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.

"Prose and Other Thoughts" updated

Added "On Dreams"

How do you hold a rose?

How do you hold a rose?
A precious and beautiful treasure
When it's pressed into fingers, gently it clings there
Thorns quietly pricking into the skin

How do you tear apart your heart?
Such a valuable, vulnerable thing?
And offer it to others besides fathers, brothers, sisters, mothers?
In their tight grips, your heart will rend.

And what will you do when she takes off?
And wanders away with the thing?
Her vice-like clamp tugging each time that you see
She's thrown your red offerings down to the gutters

How do you hold a rose?
Do you cut into fingers so it may not dislodge,
Slice into flesh when you pull it from your palms
Study it, say "Nay, this rose I cannot keep.
It's no rose of mine; it's another's joy."
But despite all of this, offer it your heart
Though you know it will prick, you just cannot stop
For a treasure this precious just cannot be left
Though this flower rose to root in some other's chest
Leaving nothing in you but thorns where beauty grew
Memories of happiness... "Once upon a time, not so long ago..."
So when ever you reach in to remember sweet love
Your hand returns bleeding from what once was a home

How do you hold a rose?
A precious and beautiful treasure
When it's pressed into your heart, then tears you apart
Once it's left you to bloom somewhere else