Best Morts Poems
A cocooned cacophony of crickets serenades overgrown fields,
drowning out the creaking of rusted cars long since abandoned.
Maroon and sable tents blot the dilapidated ground—
bloated and weathered,
strips of fabric flapping in the harsh elements.
Legends of wraiths wander,
replicating whispers of infected insanity.
Laughter lingers in suspect echoes,
Rippling from pasts reborn in presents: futures to be later replaced by the past.
The smell of burnt sugar crackles with the purr of buttered kerneled corn: invading the nostrils with senses whose stimuli feign belief.
A faint humming of Entry of the Gladiators creeps in loudening crescendos, adding to the cacophony deigning dormancy in the field
Fragmented timelines intersecting by the call of the Barker
Stained cotton candy melts, reconstitutes, melts once more
Saturating replicating stands with insidiously sticky omens
Ghastly sickeningly sweet mori mementos
Resurrecting the dead from preternatural slumber.
Within fractured milliseconds, the cycle of the tormented deceased rise
From the ashes of unburnt airwaves,
Rippling through screaming minutes yet frozen in the midst.
A varicosed bearded woman floats aloft grassy overgrowth
Reanimated tigers lurk and phantasmal elephants howl,
Rings round the air in gaseous hush, like cigars puffed by moustachioed men of game,
Insufflating smoke with striped suits in candied reds and white.
The air rises to the resurrected show,
Cries confused for laughter tickle cochlea of the living.
Rêves perdus, rêves morts
Les fleurs dansent
Les fleurs chantent
Le printemps est ici
Je suis, pas loin d'ici
Dans la forêt
Dans une cabine
Caché
Avec mon cœur
Rien ne me touche ici
Je suis sans pays
Rien ne coule dans mes veines
Je suis seulement
Quelqu’un qui n’existe pas
Ni d’hier ni d’avant
J'ai cherché
Je ne sais pas
Je m’en fou
Je n’ai plus rien à découvrir
Je suis mort depuis longtemps déjà
Un miroir
Un mur
Une brique
Un petit morceau de moi
Qui tombe
Dans le vide
Gouttes de pluie tombent
Bombes sur mon cœur
Noyé
Amoureux
Form:
A cocooned cacophony of crickets serenades overgrown fields,
drowning out the creaking of rusted cars long since abandoned.
Maroon and sable tents blot the dilapidated ground—
bloated and weathered,
strips of fabric flapping in the harsh elements.
Legends of wraiths wander,
replicating whispers of infected insanity.
Laughter lingers in suspect echoes,
Rippling from pasts reborn in presents: futures to be later replaced by the past.
The smell of burnt sugar crackles with the purr of buttered kerneled corn: invading the nostrils with senses whose stimuli feign belief.
A faint humming of Entry of the Gladiators creeps in loudening crescendos, adding to the cacophony deigning dormancy in the field.
Fragmented timelines, intersecting by the call of the Barker.
Stained cotton candy melts, reconstitutes, melts once more.
Saturating, replicating, stands with insidiously sticky omens.
Ghastly sickeningly sweet mori mementos.
Resurrecting the dead from preternatural slumber.
Within fractured milliseconds, the cycle of the tormented deceased rise.
From the ashes of unburnt airwaves,
Rippling through screaming minutes yet frozen in the midst.
A varicosed bearded woman floats aloft grassy overgrowth.
Reanimated tigers lurk and phantasmal elephants howl.
Rings round the air in gaseous hush, like cigars puffed by mustachioed men of game.
Insufflating smoke with striped suits in candied reds and white.
The air rises to the resurrected show,
Cries confused for laughter tickle cochlea of the living.
Translation below
Valse des morts
Je valse
Je valse, valse, valse
le journée, la nuit
Le long des rues
Le long de la rivière
Je valse jusqu'à ce que je ressens la douleur
partout, partout, sur moi
la pluie tombe sur ma douleur
Je murmure doucement
Tourner dans le vide
Je valse , mais pourquoi
Je ne peux danser
Je ne peux danser
mes jambes lourdes
Mon cœur dit non
Je ne peux danser
Donc, je valse
à ma mort
Translation
I waltz
I waltz, waltz waltz
All the day and all the night
Along the streets
By the river
I waltz until I feel the pain
All over, all over , allover
the rain falls on the pain
softly I whisper
I turn into the void
I waltz and you know why?
I can not dance
I can not dance
my legs are in irons
My heart says no
I can not dance
So I waltz
To my death
Beyond the measure the traditions
claim they sort and seek
might they find, might they find
ooh-bah-doo-bah: ah-ooh-ah!
The backbeat was sorted from the
"First tones" thats what she called it.
There are 12 planets in this system.
Each with ait's own distinctive sound
and duration. The forebeat must
proceed the downbeat. All with in these
32 distinctive notes.
In music, a backbeat refers
to a rhythmic pattern where the second
and fourth beats in a 4/4
time signature are emphasized
32 Distinctive notes within one octave
beyond the twelve tone system
"backbeat"
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With the intensity of passion
that one would expect to
affectionate and pleasurable
infatuation or obsession
unintrusive thoughts and
welcoming passions
where it neither draws lines
or recreate those things defined
sorta simple
an easy
pleasey
satisfying love
more than anything
much about nothing
just cool pleasing togetherness
thats what we're doing
"syncopation
--------------------
No drama
no foolish expectations
a lotta
ooh -ah yeah
and no
fouled-up communications
like it like this
tell me like that
love is what we're doing
Baby that's
where it's at
___________________________
"Poco Rallentando"
Curtis verses Julliard
Music Lessonaters Collaborations
of Sounds
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May 13 2033