Tarraen

Мно́го бу́дешь знать, ско́ро соста́ришься

[vyctoyr]

It's 4:52 in the morning

I think I'm loosing sleep over you

lil leporine psychostimulant

🐰

Oct 13, 2023 Houston TX

[vyctoyr]

Minutia

Someday when I die Someone might wonder what to do with my stuff What to do with my music

I say throw them away Shred them, destroy them Put them to torch Burn them to ashes Cuz music ain’t important

Music don’t matter

Nothing really matters At least not the way we think they do

ps. this has been seconded by many creative artists, at least Nabokov, Kafka, and Fauré.

[vyctoyr]

Piglet scourging a pair of Murine bonbons

How puritanical Her viverrine surreptitiousness Vulturine superciliousness And vulpine dexterity

Crepitation under seleniously Suffonsifying peregrination State of being an impecunious Ancilla, tethered, inter alia To Venus Anadyomene Withal thalassophobe In this lithesome mew, alongside Unexceptionablely ebullient turpitude Propitiously abreast manna, next to torpitude Against oleaginous hagiography Half eupeptic, and The rest, bona fide, saturnine

“Enough of this undue bromide!” Ferine turns into feline Sometimes lackadaisically indomitable marsupial Overlooked by parapet of enkied shokunin Amidst a pile of slipshod tipsy-turvy yonder ‘Tis wonted yet unwanted vagary

Toward a venal plaintiff, still untoward Protean, neophyte venial, vitiated votary Arrogating kismet, fatuously dithering Becloacked in starchy sloth

Simultaneously epicurean and edacious Waffling, crestfallen, wheedling, wry Suppositionally slaphappy

Inveighing espouser, agog, of Harrowing dolor, who avers Gushing avouchments, agape For perspicuously giddy, and Balefully bedeviled pyx Until tears portent to pullulate By dint of captious prevarication Vociferous, veracious, voracious, vicarious Or zesty, punctilious turgescence

Monopsonic tumescence

Anent rakishly raffish Ravishing apostasy, swish Limning lumbricine vainglory

“Testudines can be such recreant quislings!”

After corvid-embalmed, shrike-imbued Nettled Thespian imbroglio Unflappable, undemure, uppishly unkempt Night skulks away, when the antemeridian Crawls facetiously afoot, fastidiously ensconses Herself first factitiously enfeebled, then bombastic bellowing and bumptious, right Before pines away profligate bellwether

"Carte blanche on patte blanche?”

Athwart consternatingly motley Jacklegged, remorseful Inination

Winnowing winsome welter of warpped balloonacy

[vyctoyr]

On the west bank of 🌊 Liffey I 👂 Dorothy Ashby, rambunctious The hoary-haired 👴 Or is he 🐁 or 🦢 I can’t remember Must be Ma Yan’s thought 👋 before her suicide 👋 Suicide was 🧠 Cioran’s ineluctable fate

Sleet of thin ice 🔔 sounds strangely like Berg’s introduction ☕️ of vibraphone Into 👨‍🎤 opera Who is to 💬 the shocking difference Between a rook, a 🖤 crow, and   The encroached weather🐓 That starts 🍎 to assume the ◻️🔲 Of an oversized 🦜 raven

🎵 en creux, syncresis 🎬 Chion’s 🪁  requiem 🇨🇻 Barlavento to leeward, septentrional Did 🍍 Sun Ra know Ishmael Reed Was something 🔨  I thought of Browsing though 📚 and 📖 in the Red Room Asking the owner fretfully 🫂 About the 🇫🇷 recitation playing

Seems like 🎴’ve been playing  With a prehensile circumlocution of 🃏 Since most 📵 are ❌ of the future Preference lies in the well-pruned 🌹bush on trellis Not some chartreuse, crooked cereus of prehistoric 🌵, defaming A 🏜️, a dilatory Arizonian aven 🦠

💰 had us believe that people, like 🦔 Are greedy, but most, like 🪲 and flippant naiad Arty coquetry just 🛠 a song, a book, or Some instruments 🎺 and 🪗 To ⚖️🪙,  And maybe 🥒🥬🫐🥑 Also 🧊🧋🍪🥫, not 🕸🪰

🔱 Warp and weft on a Kurdish twill Hot quenelle in a 🛖, watching some 🎞 Crank up 💽, 📸 blunderbuss shots, Punjabi fracas, Lithuanian border On the east bank of Ganges 🪨🌔☔️☔️☔️ Brawling 🐨🦇, with bayadeers prancing and watching Hissing asps and 🔆 stupefied In 🍉 complementary, kissing alembics

Nov 24, 2021, Baltimore Night before Thanksgiving Getting ready, mainly psychologically For the upcoming trip to DC

[vyctoyr]

Green

Green is now officially my most hated color Just look at the two hideous stripes! On the screen, dividing, forcing me back To the past, to set up everything on an old phone Nothing more anachronistic, really Thank going form the present iOS To three or four versions back

When I opened my messenger I saw a snapshot of dialogues Of course, but they are not my current dialogues They were from the past, they belonged to another Another time and place, another me I felt so estranged from that grumpy Emotional, constantly disgruntled Moping, sulking, and difficult person Who was still using Snapchat on a daily basis

For the longest time I reflect upon the past I did not think it was possible that I was so cruel So mean and so unfair, to many of you It all felt so distant, so distant that not only the past But also my contortively contrite reflection of that past Has begun to seem distant and fuzzy It is like revisiting another me Looking over yet another me, a me even more anterior Even though it was only three or four years back

I saw those faces, those faces once I mingled with Shared laugh with, held secret grudge against Umbrageous, youthfully so I bottled up dissatisfaction and pressed on Letting an anger popping out As passive-aggression and occasional violence Upon you, you who didn't deserve much I know revisit again the realization of why you left me

It must have been a different time Cuz it absolutely amazes me, how much has change How much time has elapsed left and right From that episode straddling burgeoning high school And an even more rebellious and confrontational college

I remember how I lost my voice completely In the most discussion-heavy seminar I felt insecure, still do, but no longer pathologically so I felt awkward to be sitting in the same room with you Listening to your quirky accent critiquing Marx and Foucault It was the worst participation grade I would ever receive But hey, don’t you worry, I’m over that now Now I can, not without hesitation, granted, speak in a class It’s amazing how timidity could very slowly flag away

I realize how people are capable of changing They don’t change just the minute you tell them to But they do change over time, step by step A little by a little, petit-à-petit I wasn’t sure that was possible, and I wanted everything to be perfect Now I’m happy, I came out the other end Knowing that nothing can ever be perfect I accept the obligatory gradualness of all things that exist After all, a little bit more patience is the paper-thin divide Between the present me, and the me two versions back Who couldn't yet quite tell Scriabin form Spinoza

I accept that life isn’t a Winslow Homer painting

In the end, let me say that: Insecurity is a nasty bitch, but I also learned Over the years, I learned to negotiate slowly with her And now, she has mellowed down quite a bit Either that or I must have become an equally nastier enemy

But every fourth prelude and fugue is a nasty one The screaming melodramas are most certainly nasty You see, Bach knows, the sagacious numerologist knows To be nasty is necessary if one aspires to beauty Even though one of them died fearing 13, The other from a massive stroke, a botched surgery An 18th century surgery, unsterilized metal cut open your eyes

Artistic confidence is something worth swooning over Or really, any form of confidence for that matter Has a cloying, syrupy taste that lingers Like Juliette’s chocolate foam, her Yule Log maybe Or when an opalescent Pysanky clashes into Cousin Matryoshka You end up with a floor of coruscating fragments In vain and in a tizzy, I’ll glue them back together By marrying the Russian with Ukraine Through Isaiah’s mirthful Siciliano For the virgin plants her indehiscent seed

[vyctoyr]

It only takes one search on YouTube for you to understand That this time, our time, is the time to be an artist I have told myself this many times As I read Whitman, or was it Messiaen’s technique musical ?

So many different people, so many different names Each presenting something different With a uniquely thumping heart to offer Some say it’s sad that there’s no longer global idols no more I say the opposite: so what if there’s a plethora of us? So what if nobody hogs the entirety of everybody’s full attention? It does not matter, only for the better

Because without diversity we have nothing, we are nothing It is only through the cross-contamination of pieces of minds From all over this life-supporting planet That true germination could occur This planet, yes, this earth, our terra firma Is something I wish for the swindling Rocket Man to comprehend

There’s nothing wrong about dreaming big Dream bigger, I’d say, bigger than ever That does not mean we should be delusional Floating like rootless aquatic plants Clogging and damaging to our hearts content And then just throw everything away Or toss it, as they say, like a down-trodden, filthy doormat

Maybe after we’ve all heard Nietzsche and understood the great man Maybe after most of us have answered to his equalizing vision Maybe then, it would be the time for humanity to shed Shed all of her past like a tick-infested evening gown For then, we won't need flesh nor blood, skull nor bone Marrow and neurons would be obsolete too And with every physiological gadget out of the question Only then should we really step out of what birthed us That which subsisted and tolerated us Because trust me, I don’t think we are gods just yet

It is truly the time to be an artist Not just because you were just listening to Nirvana And the next minute YouTube takes you to a Sundanese village in West Java Followed by an impromptu visit of Yoshiko Sai from the 70′s Japan Maybe also some Scelsi, Sciarrino, and some tunes by Fela Kuti And don’t you forget the great and glorious Lana Del Rey Not just because, it is always the time to be an artist But also because, now I realized that I’ve said “because” too much But here’s one more: because never has there ever been such a great need Such a great need for compassionate and passionate thinkers Thinkers who think critically about the world, but at the same time Thinkers who are kind and gentle, for art leaves little room for Evil

In our increasingly insane and maddening time We desperately need the peace of mind to grapple with chaos Before we loose the last crumb of humanity And thus descend into an everlasting darkness of collective cruelty The cruelty that has cordially intruded us handsomely And is ready to make his brand new attack on our collapsing rampart Armed with greed wearing an assortment of masks Masks bearing the names of capitalism, racial bigotry, cultural hegemony Most ugly among them the cult of nationalist indignity Fostered and fueled by centralized political powers Which is really the religion of our time Hello again, medieval Catholic Church 

This is why I say: it is the right time to be an artist Since to be an artist means the ability to think, to appreciate, to empathize But an artist also knows how to refuse, and what to refuse The artist refuses bad art, for starters The artist refuses coercion, as he/she refuses to bow down before coercion The artist refuses to lower him-/herself to the level a lay-person The artist refuses to entertain for the sake of entertainment For if he/she does that, nothing will ever progress Even though these days slugs crawl faster than the way things progress

The artist refuses lassitude, platitude and cruelty

So to end on a slightly more positive note As I started the poem, or the rambling really Really just with the innocent idea of exclaiming How great it is to be an artist in this era of information technology Per Schoenberg’s opinion, no one with a brain should be shy to use it And our time is the time to be an artist Therefore, be an artist who, first of all, possesses a functional brain And secondly, be an artist who is not too lazy or scared to think To use his/her perfectly functional brain Because they who do art need to know art first

[vyctoyr]

Each moving is a pupation

Every moving feels like a pupation We shed what we possessed, at least For a significant amount of time In exchange for something new, at A largely foreign place

Doesn’t this just remind you of An owl moth adult emerging From its brownish, crispy shell

Bidding farewell to the crust that Had once wrapped and swaddled Waving goodbye to legged peristalsis

Is it all worth it, for the airborne, yet Gossamer-entangled muliebrity?

After all, shrouding is the ultimate form of protection

Baltimore, Aug 10, 2021 During God’s most intense bowling

[vyctoyr]

7 days of walking

Against the glaucous backdrop of a smudge
 On the sky, hangs the hemorrhagic sun, much akin
 To the perfect mélange of sepia and strawberry
 Flaming heart of a bleeding Yamato 
No amount of turyia, humming sweet epithalamia
 Over the 70s’ sky in central Michigan 
(But was it Berg’s Lulu that both bugs and
 Captivates?) none could, like four years of my life folded 
Up and tucked away, as secure as UPS or Fedex will 
Allow, smooth out the tingling pain that you have
 Once more, chanced upon yet another

Does the squeakiest wheel really get the oil?
 Does the bébé who quacks the loudest always gets his milk? 
The lanky little mantis dude, meticulously approaching
 With the agile lentor acquired from a recently deceased
 Male black widow (devoured by his lawfully-wedded,
 They say), a verdant meuf, sitting on her fat hypogastrium
 Nourished by speedily dissolved cicada carcasses
 Can’t you see that beak and tympanic muscle
 Through the translucent sheath? To think
 About it, killing is really the minute difference between
 An anapestic spoonerism, and a dactylic metathesis

Bluets, Murphy, Isis and Osiris, Knoxville summer of 1915 
Ghosts from another time, another Geist (limerick, see) 
A lake gull gutting an innocent fish, a black-and-white
 Filter on Instagram, masking the true coloris of
 Vienna and Paris indigo red, despondent Varsovie
 “Casually pressing on a yellowish emoji, 🐰,
 With a perfunctory air that’s unique to her
 Angelique manner and frame, graciously, but to 🐷 rather
 Cruelly, even fatally one might say (one Romantic,
 No doubt) bestows what would have been her own 
Lachrymose performance upon one little humanoid 
 Visage (painted orange for what’s really chamois, for 
Sure), crying it’s uncanny, mawkish, crocodilian tears.”


7 days prior to the departure from Chicago  (and 
I walked a lot, as I usually do)
 Hence the title, also hommage to Mr. Einaudi
 July 22, 2021, Chicago, CHP 702
 Overlooking the darkness imbued HP
 Through the giant glasses that I’ll surely miss 
At the corner of my living room
 As much as you can feel comfortable
 Adding possessive in front of what’s really rental 🤔
 Calling something “yours”
 Doest it really make it yours?
 Or does it really belong to a corporate that runs on billions of renter dollars?

[vyctoyr]

Serons-nous oubliés ? (La peur de l’oubli)

Tu as, de temps en temps, de l’abîme Le plus profond du coeur, où d’escarbilles Se trônent, se meuvent, comme une faucille Qui fait couler la jonque, et vainc le cime,

Peut-être, la peur foudroyante, de cipayes acquiesçants Auprès du bâtiment accablant on encore appelle L’humanité, une grosse paonne poudreuse a bout portant Accroupissant au-dessus d’une vide poubelle.

Souvent je somnambule aux ténèbres de Bibliothèque Dans lesquelles on trouve, derrière la forêt d’étagères Monstrueusement immense qui bruit et siffle d’échecs,

Innombrables écritures ! par montagnes d’âmes passagères Dont les noms s’effaçaient, malgré autrefois blondoient, Et aujourd’hui silencieux, enterrés muets, quand larmoient.

[vyctoyr]

Il ragno sopra la porta

C’è un ragno Sopra la mia porta

Non so perché è qua Non so di dov’è Non so perché esiste

Il mi ricorda la scultura Bourgeois di Bourgeois

Il ragno la madre Il ragno l’amore Il ragno la famiglia, le famiglie

Ho accesso la condizionatore Ho ascoltato il rumore

Il ragno rimane, immobile Il ragno trema, grave Il ragno vuol solo costruire

Non so cosa successo Col suo filo, così tanto sottile

Forse non sa fare rete Forse non c’è talento Forse è esausto

Tutti soffrono, tutti Il ragno compreso

Può addormentarsi contento Può essere combattuto della scelta Può combattere l’insomnia

Il ragno aspetta Cos’è la vita se non aspetta

Non so perché rimanere Né perché attendere Né perché vivere

Assalimi, Dea di sonno Porta anche il ragno

Che aspetta sopra la porta Aspetta senza giunchiglia Aspetta senza niente

Non sapevo di dov’è Ma ora lo so chiaramente

Il ragno della dolcezza naturale Il ragno inesprimibile Striscia fino al cuore

10:32 pm, Jun 3, 2021

Chicago, after seeing a skinny, long-legged motionless spider perched above my door, also before the last day of the last final week in college

[vyctoyr]

Perché hai scelto l’altro uomo? Perché questa urgenza, di fretta? Sei così bella, così angelica Che ogni ne vorrebbe un pezzo

Cosa fai stamattina? Cosa stai facendo ora, stasera? Non sapevo che cosa abbia fatto Per aggiungere qualche romanze alla vita

Quele gelateria tu preferisce? Quele yogurteria è meglio? Non ricordo quante volte ho detto Che non hai bisogno mai di perdere nessuno

Quando sei venuta alla mia città? Non mi hai visto, per due volte? Mi sentivo triste, onestamente Vedendo tu coccoli un amante strano

Dimmi, conosce Amarilli, mia bella? Puoi ridammi il soprano in nero? Penso che sia sempre lì, la fattura che intrappola Sempre vicina al mio cuore

Perché credi in dio? Perché ti rallegri tra le braccia di un altro? Uguale, come un ragno ferito Io rallegro della tua vera gioia

Chi sei tu, per favore? Scusami, ma perché possiedi, infatti trasudi l’incantesimo? La tua magia è divinamente travolgente Mi riempie i polmoni di luce fatale, che sortilegio!

Non scegliere l'altro uomo, ti scongiuro! La condivisione non è facile Soprattutto ormai il soggetto è una coniglietta così perfetta Soprattutto ormai io ti vagheggio a lungo

Scegli l’altro uomo, l’uno dopo l’altro Ma ricorda, la mia principessa, la mia dea Io resto qui, non mi muoverò né uscirò

Perché io ti proteggo

Ti proteggo dal mondo vizioso Come proteggevo il tuo imene verginale Ti proteggerà sempre, il tuo cavaliere casto

Quindi forse, si potrebbe dire Che magari, ti amo

Almeno in sogno Almeno ti guarderò, vero? Almeno potrei addormentarti tranquillamente da lontano

Senza voce, mormoro in preghiera A andatura ingombrante muoio, in modo di Gesualdo Soddisfatto

[vyctoyr]

I will bury you by Lake Michigan

I bury you by Lake Michigan A place you’ve never been And never will

Your life’s so short, damn Microscopic short Barely a year, I swear

Why did you have to die? Is it because I didn’t see you For three days, possibly more

Why did you have to die? And the other run away?

I haven’t been the best care-giver I’ll give you that But you have been the perfect

Docile, tranquil and calm Almost never bite Except when on the very last night But I bet your brain has died Frozen reflux, I can’t lie

I guess a better question would be: Why wouldn’t I cry? I know I’m sad, but There’s just no way to cry

I no longer feel the tears flowing It has been a while I can’t even remember that last time I cried

Boy do I envy that moonlit clown I bet he had a lot to cry He cried and laughed indeed cuz he lived Even just as a hollow silhouette

If there is a god, and the god could hear my prayer Please let this little soul, chaperoned by Charon Pass the nacreous water safely For she has done nothing wrong All her suffering, caused by me only

And if you still have some attentions left If you are every so patient and forgiving as her Please also bestow upon me The ability to cry, the long lost one Since writing this pseudo-sensationalizing poem won’t do the trick Return to me, the precious gift to mammals

I remember, weirdly, my dad telling me Cows cry before the get slaughtered I remember this rare moment Where he showed a shred of compassion It was a weird twinge, I tell you Good thing you never have to meet him

But still, please turn me into a cow, if necessary Just so that my eyes Be washed by tears again

The vitreous and nacreous will be one May my irises melt slowly Into the depth of Acheron Under the gaze of stony Charon “Mange les yeux, ô sillage! Mange-les, et crache!”

Don't worry, gravel I will bury you by Lake Michigan It’s so big and beautiful I might be buried here too in no time I will come for you, promise

Either way, I hope You would finally be warm And free So that you can grow big and strong The way you didn’t get to in this life

I will burry you By Lake Michigan Don’t worry, gravel You will be safe

I can’t say how sorry I am I can only bury you By Lake Michigan

 Would you borrow me some water Oh one of the Great Lakes! Would you have mercy on my soul Even though it has greatly wronged another

I am burying you by Lake Michigan So that you will be interned by Lake Michigan No need to be afraid, gravel The lake will lend me some water Since she has so much And I will weep eventually Using lake water as tear And my memory as fuel

I bury you by Lake Michigan A place you’ve never been And now you’ll never leave Cuz you are now a part of her Just like you will always Be a part of me

Look, you see that? The water ripples chatoyant Dappled with rainbow, like grandpa’s hydrangeas I will, I must cry For I bury you By Lake Michigan

Did I tell you about the petunia Grandpa and I planted together In half a coconut shell It grew so long and plush Like a honeysuckle You will see what I mean Cuz you live now in a world full of petunia Surrounded by fragrance Showered with love By Lake Michigan

I buried you by Lake Michigan As I walk away, twisted and churned Please say hi to the little Boulanger sister For you are to my heart Her eternal spring, lilting piano

L’homme vieillit et meurt Toi, tu ne vieillit pas! L’homme vieillit et meurt Toi, tu ne vieillit pas!

April 28, 2021 Chicago

[vyctoyr]

Have you had the wonderful feeling Of looking up a word But finding something you already know of Yet not of its pedantic scientific name

Just like the industrially sweetened cherries Something my dad used to hate So red, gleaming, quite toxic, he’d say Turns out Maraschino would be their name

What would Schoenberg say When he tastes the preserved fruit, I wander That crazy dude, a smudge of crescent Or is it Giraud’s moon, a scimitar Encased in dodecaphonist seraglios The ecstasy, of knowing a name

1:46 am, April 21, 2021 Chicago, reading Lolita, after a moderate amount of Pierrot Lunaire

[vyctoyr]

🥚

What does it take for the psychopomp to understand That a boa imperator is perfectly capable of playing music All it takes is a conveniently placed smartphone  With a keyboard app, of course And from the snake side: any unintentional stroke of tail, really Will do the trick 

And there, there you have it There you have a glissando There you have chromaticism There you have the charm of animalistic instinct There’s charm of chance The beauty of dinosaur

March 30, 2021 (getting into Peabody + writing towards the end of composition seminar by Tom Blancarte) Chicago, IL

[vyctoyr]

harken to snow (poorly refigured to fit the extremely frustrating format of Tumblr)

i.

I

the snow

                         pasty as

      lynx belly

                              tabula rasa 

                             lanyard, on which

                                    crucifixion hangs

         rood, figurine

                                                                           nictitate

                                    pointillistic

                                                         moments musicaux

                       schubertine gnome

                                                                                  encased, tranquil agate

ii.

YOU

    never awake

                  milktea

                            from chinatown

              warms, atones

                                         my core, a core

                                                                        calling

                                              or is it, webernian symphony

                                       wailing

          snoring cardinal

                                                               thereupon

                                                                            a multiverse of dazzling twigs 

[vyctoyr]

At what point does creativity stop and banal platitude start? Is a question many struggle to understand, including me Sometimes I see those cliché sentences:

“My heart, your love, oh he wants it bad You make my heart and dream better, oh darling How I am swarming with your softening sensuality”

I feel awkward, numb and disgusted, even For it is not poetry, but merely cheap appropriations Of things overused, then regurgitated Much like munching on half-digested, acidic chyme Spat out, fresh, phlegmy, oozing down a urinal and maggot-infested spittoon Next to the most filthy and unattended pile of excrement In the most filthy and unattended loo

I think it’s time to ask: what's the fucking point of repetition When things have already been repeated five billions times And most likely one more zillion??? What’s the fucking point of 6′55″ Other than utter stupidity through and through Since 4′33″ has already been so elegantly proffered???

“The bottom is whenever you stop digging,” says Marjorie But what if the blackhole has no limit, or doesn’t want a limit? So next time before you so jocundly “come up” With one phrase or two so “original” and “shining” Do think twice, I implore you Before gallantly presenting such a pallid, prosaic humdrum Which could only be harmful, deadly really, to creation As opposed to the religious glorification and aesthetic orgy You and your many ignorant cohorts are so shamelessly after

[vyctoyr]

Gluckschmerz

The sky is blue - maybe - as sea The tulip - lilac - could be The forsaken, deadly body - mead Grotesque incandescency

Mind if you don’t, scared if I cave Not in here, no treachery By - voyeur, watching - barricade A fruit - round but juicy

Mysterious - mystique - grow, wrench See to it done - buried, not Light bulb, ha, is a samovar The silence - floating bot

Tinkering laughter, suggestive call Roaring thunder, nay stolen Ain’t a easy task, my giant wall To guard peace - to sigh - broken

L’amour - cordial - is blue as night The lilac - tulip - can’t see Be that cherished - gastronomy, séance Cool - Bombus affinis

Feb 4, 2020 Chicago