortion that rises on the horizon of the asphalt, to another sidewalk, another bending , winding dying street. They are all my never ending enemies. Naked prey, ankles bathing in inches upon lakes of crooked creeks that overflow only in my presence. Summer is foul, nothing is sweet as I wade in these waist-high weeds. Their little inhabitants crawl up me with armies of their invisible half-dozens. Deep inhales, I sift the humidity in my mouth and finally eat the oxygen through the cracks of my teeth. What a shame, we thought it was a clear sky, but the ceiling is absolutely saturated with sun, a cone of blue flame, and now we are bursting like tiny kernels beneath the fury of awesome energy tag:odeo.com,2006-04-21,1061703 Fri, 21 Apr 2006 19:42:38 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1061701-Cinnamon-and-Diamonds Charcoal strands wave past pits of hazel diamonds and embedded marble cinnamon iris. I make the fuzz smudge as I run my fingers through the threads. They are dice rolls of irony that click and snap in directions, glazing over your dripping magma eyeliner features. Wet wide lips pressed in thoughts, high in peaks of mountainous horizon and dragging with sex. I beg for your arm, muscle in sun-tainted skin; velvet mesh of rough exfoliation. Find me, soul-swimming holes in the down-casting profiletic shadows that the gift-bearer gives. What a grave-digging gentleness of keys you speak with. White in pearly amusement, draped with the flesh of tonic pinks. Tongue of milligrams, sessions of kiss-popping addiction. Feeble in adoration, somehow their airy heaviness becomes a weightless mass of tons on my attrition-victimized system. I shut down in a seize of overdose, faint in a withdrawal of stolen kisses, lodged between soda machines: leg shaking and music-less dances on sneaker-screeching... Charcoal strands wave past pits of hazel diamonds and embedded marble cinnamon iris. I make the fuzz smudge as I run my fingers through the threads. They are dice rolls of irony that click and snap in directions, glazing over your dripping magma eyeliner features. Wet wide lips pressed in thoughts, high in peaks of mountainous horizon and dragging with sex. I beg for your arm, muscle in sun-tainted skin; velvet mesh of rough exfoliation. Find me, soul-swimming holes in the down-casting profiletic shadows that the gift-bearer gives. What a grave-digging gentleness of keys you speak with. White in pearly amusement, draped with the flesh of tonic pinks. Tongue of milligrams, sessions of kiss-popping addiction. Feeble in adoration, somehow their airy heaviness becomes a weightless mass of tons on my attrition-victimized system. I shut down in a seize of overdose, faint in a withdrawal of stolen kisses, lodged between soda machines: leg shaking and music-less dances on sneaker-screeching tiles. Warm in your knuckles, I will be joint-closed, balled in my tone of ivory angelic curls, and tripping on the mechanics of my pointlessly romantic obsession Charcoal strands wave past pits of hazel diamonds and embedded marble cinnamon iris. I make the fuzz smudge as I run my fingers through the threads. They are dice rolls of irony that click and snap in directions, glazing over your dripping magma eyeliner features. Wet wide lips pressed in thoughts, high in peaks of mountainous horizon and dragging with sex. I beg for your arm, muscle in sun-tainted skin; velvet mesh of rough exfoliation. Find me, soul-swimming holes in the down-casting profiletic shadows that the gift-bearer gives. What a grave-digging gentleness of keys you speak with. White in pearly amusement, draped with the flesh of tonic pinks. Tongue of milligrams, sessions of kiss-popping addiction. Feeble in adoration, somehow their airy heaviness becomes a weightless mass of tons on my attrition-victimized system. I shut down in a seize of overdose, faint in a withdrawal of stolen kisses, lodged between soda machines: leg shaking and music-less dances on sneaker-screeching tiles. Warm in your knuckles, I will be joint-closed, balled in my tone of ivory angelic curls, and tripping on the mechanics of my pointlessly romantic obsession tag:odeo.com,2006-04-21,1061701 Fri, 21 Apr 2006 19:39:27 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1061697-Sucre Sticky with your pheromone I flick reason away like the grains of sugar you left on me. I am porcelain dusted sweet, light as the name,glucose, that you called me. Sticky with your pheromone I flick reason away like the grains of sugar you left on me. I am porcelain dusted sweet, light as the name,glucose, that you called me. Sticky with your pheromone I flick reason away like the grains of sugar you left on me. I am porcelain dusted sweet, light as the name,glucose, that you called me. tag:odeo.com,2006-04-21,1061697 Fri, 21 Apr 2006 19:34:54 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1061693-Sneaker-Soles Hands worked from weight and wood, your guilty eyes sidetrack to the distance. We were under the old roof, when you became my thinning horizon. Hands worked from weight and wood, your guilty eyes sidetrack to the distance. We were under the old roof, when you became my thinning horizon. Hands worked from weight and wood, your guilty eyes sidetrack to the distance. We were under the old roof, when you became my thinning horizon. tag:odeo.com,2006-04-21,1061693 Fri, 21 Apr 2006 19:33:11 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1061691-Orchid Baby will you be my emptiness, the substitute of all my courses? Hold me like a noose strangles, and kiss my hidden corpses? Burry me beaneath your head-board and make love to me like it were june. Linger on my lips,pink and poisoned, to feel my bizzare leak into you. Baby will you be my emptiness, the substitute of all my courses? Hold me like a noose strangles, and kiss my hidden corpses? Burry me beaneath your head-board and make love to me like it were june. Linger on my lips,pink and poisoned, to feel my bizzare leak into you. Baby will you be my emptiness, the substitute of all my courses? Hold me like a noose strangles, and kiss my hidden corpses? Burry me beaneath your head-board and make love to me like it were june. Linger on my lips,pink and poisoned, to feel my bizzare leak into you. tag:odeo.com,2006-04-21,1061691 Fri, 21 Apr 2006 19:30:06 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1061682-Hello-I-m-the-Holocaust Paper dolls, petite porcelain and perfection all crumpled into accordions and implaed through the paper stake. Sweet darlings, sleep in lampshades, fold up like intestines linked in a barrel of torsos; limbs,organs,leathered yellow skins, magnetized marrows that attract them. Femurs, flattened dusted flags. Rib cages, carved sharp into caves and mountains made of massive mort. Elbows, arms, tiny toes. Insignificant pieces of people far more significant than those who gagged the night with scorching flesh. Little Davids, little stars, tiny lives who were made for kindling. Nothing more than paper dolls. Paper dolls, petite porcelain and perfection all crumpled into accordions and implaed through the paper stake. Sweet darlings, sleep in lampshades, fold up like intestines linked in a barrel of torsos; limbs,organs,leathered yellow skins, magnetized marrows that attract them. Femurs, flattened dusted flags. Rib cages, carved sharp into caves and mountains made of massive mort. Elbows, arms, tiny toes. Insignificant pieces of people far more significant than those who gagged the night with scorching flesh. Little Davids, little stars, tiny lives who were made for kindling. Nothing more than paper dolls. Paper dolls, petite porcelain and perfection all crumpled into accordions and implaed through the paper stake. Sweet darlings, sleep in lampshades, fold up like intestines linked in a barrel of torsos; limbs,organs,leathered yellow skins, magnetized marrows that attract them. Femurs, flattened dusted flags. Rib cages, carved sharp into caves and mountains made of massive mort. Elbows, arms, tiny toes. Insignificant pieces of people far more significant than those who gagged the night with scorching flesh. Little Davids, little stars, tiny lives who were made for kindling. Nothing more than paper dolls. tag:odeo.com,2006-04-21,1061682 Fri, 21 Apr 2006 19:26:11 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1061679-Night-s-Wake I knocked myself out on the fat, black edges of the morning. They made enemies with the screaming pink on the eastern edge before I could settle them into a marvel. Tissues scathed from soft backs, came teetering down as feathers, heavy winded to the bottomless gravity. Ladles filled with oily smears yawned over the bastard city, creaming them with ceaseless gusto. Now bent from their hangovers and late-night t.v. lives, the hazy ceiling defuses and faints. And I choke myself on the fat, black edges of the mourning. I knocked myself out on the fat, black edges of the morning. They made enemies with the screaming pink on the eastern edge before I could settle them into a marvel. Tissues scathed from soft backs, came teetering down as feathers, heavy winded to the bottomless gravity. Ladles filled with oily smears yawned over the bastard city, creaming them with ceaseless gusto. Now bent from their hangovers and late-night t.v. lives, the hazy ceiling defuses and faints. And I choke myself on the fat, black edges of the mourning. I knocked myself out on the fat, black edges of the morning. They made enemies with the screaming pink on the eastern edge before I could settle them into a marvel. Tissues scathed from soft backs, came teetering down as feathers, heavy winded to the bottomless gravity. Ladles filled with oily smears yawned over the bastard city, creaming them with ceaseless gusto. Now bent from their hangovers and late-night t.v. lives, the hazy ceiling defuses and faints. And I choke myself on the fat, black edges of the mourning. tag:odeo.com,2006-04-21,1061679 Fri, 21 Apr 2006 19:22:36 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1061676-Possessed Oh, you are proud lioness, your voice enthralling within me. Is this you? Are you the dagger who snips my tongue into this awful curl of words? Licking like flames, an uncontrollable organ. Look what you have made, and I wonder— what could that ear of an orgasm be on the horizon? Oh, you are proud lioness, your voice enthralling within me. Is this you? Are you the dagger who snips my tongue into this awful curl of words? Licking like flames, an uncontrollable organ. Look what you have made, and I wonder— what could that ear of an orgasm be on the horizon? Oh, you are proud lioness, your voice enthralling within me. Is this you? Are you the dagger who snips my tongue into this awful curl of words? Licking like flames, an uncontrollable organ. Look what you have made, and I wonder— what could that ear of an orgasm be on the horizon? tag:odeo.com,2006-04-21,1061676 Fri, 21 Apr 2006 19:19:16 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1061675-etoile I clutch my cotton comfort toward me, and your reign stretches past my reason to my senses. I eat you through my nose and I hook with my hips around your invisibility, if only to hold you rmemory down (this is simply a gesture). So I embrace the empty oxygen with lungs full of lavendar, reeking in my own remedies clinging to my taste, to my sight, I exhaust as if there were no other way. I clutch my cotton comfort toward me, and your reign stretches past my reason to my senses. I eat you through my nose and I hook with my hips around your invisibility, if only to hold you rmemory down (this is simply a gesture). So I embrace the empty oxygen with lungs full of lavendar, reeking in my own remedies clinging to my taste, to my sight, I exhaust as if there were no other way. I clutch my cotton comfort toward me, and your reign stretches past my reason to my senses. I eat you through my nose and I hook with my hips around your invisibility, if only to hold you rmemory down (this is simply a gesture). So I embrace the empty oxygen with lungs full of lavendar, reeking in my own remedies clinging to my taste, to my sight, I exhaust as if there were no other way. tag:odeo.com,2006-04-21,1061675 Fri, 21 Apr 2006 19:16:03 -0700 no Poetry http://www.odeo.com/episodes/1061673-Me-The-Drape Why am I now your drape? Lollygagging my solid opaque to block you from the extreme, I hang here. The sky stretches by and stabs through my scabs and ankles like a sliver or rich cake. Draw me please, I am too thing, thin with this cotton skin to keep your baby eyes blue. Why am I now your drape? Lollygagging my solid opaque to block you from the extreme, I hang here. The sky stretches by and stabs through my scabs and ankles like a sliver or rich cake. Draw me please, I am too thing, thin with this cotton skin to keep your baby eyes blue. Why am I now your drape? Lollygagging my solid opaque to block you from the extreme, I hang here. The sky stretches by and stabs through my scabs and ankles like a sliver or rich cake. Draw me please, I am too thing, thin with this cotton skin to keep your baby eyes blue. tag:odeo.com,2006-04-21,1061673 Fri, 21 Apr 2006 19:12:31 -0700 no Poetry