Sun, in disjunction with blue skies,
clarify’d by dark wolverine’s welkin trails:
how ever when, where ever how

She did did she but upon herself
through the treacherous language we gave:
set; she did in fact not, zest she did give

It is us who turned away
it is us who turned our backs
and yet not free willed

pulled by Presence and Absence
we were reverted, turned and exerted forward

as a ball of life on a spit
she spat her beams

for as long as she attends to us

                                 —animasuri’23 

play the piano,
use a 3-D printer,

check out everything

books to ice skates
chopped gherkins,

three white Finnish men

sour cream, and honey.
butts and boobs everywhere

“Let’s go smoke a cigarette.”

everything is awkward
everything is right

where it should be

                   —animasuri’23 
                   appropriational note-taking 
                   The stolen word series 

source: Collins, Lauren. (2023, June 12). Pilvi Takala and the Art of Awkwardness. The New Yorker. Profiles June 19, 2023 Issue. Via Dr. WSA

a metaphor for sorting met with force of sorts
violence and love matriculate bars, tempos, lessons, lesions and doves

an opera of metaphors, there falls a pencil on the sand-ridden wooden stage, ergo faints an earthworm when brushed over onto the cobblestones, back there through that door, there where word mills a’ churn’n of left-over grandeur, pomp and praise and a snippet of score left bleeding ink darkening moss, there endings stop displaced tails of the conductor’s left gliding pincer grip, there words brood cheapness to counterpoint with cheap life as notes are as in cheap candy bars: could you imagine —waking and walking back inside as a second movement— an interlude, with vendors of sugar and crunch? Is my repertoire but a page away as bassoons ‘n’ bullfrogs announce me o’ they shall some day, some day they shall

Me my mi me do mi sol mi minor mi that chord as manure’s manners of ding dung ding when writing smells of opera, opera appears brass necked in the breath of a drunken sailor from across the street smudging the last bit of green, slipped on the wet flowerless street plant that lacks true roots in the dampness of dumbed down dumplings from next door’s hole in the wall: the opera house’s back door always slams composure.

—animasuri’23

via The Financial Times,
via Benjamin, George,
via Dr. WSA.

“Composer George Benjamin ‘Writing an opera is like diving into a pool for the first time’” (Financial Times)

Pincer picking leftover facts

pinched with eyes as sheers
tense and pale we peer at the broken soil
almost all out of dust and fall-out

we share a basket, you and I
woven in stories of ancestral techniques
we share a hunger, you and I

wielding a collection of crumbs and threads
following a harvesting of the gross
kneeling on eagerness and foraging for the best

we journeyed on to the neighboring field,
we stay close ’n’ won’t journey out too much
weaving green then yellow golden

and then turned within the pale
our ignorance, that is,
we know of you and I

we glean the grains of our ignorance
it is pure it is spotless, as clean as unknown
we glean there

And we hope for, and heaps more

                            —animasuri’23 

I am your part-time activist
on call, on retainer,
dependent on your news cycle

I am your part-time care-giver
on watch, on duty,
dependent on your schedule

I am your part-time human
turned-on, copped out, washed clean
dependent on the mainframe

                             —animasuri’23