Archive for music

The Imposter Steps Out

Posted in Fun stuff, Poetry, Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 18, 2018 by beautifulimposter

There are few times that The Rules permit my touching the mortal world in any appreciable fashion. So, when such moments do arise, I must admit, I do approach with a certain gusto. Only my best, inky blackest, long tail flowingest coat will do (I’ve only the one coat really, I just will it to be fancier and slightly more sinister) as I walk out of The Tower With No Door, my boots scrape out an almost jaunty tattoo on the cobbles. The weight in my pockets tugs at the corners of my lips, my hands dipping into my pockets, fingering their contents, rummaging through until I grasp the box. It’s going to be a lovely day.
The Real folds around me, the Borderlands fading, trailing in whispers of strangeness. It’s a bright day, golden, early spring I believe, vague haloes of green hovering around the shapely, nude limbs of the trees, a rich jade mist rising from rich black soil. I seem to be in a park, some kind of open area with footpaths and trees and little benches. People flood and flock, whirling, almost grounded starlings in coats and scarves. Some sit, enjoying the bright but weak sunlight, wrapped in a fragrant fug of steam from cups held just below their faces so that their breath gets tangled in it. It is all too perfect.
I stride with purpose, pulling out the small casket, a shimmering four footed little beast that gleams like beetle wing case, purple-blue-green. I reach the rough center of the square or commons or whatever, watching, anticipation jumping nervous cat like from my shoulder blades. I set the box down reverently on a little table marked out for chess, fingers twitching as I manipulate the mechanism to open it. It’s very complex, I fumble with it a moment in my excitement. I would curse it’s tricksyness, but I know it needs be thus, don’t want it opening randomly, which it most certainly would do if left to its own devices.
The lid springs open, yawning out a rainbow. Within, flashing very strange glimmers are embers, coals, white hot, seemingly made of every single color and shade, some you’d know, others you’ve never heard of nor contemplated except in your stranger dreams or if you’ve hit your head particularly hard when they might flash momentarily at the edges of your vision. So lovely, crackling there, alive, wild, expectant. My breath catches, oh how I love this bit, I truly do…trembling, fingers itch crawl forward, digging in to my trove, writhing beneath, feeling the utter oddness. Imagine dipping your hand into fire made of water, it’s like that only not at all. I gather two fistfuls, great big bunches, holding my hands at my sides, tilting my head back, eyes closed, nostrils flaring, shivering in delight.
I let out a self indulgent whoop, tossing my hands to the sky, fingers uncaging, the bright gledes scattering, little crumbles of madness showering about like sparks. The set things afire, crackling blazes of bizzarre flames. I watch as it spreads, licking hands, turning hair into crowns of twisting strands, blown up by weird winds. Randomly, a passerby pirouettes, their feet alight, eyes flashing surprised delight as this touch of madness moves them. Songs break out, laughter, tiny bits of personal strangeness flow outward. All of this is wonderful, but I wait, I watch, for the best part. I see a spark nestle into an eye, the iris contracting, shimmering a very, very different color. This is it, the subtle change, oh yes, the shift. They look about, everything new, every single thing just a bit different. There is fear and wonder and exultation etched on thier features. Now, forever, this one will see the whole world how no one else sees it and will paint it, write it, sing it how they see it and it will change others too.
I cannot help but laugh, spinning in place, grabbing more, moving off and trailing madness like glitter. Never too much, never in one place lest the fires consume, that would be a horror not countenanced. No, with care, with prudence I spread the breadcrumbs of insanity on a spring day, setting the whole world ablaze with dreams. Tee hee…

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The Birds Will Still Sing

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 17, 2018 by beautifulimposter

Birds sing because they want to
While I am sure there are other
More scientific reasons,
Purposes of biology and evolution
I see no better reason,
After all, wouldn’t you sing so
If you could?

Therein lies the beauty I think
Song for the singing
Joy and revelry for simple being
Hymns of sun and wind beneath wing,
A chorus for bright bead eye
Turned skyward and flying dizzy.

Too many envy birds thier freedom
Hence cages, it sooths bitter heart
To see such wildness cloistered
As if we too locked up song and blue heaven,
Unaware or perhaps just denying
That they will sing and dream regardless.

I for one take comfort
For as rock crumbles, pride falls
Ash and smoke rise in choaking cloud
They will be there, mad charlatans,
Ragged finery ruffled, still pinwheel turning
Still singing, above it all
In the forever blue.

Love Song

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on September 17, 2015 by beautifulimposter

Soundtrack playback
Play out emotional pay out
Chords that pour out
Thick honey drown
Down and out
Or over and up
Over and out
My deafness becomes a shout
Singing without
A trace of fear
Watching the film reel
The places, the bodies, the feel
To touch what was and where
Stumbling down the long road
Surrounded by crowds,
Crowded streets
No before or after
Just right here
Right now
All that’s aloud
Ringing in the vein
Echoes, things obscured by clouds
Of sound, raw as bloody
Finger paint mass murder of crows
Sunsets, flying low
Smoke over the water
Autumn nights, firelight
Fire sign, signs of life
Breath and shape
Describing heart beat
Back beat, pulse
Boom boom boom
Thunder rolling
Rattling the ribcage bass
Profound little earthquakes
Shudders and moans
New found flesh and old bones
Tasting the night air
Flavored with another’s sweet lungs
Tongues over teeth
Wound and winding
Following the tracks of sweat and tears
Maybe a little blood
Bright copper salt
Falling down down down
Into warm seas
All sighs captured in the breeze
Sails of hair full of the moon
Bright slick belly to belly
Knowing nothing but that
There’s still life to be had
Getting shitfaced drunk on he good
Just as easy as the bad
It all goes down smooth
Hurts just like jagged
But it’s a sweet pain
The ripping and the ragged
Getting sewn together
Stitches of strict time
Knot for naught
For a moment we forgot
Got lost together
Somewhere in the night
While the songs just played on and on.

Reconciliation

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 15, 2015 by beautifulimposter

The soundtrack is Joseph Arthur
Air throbbing, thick in the lungs
Daylight becoming something syrup
Amber flowing in streamers
Through outstretched fingers
Conducting the strains
Affecting strange twitches and ticks
Between neck and shoulders
The music’s marionette.

Pedestrian footsteps keep the beat
Cars slide by, sleek silent fishes
Gleaming along the concrete river roads
Everything tinged with the faint rust
In the vocals, a cheap filter
From an attempted art house
MTV video, nostalgia crystallizing out of the air
In a time and place that hasn’t
Existed long enough in the veins
To have any real ghosts.

Still though, riding that sonic dragon tail
Putting the spike deep into fat
Hungry veins, pearl beads and rubies
Dripping down vaguely cruciform limbs
A dime store icon chintz messiah
Forsaken and forsaking all poor realities
For something bigger, a truly grand fallacy
Stepping lightly into a perfect tomp l’oeil
Glittering tin punch lampshade world
Spilling feathers and cigarette ash.

For the space of five minutes and one second
There is might and beauty
Faces let their light shine through
Beaming between the cracked porcelain
The dreams dust themselves off and dance
Along cornices and architraves
Color, shape, vibration, semblances, all fall together
Into turpentine doused oil painting
Running together to strange, mad brush strokes
Blurring the expectation of the should be
With the what is.

That is where it’s best
In the place where the words hum
And everything shines.

Summer Blues, Hungry Night

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on July 18, 2015 by beautifulimposter

There’s music on the air tonight
People walking by
Chased by the nearly imperceptible breeze
The heat makes everything hazy
Like looking through tears
Or the gentle rain the sidewalks are begging for
On hands and knees.

Someone is making a guitar weep
Fingers drawing out such beautiful, exquisite pain
The notes crying through the concrete canyons
Lingering in the folds of skirts
Dripping down in beads of subtle honey
Rising up to find the stars above
The bland, poisonous city light glow
Trying to make the moon blush.

There’s a scent of good sex
The kind that leaves a wreckage of sweaty limbs
Riding just beneath perception
A thick, roses current
Raising up animal hairs along arms
Now looking for waists or other convenient handfuls
Heartbeat metronomes slow time dirty dancing
The taste of lover’s blood
Leaves a craving on the lips of the mouth
This night is
Open, panting, hungry.

In Dreams

Posted in Journal, Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 18, 2015 by beautifulimposter

Time for a little prose piece I think, I haven’t done one if these for a while. So, many years ago when I was nineteen or maybe twenty I had just come back from work after stopping at my friendly local used CD shop (CDs were how we old folks used to listen to music children, pleas try to keep up). It was called Sonic Temple and it was one of my all time favorite places to be, on Yonge Street, just a few blocks north of Sheppard. I wonder if it’s even still there. It would be a shame if it wasn’t, places like that are treasure troves, just waiting to be rummaged through, their contents devoured in hedonistic gluttony. With the way music is consumed now though, it’s probably gone, another ancient cultural ruin awaiting future archeologists to unearth.
But I digress, I’m good at that. I had just purchased Under The Pink by Tori Amos. I was a bit late to the party as far as Tori was concerned, so I was playing a little catch up. I threw my bag down by the door, pulled off my boots and almost ran over to the CD player, but instead of popping in the new disc, I decided to start back with Little Earthquakes, to begin at the beginning so to speak. I placed the CD tenderly in its tray, slid the machine closed and punched play, retreating back to the sofa just as the lovely, pure sonic waves began to wash over me. This may have been a mistake as pretty much by “Silent All These Years” I was drifting off and by “Winter” I was completely asleep.
So, here’s where things get strange. I dreamt I woke up to knocking and I found myself in the exact position I had fallen asleep. It was one of those dreams so vivid that you wouldn’t realize you were even dreaming, yet somehow I did, I was aware that I was in a dream but just decided to go along with it. So I answer the door and standing there, in the outside hallway of my basement apartment in North York (part of the GTA, or Greater Toronto Area children) was Tori. She was naked. Of course she was. That’s what my brain said “of course she is”, like it was just that more acceptable that an internationally known and renowned singer/songwriter was not only knocking on my door but that she was nude.
So I stepped aside and she came in. She smiled and gave me a hug. It was a nice hug, but before your fevered imaginations begin turning this into some kind of celeb porn, there was absolutely no sense of arousal. Her being naked was just a thing, a property of the dream and it seemed natural. It probably would have been more erotic if she had been clothed really. So, she hugged me and then walked over to the chair opposite the sofa, sat down with her legs curled up under her, but kind of to one side. I went and sat back down on the couch and we started to talk. That’s it, just talk. It was like we had already been involved in the conversation and we’re just picking it back up again, like she’d just popped down to the shops for a moment. She was very warm, I remember that, at least the Tori in my dream was. I remember knowing, deep down knowing that was she was saying was important, I knew that to the core of me.
I woke up when the CD stopped, like at that exact moment. I felt fuzzy, almost like I’d been drinking. I get that way after a really clear dream, especially one where I can remember the details so clearly. Normally all I can ever remember of my dreams is that I dreamt. The pictures fade like there was a painter in my brain who created these incredible pictures of fantasy and vibrancy but in a sudden fit of creative depression threw turpentine on the lot, leaving only colors and vague shapes running together. This one though, this one lingered. It was in my waking brain for days afterward, just playing it out over and over and over. The one thing I couldn’t remember at all was what she said, all of the important things she was trying to tell me.
So that’s it children, that’s my little story. I still try to figure it out every now and then, what it was all about. When I listen to Tori’s music I try to listen for what she might have been trying to say to me in my dream, underneath the raw lyrics and ethereal piano. I haven’t had much success, but it is a joy to try anyways. Perhaps one of you out there could tell me. If you figure it out, drop me a line, I’m sure it’s something important, something I’m really supposed to know. If you can’t respond here, tell it to me in a dream, I promise I’ll pay attention, I promise I’ll remember this time.

The Song Remains the Same

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 3, 2015 by beautifulimposter

Mumbling song lyrics like prayers
Ten “mercy seats”, ten “mr. jones”
Counting starlings on power line rosary
Taking wing into slate blue sky
Subtle chord changes lingering sustain
Accelerator pedal distortion
Echoing click heel working girl rhythm
Metronome hips keep strict time.

Sting quartet stringy hacking cough
Medallion hacks huddling around the cab stand
Grubby blue collar blues whine
Back broken, heart broken
Recepticals of midnight confessions
Shabby scarf surplices muffling
All the lonely heart hymnals
Saint Harry never got to write.

Night hawks flying the ragged edge of dawn
To roost in sweaty low rent flats
Neon angry buzzing lullabies
Johnny Walker harmonizing with Johnny Cash
Tears that taste like amber, or maybe Alison
The aim can still be true if a bit unsteady
One hand full of longing, the other spanking the monkey
Spirit and seed both spilled useless
On sheets of music crumpled in desperate fists.

Low down and dirty grumble
Thick tongued, tied up tightly twisted
Every golgotha tenement tower of song
Spilling Babel chaos harmonics
Babies crying mother’s hush
Lover’s legs play slow waltzing violin
Rising up into the purple bruise metropolitain sky
Choir seven million strong
Belting out the hooks buried deep in the flesh.

Everyone knows the words to this one
Singing along as soon as lungs met air
Making up the bits not known by heart
Maybe finding the harmonies, or maybe not
From cave mouths to cathedrals
Rushlit halls to smokey beer light gin joints
For all the changes, minor falls, major lift
The song remains the same.