Sometimes I Like To
Written by Rin Alexander Ascher on February 4, 2008
Arranged by Ian Aleksander Adams on February 4, 2008
Sometimes I like to
turn off the light:
I like to
I'm trying not to act as if I'm stalking you.
That's not what I want... but then again I'm not really sure what it is...
I do want, right now.
The skin that I too have touched, delicately and timidly, but then
(with possession and vindication.)
Before now, they say that...
Music is the highest form of art, and when it leaks from every one of your pores...
I am inclined to agree.
I really could leave you behind
if it wasn't for that snaking tail
of talent you drag
so curiously behind.
You, in the dirt now. I'm curious as to what you see in him (that you never saw in me.)
I think perhaps it is because you never cared.
everything inside of me:
You have thrown away (for high paced slick skinned instant gratification)
-he really is very beautiful-
I won't deny-
that... but... why are the things inside me not good enough for you?
Dammit. I spilled my damn tea. I think I'm so fucking smart but in the end I suppose I'm the one in the middle of the night covered in scalding tea water while you are sniffing cocaine off a spanish boy's ass.
Wait. I can't tell which is more. Pathetic.
Written by Ian Aleksander Adams on February 4, 2008
Arranged by Rin Alexander Ascher on February 9, 2008
The wailing wall: blinding lights surrounding.
Me, the man.
The men all around.
All founding, we can see the meaning left. When bearded men leave us to our wandering, or asking for a heady donation to the cause. They give us a sordid glare and worried prayer. Hand across our backs, they see us against the wall.
Fall down with us,
towards the light,
they block under their broad rimmed hats.
And... loudly whisper in languages unknown. The tongues dry from lack of women's attentive care they, and us, under the stones of cities past, and thoughts a thousand years. In the scrambling - the shambling walk of thought cemented.
The Sun Set
Written by Rin Alexander Ascher on February 11, 2008
Arranged by Ian Aleksander Adams on February 11, 2008
The sun set all around us.
Laying down their rifles
in the beds of flowers.
(we were caught off guard, surrounded... by nothing)
But beauty, here I am!
Again lost, without you,
your hand is no longer a
sense of warmth on my shoulder or between.
My legs, too many lilacs.
For me to count, a long gaping wound.
Like... those of my childhood:
Lay splayed before me in an attempt to pull
heartstrings attached to memories.
But the joke is on, you friend, for I....
have no use for such archaic quilt squares
made by women in the dark
bloodstains on their fingers not from death
but from life; the swallows dive and create a sense of mortal terror.
In me, I have nothing left to do but vomit like it is my job.
But then again, it always was surrender...
I alone am the figurehead of your demise.
I wrote these bars to your piano concerto that you
are so feverishly rehearsing;
my name is now a totemic symbol of my past.
I whisper like a mantra over
and over and over and over and over
I am constantly in motion
I am hypocrisies dying on your
too full tongue.
I am this dying tree: pregnant with fruit I am too frail to bare.
Written by Ian Aleksander Adams on February 11, 2008
Arranged by Rin Alexander Ascher on April 3, 2008
Uncover and SHOW THAT SHEEN!
We can share and sip and swim and sit!
In the subtle spill of sacred satire you let slip. Down to the depths
of dreary doldrums! Damned by deadbolts on our doors! Of deep thoughts
taken. To terrifying tales and tailing off towards oedipal ordeals
ordained. By oracles ordered to blindly bleat. The BOLD BAD NEWS of
Nothing and names never known.
By knights or knaves or kings who, so killing, keep us corralled by
caring comforts. And creeping consistency caked like mud, over mad
moons and made to make gigantic.
Gorges grating our geist! Giving us gales under our wings! Wise to
worry about wailing-wrights.
By walled worms wriggling under our soles. Sealed to secrets worn
asunder. Our souls saved, by Socrates' seed.
Written by Rin Alexander Ascher on April 3, 2008
Arranged by Ian Aleksander Adams on January 15, 2012
it's somehow a very strange
experience when the pupil becomes the master
through keen insight
never ending reverence for the craft
staying up late, paying too much,
when he should be
i left my post
I couldn't bear to be
any longer staring at your softly rising chest
your ribs like profane history
made by water rushing
over rock slowly
over time creating
almost. too. white.
I remember when I was a ghost and
I still inspired you but now
my hands have grown.
heavy the skin on my bones; perilously longing to embrace the earth
the voice that once rang
high and melodious
like a bird now, is broken, cracked
like the saddest and largest of bells
she still thinks I'm interesting but
I can never be sure with her
I can't understand how something
would even notice this
blistered and dry sack
that keeps ticking away
if only out of spite
she who is developed on your
lens of lenses all across this pattern
knit together through ones and zeroes - look beth a cameo for you, your ringlets of fire then you take
spiting your beauty - like it would come around again, like it was your birthright that you shunned.
for what for
nothing but a lack of self confidence - don't be ridiculous, not
everyone can be charming, not
everyone can be beautiful, so
please just get over
what? you think you aren't?
please embrace what everyone else knows.
you are there. isn't any time to lose.
you have to do something
your bones turn brittle like mine
you have to do something
your milk skin turns into this.
flaky paper that was once bent into airplanes but is now gathered
in impossible gusts of wind and
like ashes across a fragrant land - this old heart can - no longer
So This Is The Future
Written by Ian Aleksander Adams on January 15, 2012
Arranged by Rin Alexander Ascher on March 23, 2012
So this is the future! So this is it! We're finally here and everything.
Is just the future? I'm glad i made it, i really am!
I put sun lights in every room and every room.
Feels like an early Spielberg at night, just the way i imagined
it would always be waiting.
For the TV to flicker, and the skinny ones to come and take me away. But i guess that wasn't. The future, was it? That was childhood and now it's:
That's mostly mundane.
and the star trek transponders just play a fancy pong for us but... don't get me wrong. The future i'm glad the future that i'm here.
it's my future anyway, isn't it?! And i suppose, i did my part, and holy shit i just got so nostalgic.
For you the future, i mean, can i say shit here? I'm sorry..I just missed you so bad. The thought of not being.
Here in the future/ the future. I JUST MISSED THE FUTURE SO BAD.
(But you can't look anywhere.)
For lack of "it" it's certainly here. man-shit. I really scared myself for a second there and you certainly "got" me there.. what?! no!! I was talking to the future!!!
Ever Since We Were
Written by Rin Alexander Ascher on February 23, 2012
Arranged by Ian Aleksander Adams on April 9, 2012
We were born in this room.
I have seen
the specters peep-
The wasted eye sock-
ets of skulls and
speaking in tongues
Against every clock,
Our baby teeth gathered,
to us fierce and totemic.
They don't want to harm us,
only curiously watch.
As we learned to love one another, we held hands.
So tightly, that deep.
Purple bruises appeared like film developing
in the dark
with its smell
of paper crumbling.
Beneath the weight of time and drying dusty roses;
Our room was a museum of arcane pleasures.
Two little boys who write in one diary.
A pair of parentheses formed
by the opening of reciprocal mouths ( )
Two Thousand Nine Hundred
Written by Ian Aleksander Adams on January 15, 2012
Arranged by Rin Alexander Ascher on May 3, 2012
Two thousand, nine hundred miles away a discarded peel sat lightly in its curbside berth, and the world around was generally comparable.
In its qualities the moon above, congealed through fog and broken plastic. Sifting into slightly acidic inner-space-space cultivated for repair. Space devoted, perhaps to detailing now, space occupied.
By young builders: space in the mission for the missionaries (or maybe just space.)
Taken by an off-dozen of aesthetics, or aesthetic gaffes, nice enough to take you in and let you step. A hole into their roof space there... enough to kill you! Space to be pulled out of in time, wondering if the space would have done the deed. "The Space" itself The Killer or the Ground.
Holding the space above well. The space is ancient history. Already no-space.
"In our future," you think, as you send love letters to nasa.
...and the girl you held through the crash wonders through Hollywood,
hoping to be a star.