.sticks and stones

sticks and stones may break my bones,
and words can sometimes hurt me.
When ideas cloud the mind and empower the will,
the consequences may kill me.

g.f. gershom

explode-a-moment exercise

I was in my car driving to class when a bewitching sound echoed through the radio. It was a single voice contrasted by the fuzzy silence of archaic recording methods. The surrounding world seemed to fade out in orchestral decrescendo as the melodic range of pitch and tone softly cut through my very soul like an ethereal blade. I could not recognize the voice, so forlorn and other-worldly, but the tune carried a warm familiarity. My mind frantically sought the source, but my mysterious muse had a tranquilizing effect. Like a modern siren, she rendered my thoughts into docile submission. Then suddenly, it came to me.

g.f. gershom

.play on Lazarus and liberty

Give me your crude, your scurrilous, Your proud and pretentious yearning for attention, The conniving and the slanderous. Send these, the lovelorn, spiteful to me, I open my heart unconditionally and mind obsequiously!

-g.f. gershom

.untitled

"I'm ashamed of it. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody."

-f. glass

.uncool

"the only true currency in this bankrupt world...is what you share with someone else when you're uncool"

-L. Bangs

.an excerpt

"He tapped it with his thumbnail and it rang with a deep and glorious chime which was sustained for longer than seemed possible and when at last it faded seemed not to die away but to drift off into other worlds, as into a deep sea dream."

-D. Adams

.castles in the sky

I long to be a fisherman
Nestled amidst the Isles of the Philippines living each day as the first and last of eternity. Music from stringed lyre of the orient sways to and fro with the waters gentle waves. Fishing is the common affinity, life drudgery, and the restless search, yet together we are the ménage the world searches for with amaranthine effort. Gripping my lifeline I cast my sorrows and dreams into the all forgetting sea waiting patiently for nihility.
If I was a fisherman.

I long to be a baker
An unpretentious shop along the cobblestone, the redolence of the earth emanates from the braids of coffee and baguettes. The extra hours spent scrubbing day old currant off artisan ceramics. Streams scurry between the corridors of Strasbourg where my youth and age lie in tranquil slumber. Sighs of utter complacency between each cigarette, my moxie dissipates into the sinew of the sun.
If I was a baker.

I long to be a pirate
A swashbuckler in the ranks of placid scalawags and scoundrels. Harmonious chorus of the beautiful mundanity echoes along the splintered banister stained with the tea all pirates canonize. Disparate from the rest we eschew iniquity albeit we don’t chivy virtue. Distinctively en masse we scour the sea sailing through felicity.
If I was a pirate.

I long to be a minstrel
In a Chevy chariot wheeling across America searching for souls adrift and yearning to be pulled back from oblivion. Six strings of heaven heaved over my shoulder, each wave of pentatonic melodies scurries about permeating through each élan vital in a frenzy of Phrygian and Dorian assonance. Mesmerized and intertwined by the voodoo aria.
If I was a minstrel.


-Grimmace Gershom