Saturday, April 09, 2016


composing music
to his wordage

listening to Portishead
thinking about when we
recorded her bloody poetry
then fucked on dirty sheets

his guitar tears into my muse
like a machete through the jungle
and it leaves me on the floor screaming
and i am a fetus unexplored and sponge like

listening to Neko Case
our conversations draw me in and spit me out
they supply me with proof of life
when feeling overwhelmed and lost in translation

his reversals of misfortunate adulation are a bank shot
into the reservoirs of imaginings fraught with peril
and I find myself at a loss for words when you emerge
from the shadowy depths like a picaroon or sea rover

composing titanic silences
to his four chambered cadenzas of clear-cut change

Charles Cicirella

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