posted on June 21, 2008 at 10:15 pm

the second time i saw you
by the lake of sacred memories
as you moved above the flowers
insinuated into the afternoon like a series of allusions
we crossed small bridges in to islands of cranes
i skimmed words across the top of your waters
and monsters lazily surfaced to snatch them away
a child comes forward saying where did the morning go
a graceful swanlike girl
i turned and said who is that child baby
who is that child as she wandered away
as she disappeared amongst the swaying rushes and basalt tables
as she flew across the sunset leaving tiny ripples
as she moved into satori like a mirror
that child was killed in your war you said
that child was never mentioned again
that child was yours before you lived
that child has been waiting for you to come
no dont follow her you called after me
but i stood up suddenly and ran off after her
where are you
i decided i would sing
where are you i singed the night with this question
my lonely hidden birdling was nowhere to be sure
i was lost in my darkness
there you are you said
you stood there sadly
you stood there faintly radiant
you stood there so distantly near
still in afternoon you were
gently pulling me back into your light
back into my time and light you crooned
we sat looking out at the other islands in the lake
i told you not to follow you said softly
you shook your head so slowly
dont you ever learn( you were singing now)
is everything a song to you i said in plane words
is everything a song
and then
who will sing that child back
oh sit down and dont be silly you said but you were still singing
i dont like it when people sing the way you sing i said
i wasnt singing then but my sentences were picking up melody and rhythm
i dont want to sing i said but i was now beginning to sing
everyone sings here you said never losing your song
i dont want to always be singing i sang like caruso
my voice was carrying for miles in that silence
the rushes rustled and the cranes craned their necks
sunset was staining the crimson lake
strange currents eddied and flowed
im no bloody singer i sang out in an angels voice
my harmonized husky breathy voice reaching up to some heaven
the buddha of that heaven leaned from his cloud saying
oh wont you ever learn to be quiet
everyone has heard your song already
i turned to you then thinking do you agree
is my song not only unwilling but unwanted i stuttered
i appealed to the trees that bark
let me see the rushes
let me hear the mountains deafness
let me endure a hundred lives
let me walk inside the storm
let me wallow in followers
and in my tower of hours in a city of just days
we will recall the war
we will cancel all deaths
we will bring back the slain
we will sing em to life
we will sing such a song…
you interrupted then
with a little smile you shook your head
a little smile so sad and faint
no it said
your smile said no even as you were still
and the rushes rustled no even as they were still
and the cranes called no as they were still in the sky
no no no no no no no no no
everything seemed to be no
until i learned to love no
i loved no more than yes
i loved no more
no love
in love with my own no
maybe it was no all the time
i tried it out
no no no no no no no no no
you interrupted me again
thats not it either you sang in a voice of steal
so i sat songless for a while
thats better they all agreed
thank you yelled the buddha of some heaven
at last said the rushes
good called the cranes disappearing on a horizon
now you said
i must be going
i thought i heard you sing from longaway
goodbye drifting on the evening air
goodbye lingering in warm currents
goodbye wafting into foreign windows
goodbye sounding in empty rooms
goodbye goodbye

18 Responses to “beggars hash”

  1. avatar
    Leelinau | 22 June 2008 at 12:31 am #


  2. avatar
    kat | 22 June 2008 at 1:02 am #

    ok, i just need a bigger frame now! made me sad, though, in a good way, if that makes any sense at all which it probably does not. these writings would look good next to crystalline rush!

    on a side note, i wanted to thank you sk, not only for the music, your art, your writing, etc… i’ve met some really special people because of the killa’, and the church, and hope to meet many more fiends SOON.

    luv to all,


  3. avatar
    Brien Comerford | 22 June 2008 at 4:45 am #

    The last two blogs have been existential, mystical, austere and mystifying. Literary treasures!

    Very distressed. The midwest in the USA is engulfed by floods. I saw a video of hundreds of pigs being shot to death and crying at the same time. Fuck the inhumane human race! I’ve had it with wars, guns, racial conflicts, ethnic cleansing, homicides and animal genocide. Vegans are humanity’s jewel. Genesis 1:29 is the golden rule.

  4. avatar
    Anonymous | 22 June 2008 at 5:56 am #

    Since a really early age the tiny and piercing agony of separation made her write in her grandfather’s typewriter. Letters to someone unknown asking for revelation at 8. She knew agony since she looked through her father’s car window on an apparent innocent afternoon while circling a big hill, listening to Suedehead, going home after a ride to the shopping mall. On the other side, the sea was sitting silent and shipless, a dark mouth keeping luminiscent creatures she’d never meet. The sudden conscience of the sea’s secrecy made her feel lost and desolated. Many fishermen had drowned she realised, mermaids arms were not so benevolent, life was not so easy, not easy-everyday at least. A demon called Deception greeted her for the first time. The sea of separation was almost reaching the family’s brown car, its fierce hands would leave stains on her skin and she’d feel like living in an aquarium for as long as she couldn’t sail. Her mistake, I believe, was to wait for too long for something or someone to give her the instruments to travel. She kept looking for a compass(ion). Extremely caring parents could have made her feel overdependent but it all felt really far away now. The wisdom of balancing between taking control and letting it flow was beginning to sink. She started to build her ship. A lush ship finely decorated with venetian mirrors and Warhol-like acrylyrical paintings because life has to look sharp. Her standards were always high so it may take some time. She’s a bit vain but she also learned that the structures come before decoration. Ah, so many was lost along the way surrounded by the hills and the sea… She had since absorbed the fury of reconquering like anyone destined to navigate. She would never say goodbye before crossing the ocean even if it looks like a shallow lake sometimes. She longs for that afternoon bathed by astral light again, a simple conversation that crosses the centuries in its loyalty to bliss, a doubtless gaze, the end of the cold war, defects closely examined and ignored, a joyful ride in two reconciled ways, a meanings and senses banquet, fireworks and surely more than songs.

  5. avatar
    Hellbound Heart | 22 June 2008 at 6:15 am #

    i cried as i was reading today’s poetry…
    love always…

  6. avatar
    princey | 22 June 2008 at 9:33 am #

    “no”+”goodbye” is a heartbreaking and sad combo, is it going to be happy ending?

    Beautiful words sk (as always!)
    love amanda

  7. avatar
    fantasticandy | 22 June 2008 at 9:42 am #

    THIS is the one that ought to go with the painting….

    crystalline rush

    at 3 am
    dead of night
    the man gets out of bed
    leaves his sleeping wife to her dreams
    how long had he been asleep?
    he stood naked in the darkened living room
    as a moonless night stretched above the house
    he checked on the children
    who slumbered restfully
    in his own workroom
    he sat dazzled under the light
    boxes of pastels and and a half finished portrait
    guitars lying around in cases
    pastel colours squashed into the carpet
    a yoga mat
    a vase with fake flowers
    a small chest of drawers
    an amplifier
    books on art
    a bin full of v cans and fiji water bottles
    a printer
    paints in tubes all squeezed and that
    boxes full of papers and statements
    a bookcase full of books
    two desks one full of art and memorabilia
    the other with computer and drawers with accounting
    and bits and pieces
    on the wall hangs a self portrait
    a postcard of kali
    a poster advertising a long passed exhibition
    photos of children
    botticellis rape of the nymph by zephyrus (detail)
    some russian saint with a kid swaddled up tight
    a tree in a pot with two wooden birds
    the man sits in the quiet of 3 am
    nothing anywhere seems to move
    only the man awake in this city of millions
    the clocks incessant tick tick never tock fades
    the man hears it
    oh so faint a sound
    like a beautiful hum
    like the voice of a dreambeing
    was he really ever even hearing it
    the man who is half asleep
    for the direction of the sound
    the tiny warm humming
    silvery sound
    coming from his third drawer
    he opens the drawer
    pulling out bits of paper
    and khaki envelopes
    and sticky tape
    a deck of cards
    the little hammer slender and deadly
    in that little bag
    he pulls the bag out
    is it emitting a signal or not
    it seems to be silent
    no the man thinks
    no i must have been mistaken
    absent mindedly
    he empties the bags contents on his desk
    a piece of crystal
    shaped like a small phallus
    its body cloudy and veined with tiny white lines
    its head is clear but becomes a smoky grey on the very tip
    a piece of paper says
    lemurian crystal
    the man thinks
    he remembers a charity event a year ago or so
    a woman
    god he cant even see a face now
    a woman relatively unremarkable
    insomuch as he had no memory of her
    she seemed shy
    she had said something briefly
    handed him the bag
    and disappeared into the thinning crowds
    he had glanced briefly at the crystal
    oh how nice he had thought
    it ended up in his drawer for a long while
    but somehow now
    it had made its presence felt
    lemurian crystal said the little bit of paper
    and something else too small for him to read
    at this time of night with no glasses
    he held the crystal in his hand
    it gave off a slight warmth
    like the sound he thought he’d heard
    it fitted into his palm
    like a weapon or a wand
    he could feel a subtle pull on his energy
    an exchange
    as the crystal absorbed
    and in return gave out
    lemurian crystal
    semi conductor
    a transducer
    the man turned off the light
    he sat in the darkness
    with the crystal in his left hand
    miles away and years ago
    the crystal emanated its information
    the man sat and he listened
    listened to something
    that made no sound
    at all

    quite something eh?
    much love to y’all,
    andy L.

  8. avatar
    iseult | 22 June 2008 at 11:42 am #

    The silver Swan, who living had no Note,
    when Death approached, unlocked her silent throat.
    Leaning her breast upon the reedy shore,
    thus sang her first and last, and sang no more:
    “Farewell, all joys! O Death, come close mine eyes!
    “More Geese than Swans now live, more Fools than Wise.”

  9. avatar
    kat | 22 June 2008 at 1:32 pm #

    andy L,

    that was quite excellent to say the least. i may now want to open my own frame shop!

  10. avatar
    kat | 22 June 2008 at 1:38 pm #

    correction: IS quite excellent. and those are the lyrics that should go beside the C. R. painting.

  11. avatar
    matthew | 22 June 2008 at 3:05 pm #

    “let me see the rushes”, teeheehee… but that was some (more) seriously beautiful gosh-darned poetry! Thanks.

  12. avatar
    fantasticandy | 22 June 2008 at 3:58 pm #

    yeah kat!
    ole’ SK’s a bit good isn’t he?
    thre’s no frame big enough!

    the very idea of a musician listening to ‘something that made no sound
    at all’
    or not?

    good on ya stevo!

  13. avatar
    Anonymous | 22 June 2008 at 5:59 pm #

    BEAUTIFUL! Thank You.:) xo

  14. avatar
    davem | 22 June 2008 at 6:05 pm #

    Yes, he is a bit good!!

  15. avatar
    Polydora | 22 June 2008 at 7:50 pm #

    Beautifully sad. Sadly beautiful. Very well done.

  16. avatar
    Polydora | 22 June 2008 at 9:37 pm #


    to anon who wrote “Since a really early age…”

    That was exquisite. I loved the whole bit. It pulled on my soul like a familiar distant echo.

  17. avatar
    Fireseed | 22 June 2008 at 10:15 pm #

    mmm…rich, atmospheric and mysterious…

    belated congratulations on the 1000th post sk

  18. avatar
    Anonymous | 23 June 2008 at 1:26 am #

    Oh grazie! lovely poly-dora, it’s called Sur La Mer and it’s not fiction.

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