$OUND$ like different bloods mixed
rattle on my heart_ little pump of. LOSSES
a burn on the aorta
I could swallow the whole piece but I
couldn’t risk opening. my. MOUTH
TURNED OUT like arrhythmia fixed
the hum of my heart_ beats forever. LOST
to fever in my nerves
I could cry out the whole music but it
wouldn’t leave me. whole. ANYMORE
I used to feel rhythm down my cords
I WA$. wired
I used to be a heart
I used to be HEARD
$OUND$ like different bloods remixed
bumps on my heart_ little spin.it.ROUND
a burial of memories
I could feel my life over and over but I
chose to leave. its. TUNE$
# tHI$ POEM AND TYPOGRAPHY WERE INSPIRED BY bebetune$ (album: inhale C-4 $$$$$) # tHE THEME WAS GIVEN BY dverse poets’ pub HOST FOR THIS WEEK, sTUART mCpHERSON: our MUSIC. pLEASE READ OTHER POETS_ LISTEN TO MUSIC_ DANCE TO YOUR OWN HEARTBEAT. #
In the subways I
I learnt to thrive
and you told me we’d never survive
grab your town’s handles we’re leaving
in a song
in an arcade that’s out loud
that’s in there down there)
We’re moving past
we’re already passed
(there’s no such thing as staying
doors close anywhere around you
of tripping fingers)
And all of the walls they built in the sixties never fall
and all of the art they built in the sixties never fall
(we fall on them
stick to them as flies attracted
primarily by colours)
Sometimes I can’t believe it
(and I don’t)
I’m moving into the night
(and as we fade we become
the same exact hue as
every other passenger)
BONUS TRACK (from 57,5 [ajku])
Ciel couleur métro
mes pas me mènent encore là
où je ne vais pas
*This poem was inspired by today’s dVerse Poets Pub and their inspiring prompt: Subway. As I am fond of my own town’s metro -Montréal- I wanted to share these poems and pictures (modified with Instagram) that represent it well. Please put some Arcade Fire and move to their sounds… as you wonder if you should fall asleep with the rumble or wake up with bright colours. And don’t forget to read other poets’ poems as well!*
(This poem integrates a few modified quotes from the song The Suburbs, by Arcade Fire.)
Tonight I needed to start on a quote (Interpol, Memory Serves). Memory serves me, and I’ll wait to find if it serves you too.
I don’t know how my soul is served when I drench it back with the Sea of Japan, my own see of Japan, that is to say a cover. A crossover. A mix of filling music, and quenching readings. Quenching livings.
My stay was a whole lack of words.
Now I’m listening to its echo, glistening echo. And as I somehow feel it has come to a halt, I remember again, buckling up all these wineful tears. A bucketful of these.
Music serves me: It triggers a reaction in my soul, the same as I used to have. A reaction in my soul, the same as I used to. Have. An unused word.
A little more wine. A little more food. All the same, you fool. Me fool.
The bucket is not full to the rim yet. Try it on, cry a little faster, cry a little further, down to a place where there’s nowhere to stay.
How can a music crave its way so hard to my heart? How can I love so deep that a whole country in me shakes? How can sounds can move my body to a place it doesn’t belong to at all? How… can you love this shakiness in me?
How can I still be chasing my damage at the same tunes?
Maybe because it raised me.