Old music files, poetry


Instrumental tracks that I recorded around 2014-15 with primitive equipment:



Synthesized instrumental songs from 2014 made with Guitar Pro 5:

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Four poems from various times:

A Billion Volts Later

I flash away in the night,
A lightning bolt taking flight,
Here we can rage, great heathen lords,
Roaming the clouds like golden fjords,
Free from the station wagon seas,
Loose from the chains of parking fees,

Still I return to haggard grim,
Corporal case for life and limb,
Seeing the beauty of passers-by,
Soon it fades, in the blink of an eye,
Where we belong, tethered to dust,
Come what may, come what must.

To Be Free

When I wake, I want to be free. I want everything to want me, both good and bad, both large and small, the world, the dust motes on the wall. Let my ears be tuned to all that’s good, no scraping, scratching, cracking wood and rambling roars misunderstood, like gravest stare and darkest fear, my ears be unto all that’s near, and wake to see my eyes of gray, the cloudy night and cloudy day, within these orbs of drowning light, to make their pay by judging right.

This extra, of my thoughts I fear will down the ship and strike the pier, where conscious doubt and feeble mind, in abstract meet still undefined, and weight to deep a load of grief imagined by a mental thief, whose plunder made of formless air, will fail to lift and even bear.

 Fire
Bring me more wood, for more fire. I wish it were much brighter. And warmer and bigger too. I wish to fill the pages full of flames, and write the story in the smoke, burn all the trees down into the dust of old.

 Love's Burden Outgrown
When dry oak glows in orange hunks,
And lights the room with dancing flames,
Past midnight goes the global news,
I hear of war and human rights,
Not recalling old obsessions,
Once consumed with childish games,

I lost the taste for romance,
With a rifle in my hand,
And massacres on CNN,
That made me want to help,
Still I, an old pathetic oaf,
Time slipping by like sand,

So many sleepless nights,
Like a beggar at the door,
Of power, wit and freedom,
Where few had ever gone,
To raise a hellish cry,
And live for something more.
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