Electric Feel

I don't tend to write long poems, or so it seems. I just like packing in images, and make of them what you will. I know what it means to me, maybe it'll mean something to you? Anyway, its been a long break, so here's a little something. My life is becoming a little intense so there could be more. Or not. Who can ever tell?

Inspired by the song title “Electric Feel” by MGMT, album Oracular Spectacular (not the song itself, just the words of the title got me thinking)

5_7_10

“Electric Feel”

Something unreal here

An electric feel here

Skin crawls breaks likes waves

I don’t know what this is

Ear to the ground

Hand to my heart

Spark my nerves one more time

Keep all ten tingling

Like an awareness high

Full moon and the tide’s gone

Tugging gently away

Seeping rationales

Weak angles, buckling

But never breaks

Not this time

Living on the edge of a coin

Foot over line over foot

Periphery answers in code

Running slipping under

Under something, somewhere

Don’t think I can find it now

Wouldn’t know it if I found it now

There’s something unreal

Only the electric feel

(Additional note: After I initially posted this, somehow an error occured when I copy/pasted from word or something, and the phrase "not this time" got blown up HUGE. I have no idea how it happened, but let's call it a cool trick of fate? Apparently blogger is trying to jazz up my poetry for me. So strange. It actually freaked me out a little!)

Silent Conversations

Silent Conversations

4/9/09-Concerning events observed on 4/8/09 at the Indianapolis Museum of Art.

Place of stillness

Silent dialogues

An endless chatter

Of musings and mindlessness

Frozen figures

Gazing across the gallery

Speaking in their silent language

A glimpse perhaps

Carefully crafted

Constructed and preserved

Permanently communicating

Across still thick air

Lauded by the Blue Coats

With their ill tension

Gabriel reaches out for David

As I attempt to take him in

Perching momentarily

I panic to murder

An unfortunate spider

That darted between my legs

What could I do,

In a tomb of creation

Where life is shunned

For the preservation

Of silent conversation?

The Psychic Portion

It is a pulsing torrent

Like geysers of sand

Or fountains of tar

Pulling and warping

Like taffy by the machinations

Of a confectioner

Rolling and pulsing

With the feverence

Of an angry Poseidon

As I sort this psychic portion

Restraining in one discontent

The other paranoia--confusion,

These sagging bowls of tiring imbalance

Gated only by resolute-inconstant will

A chemist's logic couldn't conquer it

If I were to express

The first thoughts

Of my marathon mind

Filterless and pure

I doubt a friendly face

Would look me eye to eye

Or confidently step toe to toe

With the psychic portion

In this frame 

I'm a hair breadth from exposure

The only barrier left

Is but a gauzy screen of pretense

That the lightest scratch may tear

So--anxious for the moon

Heralding a wall of sane light

For I can think of nothing less

Than the lunar god to blame