Franklyn Monk Dronecast 28: Outtakes.
Just some scraps I had laying around. I record as I write and delete everything up to the final recording—to save disk space, and because there’s always too much to review.
Recordings get scattered all over the place, and I’ll loose track of them, and sometimes stumble over them again. Instead of deleting them this time, I decided to give you a behind the scenes look at my writing process. Continue reading Outtakes
Once upon a time in a desolate land
In the middle of a
Familiar worldsystem
You’d recognize it
It’s right over there
Stood a tree.
Under the tree sat a poet.
It was the last tree and the last poet.
Fitting they should die together
Thought the poet.
Fitting, thought the tree,
But useless.
No more useless than
Love thought the poet.
And the tree dropped a leaf.
We shall die,
We shall die together
We shall die,
We shall die together
And they did.
The tree lost its branches
and the poet decomposed.
LAUGH
They’re still there
A dead testament to waste
And desolation
For whoever should wander by
The commentator shakes
Its head and says
What I mean to say
Once upon a time
In a desolate land
The last poet
And the last tree
Sacrificed themselves
So that you may
Stare in despair and regret
What you have done
HORROR HORROR
Look at what you have wrought
Look at what you wrought.
CRY
LAUGH
Sorry for the wonkiness of the podcast last night. I had such a hard time with this microcast.
It seems to have been doomed from the start. It took days to record that one second of audio. No, really. Well, and to mix it. No, again, really. It was a whole thing.
I guess I should start with philosophy and aesthetic…err, my pet-peeves, that is. My biggest pet-peeve is when people, especially podcasters, over talk things. It’s rampant. Continue reading I Trusted You
My twenty-fifth podcast is a poem.
(It's much less repetitive than the last one.)
Hello
Good evening
and welcome
I’m Franklyn Monk
I hold deep-seated and derisive political ideologies
It’s true!
I’m an ally
But I see no sense in preaching to the choir
I see no sense in preaching to the choir
So I’m gonna talk on somethin’
Mundane
Or prosaic
Like sunsets
The moon
An owl
Oh, the Moon isn’t her real name
Her real name to too beautiful
Too beautiful too beautiful
Her real name would burn your ears
Or my tongue
Turn you into a zombie
Albeit a good one
That doesn’t eat people
So it continually eats itself
Sunrise to sunset
Sunset to sunset
There’s an owl there
Somewhere
Oh, I have a first conscience memory of an owl
But it’s too painful to revisit
So it’s left as an exercise
For the audience
What is the poet’s owl?
You came to being
In a burst of white noise
But it’ll be forty years
Before you have the words
To remember how
Form solidified from formless
In a cascade of nervous impulses
Learning to integrate in an instant
And in the next there were things
And a before
The world formed
Around you
Instantly and whole
With past and sudden future
