Author: kwirb

Poetry

Penitence’s Ruse

  • by kwirb

Penitence’s Ruse

What kind of baggage is so heavy
that you cannot  see past its emptiness
all the same? Is it maroon like dried blood or
pinked crimson, like fresh, serrated flesh?

When you lift it, is there resistance?
Or is it a sudden, definite jerkiness
from a surprised nothingness —
–Or the anticipated spaciousness?

Is it even baggage which you tote?
Or the regrets of an idle heart?
Or more the weight of the truth
that there is no baggage — only you.

Apparently, wrote this last May?

Poetry

visiting hours are over

  • by kwirb

visiting hours are over

my name is screaming like
the sound of your heart failing
or the wind is rustling above me
or the choir is drowning my solo
or maybe a dog is scampering
or maybe the groundskeeper, he’s
making sure the damned dirt is
firmly pat, pat, patted down

how cruel that the wind would blow
and all i want is just a little
more, barely even a gasp of it,
and these cracks showing darker
cevices in a damp, crowded space
and that blessed rustling above
ensuring that what’s left of me is
under deep, deep, deeper grounds

and my heart is screaming like
the sound of my own name failing
when only one or two or pairs of one
appear at my gravesite to save face
and say the shit you never said coz
really it’s shit you never meant
to say or do or show or hide that
silently kill, kill, killed me

Music

Convoy Train Theme (clean)

Convoy Train Theme (clean)

 

Another cleaner mix fromjust sifting through files and experimenting with Audacity and high pass / low pass filters. Originally in 18 layers, now in 4?

Composed by ear, transcribed with Finale, recorded with a Casio CTK-6000 via firewire into Audacity circa November 2013. I was taking a course through the Toronto District School Board at the time and somehow this melody just came to me when I was supposed to be revising lesson plans, lol.

 

Music

Fixed Echo and Reverb Let It Be Me Cover

Just a quick test on cleaning up some muffled voices and extensive echoes and reverbs in the original recording. Trying to update my graphic design section and, of course, I stumble upon the bits and pieces of layered track, lol.

Uncategorized

Thanks

  • by kwirb

Thank you

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Your contribution will help in improving and keeping this site active.

Poetry

An Appetite for Stake and Whine (wip)

  • by kwirb

An Appetite for
Stake and Whine

i.

A thirst from salty,
canon disgrace
lingers in the lulling
seconds of liberation
tempted by tongue’s cusp.

ii.

Spices. Nuzzling, settling,
wooing brine in coddles
of clutched distaste;
lolls in minute savoriness,
melted incandescence.

Fondling nerves
with familiar scents
and tastes.

iii.

(
chewing.
)

iv.

Sparks clink,
deluging the gamboling, famished,
strident cords.

Overindulge

on the nethermost luxuries
of ravenous grit

and comfortable flavours.

Metal against marrow,
slightly missing
gnawed flesh,
soft tissue,
skinless, where
this hard palette is
almost raw.

Beckon – the bites from nips –
and tickle the grappling touches,
kicking tinder doused fervor
unto sinewy
hours
of ravaging flicker’s crave.

A banquet most tantalizing is
an execution less gutting.

v.

S w i g s
o f
s i p s.

vi.

Pass the gorge’s extracting inhale
into steely glints spat
through frisky vestiges
of satisfaction.

A lazed grin permeates in this succession
– validating wallows of weltered sin –
as herbal cures cavort in lapses…

… of daily decrees, loosely uttered
in drunken warbles;

vii.

a saltish deliverance.

Poetry

Plight of a Grave Guardian (wip)

  • by kwirb

Plight of a Grave Guardian

I, the Grave Guardian,
used to feed off the dead;
One, after the other, I would
take refuge in their demise,
leaving nothing but an engraved
stone – the only evidence –
(the robbery)
nourishing me.And, now, I am outnumbered
by seemingly living things
seeing through me;
things I cannot consume
but of see-through,
self-consuming, living things –
death awaits,
self-d
e
s
t
r
u
c
t
i
o
n
.I, the Grave Guardian,
am nothing but a graved,
stone gravestone, of which
I was never guarding, Guardian.

Totally taking any advice on this piece. Working on some more wordplay, a bit rusty on the writing front…
Poetry

– something to write –

  • by kwirb

– something to write –

RIP_AR_From_Kwirb

Been thinking about this gentleman all morning since news broke. Rest in peace, Alan Rickman, and thank you once more for sharing your talents with us.

– something to write –

i want to write words that will help me make sense of how i feel
i need to express the meaningful emotions that linger within me
i wish to fill that lull between knowing reality with the unknown
if only to make that gap less real and filled with the imaginary
the improbable that can never be with the irony of unspoken words
maybe wishful thinking sprinkled with the stardust of your talent
and my only reprieve is knowing that you no longer silently suffer
but how fortuitous that you have left us bodies of your great work
adding the right colours to the monotony of black on white papers
stories and characters that illuminate, blinded by your subtlety,
a bittersweet thing to not know you beyond what you’ve revealed
and the truth of you and who you mean to them, myself, included
i cannot grieve for you properly when there is so much of you left
for us to celebrate, clinking the proverbial glass of champagne
across the borders that divide us and transcending the boundaries
with the spirit you shared; you’ve touched us all without knowing
and my writing cannot do any justice for what we have lost but
it gives us more reason for something to write, stories to tell,
and though we will not hear them in your unmistakeable baritone,
we can still tell them for the sake of our survivability

@kwirb

Poetry

The House Is Smiling

  • by kwirb
THE HOUSE IS SMILING
With Oz, himself, on the uppermost floor
and a mummy guarding the front door;
With a pair of eyes as the shifty tenant
of the second floor, a kitty pregnant?
Perhaps. But with a skeletal pirate
and webbings of spiders and spiders
for decor, and shingles in the highest
state of shaggy, the array of insiders
within this sorry frame, whose pathetic
lawn is in dire need of being weeded,
whose roof can barely counter energetic
lightning upon its dilapidated heedings,
whose shutters would rather fall apart
inside itself rather than hold its own,
with its tithers that withers my hearts’
innermost jitters from the fidgety boned
bitterness that stems on wishes to implore
leaves from my fear of haunted housings,
branched from a quiet knock on the door:
the eventual sounds of silenced shoutings
is the reason to why
I refuse to even try
to knock on that door
with Oz himself, on the uppermost floor.