Sempre: (semp-ray)
adv. Music.
In the same manner throughout. Used chiefly as a direction.
[Italian, "always," from Latin semper.]
social implication would be semper fidelis, i guess: "always faithful"... but that is very trendy.
Sempre is a layer that represents loyalty to the self.
He is defined as a black hummingbird made of ink who lives in a world designed like a Dyson's sphere with inverted physics.
In the hopes of contributing a psychoacoustic element to the eleven;twenty-two definition and thus achieving a full circle of aesthetia (it's a word), I've recently asked Ecco (myspace.com/eccoband) to help in the translation.
This is nothing more than a drawing board.
There will be links as the concept develops.
;skylar.
November 10
there's something dark about this.
i'd rather not be using this as a way of categorizing me or documenting but i was told recently by someone's opinion i value very much that it makes sense to her to say that everything that you do that is creation, be it art in a visual sense or art in the form of words and poetry... regardless of the relative medium that's, everything you do is a self-portrait.
which i suppose would make sense and should make sense and does make sense as would anything.
and it may be something that i believe and have all along without realizing it on a conscious level. that would account for the ridiculous amount of authority i grant to my perception of the individual based of the opinions and attributes of self i get from reading or simply perceiving their "decide to say" of art or poetry. the way i always say that you can learn a lot about someone through their art or poems or free verse lines of thought. the way i stand there just pouring my eyes over something beautiful like there's nothing else out there.
i've flown across country for the sake of something i only ever wanted because i've always wanted it.
and it took losing it to realize that there's only so much truth in the heart of love. i sat there on the plane staring at the world below my feet and there's never been a moment to myself more defining in a more muck-raking fashion than was my head the slaughterhouse, what i always shoot for the the sick things you read in the classic piece of american literature that was the reflection of my face in the window with clouds all around my head.
i'm not a dumb boy.
i'm not fighting for anything and i've never wanted anything specific.
but the more i look at the self-portrait of stuff i throw in all the faces like they asked to see any of it in the first place the more i wish to death i could walk into the other room and leave myself here like the annoying person you try to ignore at the party.
which is ironic because those are usually the people that everyone else loves and misses when he's gone.
and it's nice to feel wanted by others but,
what it comes down to is i'm not fond of this head blocking the sunlight to my heart.
and in all of the love that flows around me,
though i doubt it's worth the firepower i'm using up to say, i can't remember ever feeling anything but alone.
which sucks even more than it sounds.
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July 3
now would be a good time to say...
waste a spark of your mystery,
wont you save
a piece
of your universe
for me
and tell me when
it stops raining
black holes and supernovas
because I
don't know how much of this
i can take, you know?
the air feels like down
feathers and
the air
is cold like the other side of the pillow.
but i can't
trust your
simple things; the sky is
falling on my head.
and i'm living one
life at a time,
every spark of
punctuation like a breath dressed
in autumn on the hour..
be filled with
something soft and
i promise to be the black that makes the stars beautiful
if you'll the sunset that tucks me in
.i put myself on the flooR
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July 3
acoustic me
the children swinging
on the chains
are
convinced that the sky at their feet
is flying away
or back
and forth.
horizons
are eyes on the
simple things
when the things that won't do
stop doing
and sideways ways of
being are filled
with too
many
nowheres and
not enough somewheres
to put them away
tell me something beautiful.
tell me something beautiful.
tell me something beautiful
i'm the song
you're hearing for the first time in your life
but you already know my words
and right here's the part
that descends, oh don't try anything
without thinking it through
and right here's the part called
a crescendo that builds back up
as I try too hard
to rhyme with you
oh you know you know it
so tell me something beautiful
you girl with all your
really little everything
because you know
while the children watch their feet
and they know the sky is nodding its head
you know it like the sky
smiles down because
it's the only one
far enough away to know
what's really going on
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June 29
Fault
distract it as a vicious case
of sentiment
that pulls through
like sponges through screen doors
to become
rearrangingly
the grasshopper we've come to love
for its customary values
and with
that; they
are the customary systems
we hear in its knees.
and color is a lesson as values come
and go when scantily
clad, the grasses
hold its
invisible grace as she stares at the stars
with her
headphones whispering something
about love to
the foreground of the
instant classics at her fingers...
something falls short
of something and
fault-lines talk to each other about
the guilt they feel for laughing
out loud at the
joke I said a half an
hour ago...
and they blame us for
building our houses on their smiles
as they split apart our basements
...and while we lay down...
our layer of feel
and ask it to stand up
on its own...
i
can't
keep talking for
you but
you can't
keep stopping like that..
as a reason to
be is a viable delicacy when
the paper umbrella dissolves
to leave the rim of our
glass subject to rain clouds'
battle scars falling
from the sky....
you put your two cents in
and with that you can't buy this contravention
but maybe you can their thoughts away
..............twice...
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January 1
you know what it's like don't you.....
when you look in the mirror and the person in front of you towers above you and smiles while you cry like the wonder we all know you are...
and suddenly you feel like
the one little boy who feels entitled to hold himself in higher esteem
than the little girl's family by standing
in the brush watching the funeral from a distance...
his hands gently
wrapped around the graceful torso of a beach tree.
the mist singing its choral enterprise of starlight.. the autumn leaves
falling like tears
of fire from the stem
beaded with dew and other such cliches...
hell hath no fury like a woman scorned..
because you feel gentle.
and you feel like you're breaking all the rules and you feel like
you can't be without this abstraction and still be worth the effort or an effort or.....
trouble is ahead....
and trouble's behind.
and trouble's at our throats.
and trouble is.
just like the horizon is.
and poetry is.
the little boy stood against the storm we're calling a gentle breeze.. his finger places
around the waist of the
beach tree and he dug
his toes into the numbing snow... and it was her waist... he could have sworn it.
it was her. standing like a crystal melted and molded and beautified into
the girl standing in front
of me and i held her so closely as her paper skin curled
and peeled away.
her graceful leaves fluttering to the floor in the
dance of the moment caught up in the year.. her
fingers gentle.
my head against hers and i kept my eyes closed
to keep the real universe
from peeking backstage while i prepared for the performance.
my head to hers
and my eyes drowning in the red of my eyelids with the white
of her beauty accentuating it through the crimson...
my cold self against her and my head to hers and i'm so lonely.
i'm standing in a crowded rom and i've never been so alone in my entire life.
my head against the beach tree of her and in this forest........
her falsetto love songs are suddenly the chants
of a tribe of cannibals and i'm in tears as ever and
i....
want...
her...
out...
of...
me.................
i deserve it.
i deserve to be okay
and i'm taking one half step backward and i'm waiting for
the trees to crumble to pieces.
and i'm waiting for my hands to
pull away with tiny pieces of bark like dust sifting
through my frozen fingers.
and i'm sick of you for the last time, like always.
and miss... i believe we've met.
i'm sorry for the abstraction but i believe you have something that i've felt in me before...
you know i'm holding my corners
in my pocket and i showed up
wondering if i should have said something
you'd remember
but nothing came
to mind.
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view all 10 posts
rivetingrae
love syntax...this book/album/art exhibit...needs some
major packaging and and advertising. need to find a way
to include the drawings and songs with the part of the
story they go to...way cooler experience that way
posted Dec 13
rivetingrae
I don\'t usually like metaphors, they aren\'t usually
honest and i like things to be said and left as they
are but yours are real and add beauty to an image
instead of pretentiousness and i like things to be
unconventional but not so much so that they are
unaccessible because i am a simpleton but not simple
minded-BRAVO, LUV YA
posted Aug 13
darkangel89
this is beautiful... you truly are an inspiration to
me.
posted Feb 20