BTRIPP (btripp) wrote,

Oh, yeah ... then there's this ...

OK ... I have been putting off recording anything due to my sinuses being a mess of late, but I had this poem sitting around and I really wanted to have it "dealt with", so I went ahead and did a "reading" of it. Maybe others can't tell, but to me it sounds horrible, since I've not been able to breathe for weeks! I have another major "recording project" that I really need to get to, but I want to be in good voice for that, so I'm hoping that with it getting into the 70's whatever "springtime" crap that's in the air will phase over to the "summer" crap. Bleh.

By the way, I still can't get back into writing. This was written in three different chunks, which really bugs me (I mean, it's one thing if I write 2/3 of a poem on one day and then finish it up later, but how do I "date" a poem that was dribbled out over two weeks?). This poetry stuff has been kicking around my head as I've been doing a lot of "tidying up" on my various web presences and I'm thinking that (once I get into the files in my old computer which is still screwed up) I'm going to move the Poetry Site over to the old Eschaton Books web space rather than the AT&T space (which I can then get rid of), and get that updated (after years of it being sort of "abandoned"). Anyway ... I know I'm the only living being that gives a damn about that. On to the blithering:

                    BEYOND THAT CORE OF LOSS

                    there it is
                    all naked, bleeding
                    something internal
                    something arcane
                    some form of being
                    we can not reach
                    but now can see
                    no longer veiled
                    how can a lie
                    be the vehicle
                    for secret things
                    to find the light?
                    why can't the truth
                    demand of worlds
                    an equal state,
                    a useful path?
                    these unfold
                    crease the blackness
                    and manifest
                    points of gleaming
                    and untold value
                    breeding now
                    behind the seen
                    no lines drawn
                    only drips
                    rain on pavement
                    blood on paper
                    a pattern intrudes
                    not from the real
                    but in the brain
                    feral yet complex
                    all actions churn
                    a froth of instance
                    a matrix wrest
                    of place and date
                    vector and intent
                    this stands for meaning
                    as though attained
                    beyond that core of loss

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2007 by Brendan Tripp


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Tags: audio, poetry
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