A Finer Form of Silence

When I count up all the mistakes I've made,
The games I've played,
The things I've said,
Well, I can't help feeling I've done something wrong.

But I take a look at my memories of you,
The hoops I'd jump through,
The things I'd do
And I can't help feeling that you tagged along.

"Let's not talk, let's not speak
Fuck, why on Earth should we try listening?
This other person's not gonna change"
Well it's hard to act right when you don't know who you're playing 

Relationships all fall a part
Seems like all these women have a change of heart
Yeah at some point in time
They just stop caring or they never did

I'm not sitting here crying about it
Just a little confused as to why it happens
And I'd really like them to be less sparing
In their words

See, it's hard to fix something you don't know is broken
And it's hard to quit coughing if you don't know you're smoking
Honesty has more meaning to me
Than a handful of lies

If you told me things are wrong, I could take 'em to bed
Wake up in the morning less wrong in the head
But it's hard to make things right for you
If you philosophy with me is as follows:

"Let's not talk, let's not speak.
Fuck, why should we try listening?
This other person's not gonna change...
Instead of making progress, let's just play games!"

"Let's not talk, let's not speak.
Fuck, why should we try listening?
This other person's not gonna change...
'cuz changing ourselves is far too strange..."

"Let's not talk, let's not speak.
Fuck, why should we try listening?
This other person's not gonna change...
Come back a year later... yeah, he'll still be the same."

"Let's not talk, let's not speak.
Fuck, why should we try listening?
This other person's not gonna change..."
Well, it's hard when I can't hear what you want to s-

Anyone can take four chords and write a pop song. (Draft)

Anyone can take four chords and write a pop song.
Make some little bullshit ditty that won't last very long.
And people will melt once they hear it, fall into each others arms
And think "Well this is how love's supposed to be."

But it takes musicians to make music, dear, takes talent, devotion, a little fear
To make things worth hearing about, and melodies worth belting out
So when you ask me what I'm singing today, who I'm seeing, what I'll play
I'll look into your eyes and say "Well, 'love' ain't the right word to say."

So let's make music. Let's make sure they hear us sing
Make sure it's a song we remember, in spite of every everything.
Yeah, let's write music. I'll sell tickets to the show
Because when I'm singing songs about you, I want everyone to know.

See because in our life, the world is lying
Forcing love to lie down, sad and crying
And the chorus she's listening to is out of key,
Yes, they're all doing disservice to their hearts.

So let's make music. Let's make sure we harmonize
Make sure the lyrics are worth reading, make other lovers cry.
Yeah, let's write music. And let's be happy as we go.
And just in case you're wondering, here what you should know:
That I want music. I want a girl whose eyes will smile
Every time that she is around me, if only for a while
So let's make music, through the song our fingers flow
You won't have to work too hard, it's a song you already know.

Conversations in the Key of Depression

Depression is like... well; it's an state of mind.
The keys of a piano hitting tines
That ring out
dissonantly.
It's quite the horrible key

You see, you'll start off with a familiar melody,
Like "I'm not quite sure where I want to be..."
but instead of ascending into the major key
You get "and I'll ne-er real-y be anywh-re.
Because I'm a fail-re
I disap-oi-t ever-one
And I can't even fig-re out the simple-t of things
Like 'Wh-t do I love d-ing?'
Lo-k at me.
Can't keep my tr-e lov-
Can't find my own passi-n
The world's f-cked up
Especially h-re in my he-d

All the s-ngs I com-ose fall apart ho-rib-y
No m-tter how be-utiful th-y sound inti-lly.
I'll nev-r... I'll ne-er..."

That's the song depression weaves.
Eerily abhorrent, quietly screamed underneath,
Unable to be hushed in the haunts of your thoughts.
Handing your inner ears something that you can't stand to hear.
But you see, my dear...

Even in the hardest sounds to swallow,
There is music all the same.
Sometimes the music doesn't come out correctly
But you aren't listening to the right things.

Don't listen to the song of your life
And cry over the sounds that got muted.
Chances are that they were left out
Because to your song they were unsuited.

And don't sweat the mistakes, really, my friend,
Be it you or others who were playing.
No performer ever plays a song perfectly,
And we'll still hear what you're saying.

And if you can't find the notes you think you should play
Well, my dear, that's quite alright
We all lose our place from time to time
Tap the tempo, listen calmly, sit tight
Because your part has barely just begun,
And you'll find your places to sing
You'll make wonderful stories that are wonderful as you
About all sorts of wonderful things.

You're an instrument worth hearing... don't sell your sound short
Don't stop your part in humanity's harmony.
For this conversation in the key of depression...
Is one false note in your beautiful song, you see?

Robert Welch

If you would like to hear this poem read aloud:
http://rhyok.tumblr.com/post/18387895066/reading-of-a-flarf-poem-i-wrote
=====
Robert Welch.
He still washes his laundry with Tide for Bright Colors. .....
He's carrying a plate with a tiny heap
of spaghetti
in the center .....
a shingle headstone on which you have written
or carved
your enemy's name

Robert Welch,
You've gone to the farm and
picked out the best of the bunch.
Now, check out our favorite ideas
for carving, decorating, and displaying the inner section
for spaghetti sauce
or in a salad.
Or should it have been carved to infinity?

Robert Welch:
"we didn't carve pumpkins this year.
life has been busy
and my kitchen is already dirty enough."

Pasta, however, has galloped
across continents in bold explorations, bloody ...
Robert Welch, however, has galloped
across continents in bold explorations, bloody ...

young women in the cities wear clothes so short
they would attract police
young women in the cities wear clothes
they attract Robert Welch
1/4 teaspoon alcohol; 5 tablespoon glycerine...
Robert Welch would attract police
in the cities

Add the Fully Forged Carving Knife to your basket...
Robert Welch
Robert Welch
Robert Welch
20cm Carving Knife
Shun Classic Carving Knife 8 inch
The Aspire Carving knife with its
ergonomical thumb grip is a slim knife
Add the Fully Forged Carving Knife to your basket...
Robert Welch

Robert Welch includes a double cutting head...
makes perfect fettuccini and spaghetti
Robert Welch couldn't wait to strip down to spaghetti

"When it comes to actually carving (or deconstructing),
Robert Welch,
there are many schools of thought.
... but

clothes apartment apocalypse
apothecary appa appetizer appetizer

dish."

After it was browned I mixed in a jar of spaghetti sauce
and boiled.
Robert Welch, compare ... Tesco Boneless Easy Carve Lamb Leg (600g)

a scarily great supper (of pasta and salad) with Robert Welch
that should mess up a white napkin
Laundry is a never ending nightmare for most of us.
Laundry is a never ending nightmare for Robert Welch.
 ======

Author's Note:
This is a flarf poem. I composed it by pulling lines from the descriptions of  random websites on Google I found with the query "laundry carving spaghetti." Most of the lines are modified (mainly by way of insertion of the name "Robert Welch"). What started out as a meaningless collection of descriptions ended up being a contest to see how fucking creepy I could make the name "Robert Welch" by replacing nouns with his name in various lines. Robert Welch is no one in particular, just a name that popped up.

"Standing in the way of yourself"

In the
Heat of the moment
You really don't realize what types of things
Are going on as I the sickly black disregard
Latch on to the center of your being, your mind, your soul
Continuing to escalate pushing you further further further
Along an increasingly destructive path: "More! More! More!"
I speak the words that weigh enough to make quite a
      sound when they come down
I raise the weapon: your own thoughts, not wishing to take part
      but already an accomplice in matters of your heart

I bring them down again, again, again

Again,

Again;

Again...

Again.

Whose thoughts? Your thoughts.
Stained tainted... my touch!
No where. for them. to go. but down.
Bloody mess, they.

"*sigh*"

Come spiral down with me.
Oh yes, you know it's down.
Down, down, down we go!
C'mon! Give us a frown!

... sure, share your saccharine semi-circle with the masses.
Keep me a secret.
I'll be slowly, subtly shifting you to step in sordid directions

Shell out pessimism, sell out sanguinity
The show I'm putting on solely for you!
Stinging, acidic words about how unsatisfactory you are!
"Stupid failure! Quit! Fuck success, assuming you can achieve
      anything! *scoff*"
All sent to you spectacularly shining through as the set plays on,
Me: the singer, you: the ensnared crowd
Mind too sullied by what I'm saying to separate from the speech

Let me play on your organs,
making beautiful, dark, music in your halls.
Strumming the strings of your heart
Sucking the marrow of your bones
Seizing the small of your chest
Your lungs! How rapturous the notes are!
My pluckings rise up through your windpipes as exasperated sighs
      or compressed sobs
Complaints that might interest the coroner!
A true beauty, true art, these sounds are to me.
They inspire me to keep playing.

And sure, you might become aware
You might just realize I am there

And then I will be willed away
Pulled sadly from the instruments I play

But mark my words and mark them well
As surely as old "time will tell:"

Your emotions will one day sink too low
And I'll be back again for another go.

Sleep well, my silent symphony.

"Hello?"

A buzzing, buzz, buzz
Grasp thrown into the pocket
Grabbing the hornet

The cellular phone is something quite strange.
Is it a device to be revered or feared?
After all, what other invention of man
is a mouth whispering into anyone's ear?

"Hello!" "Hello there."
"How are you?" "Fine, thanks! Yourself?"
Then the call was dropped.

Shell full of buttons
That we constantly open and shut.
Look! Look!
What has he said?
What did we say?
May I ask who is speaking?
May I ask whose shirt the buttons belong to?
Obviously someone important.
Someone who demands attention constantly.
Someone who's always asking us
"Have you seen my buttons?"
Must be why we're constantly playing with
a shell full of buttons.

Four in the morning
*ding ding ring ring ding-a-ling!*
Who the hell is it!?

She keeps crying for attention when she has it;
My silicon girl with her thin body of plastic.
Sometime it seems like she's a bit slow.
I'll push her buttons and she'll cry out in glee
Because she knows they're going through her to get to me.
She knows I'll take her everywhere I go.

Why have we given
so much power to the phone?
My voice is not me.

First, man had fire and lanters with oil
Moved to bulbs made of glass; the night we did foil.
But what do we do now when the fuses have blown?
We reach in our pockets and pull out our phones.

Transcend the wires
Criss crossing our fine nation
Speak through the airwaves.

There once was a man named Dariell,
Who tried getting numbers from the belles
Though he was quite intense,
No, they'd never dispense...
Yes, Dariell never worked on his cell.

Ever wondered where
On Earth the watchmakers went?
Well, what time is it?

The really astonishing thing though
is that we each share a link
which travels to towers or satellites
and into the digital world.
Deliniating droves upon droves of our data.
Dredging through our daily dumps.
Memorizing our memories and making maps.
Stealing away our secrets,
storing away our secrets,
sharing our secrets unsubmissively
Who the hell do you think you are, me?
Computer databases speaking my name
Telling everyone what I think;
What I should think.
"Speak into the mainframe, quit your play.
It can't hear you. What did you say?"
It thinks it is me.
And so do others.
They think I am it.
My voice reproduced on the end of a "My voice"
And for all we know, we're being recorded!
So give your samples
and feed its brain.
Connect to people through its networks.
I'll sit here and cower a while
wondering if that really IS you
on the end of the "wondering if that really-"

"What's in my pocket?"
"Hands? Knife? String? A ring?"
"A cellular phone."

On the Value of Exhaustion

To work myself tired, be exhausted
The feeling: I enjoy it greatly. Whose
Well-worked, sore muscles don't enjoy the shred?
That burning feeling that sits in one's shoes....
In works of mind the strain is valued as much,
Perhaps almost doubly so, mentally.
Creations, musings, worlds one can not touch
Made concrete through exertions privately!
Yes through the pains of much, the work's done well
Exhaustion sets in once more. Body burning,
My brain is bumbling, but my acts shall tell...
They're worthy. I'm pained; I don't mind the lurching.

Through toil and thinking we become creators
Fatigue: the last course that creation caters.


Author's comments:

This poem was written for a poetry class. We were forced to use a traditional form. Please note, it was published in the class first. I am reposting it here as a form of public publication.