An Immoral and Base Form of Love (A One-Minute Valentine's Day Song)

Send this song to your romantic partner as a belated Valentine's Day message. She or he will forgive you for being a forgetful, insensitive, selfish jerk. Guaranteed.*

Will_Conley_-_An_Immoral_and_Base_Form_of_Love.mp3 Listen on Posterous

 

*Guarantee void where you live.

 

Posted via email from Will Conley's Random Things

Will Evans asks, and unintentionally answers, "Where are our Byrons? Where are our modern Shelleys?"

My Twitter connection @semanticwill (real name Will Evans) wrote a blog post in 2010 entitled "Whispers," the opening lines of which I quote:

"Oh, I quite realize no one here will read this, at least not in its entirety. I have resigned myself to this reality, and perhaps the motivation for posting so very little in recent weeks. But once in a while it’s worth testing the waters."

I started reading the post silently to myself, but before I could do so "in its entirety," I reached for my old cheap microphone. I recorded it in my own voice. After listening to the recording and noticing the terrible "pops" the old cheap microphone caused, I walked out of the house, bought a new cheap microphone at a Rite-Aid, and recorded it again. This is the result.
 

I strongly urge you to listen to the whole post and read it here.

Whispers_2.mp3 Listen on Posterous

Posted via email from Will Conley's Random Things

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Hip Hop Like I See It by willconley

Posted via email from Will Conley's Random Things

And How She Never Hurt a Goddamned Soul

I'm in the basement
Some basement
Daylight floods in
Through windows in high casements

Place is kind of a wreck:
Plaster coming off the walls
Salting the dingy gray carpets

Turns out I'm the one wrecking the place.
I take a sladgehammer to the walls
A crowbar to a raised platform
Revealing cockroaches the size of cats.

Someone else enters the room
And suddenly I'm thinking up excuses.

Now I'm in a crooked cabin in the woods
Wee hours, starlight, place is a wreck
Unmade bed takes up most of the living room
TV blaring

Turns out I'm not the one wrecked the place:
Some dude swats the love of my life,
Killing her.

He stuffs her in a cardboard box and rolls her
Down the hill,
I chase after,
Thud.
She comes to rest against the neighbor's front door.

And now I'm running
As the sun smashes the horizon
Filling the world with golden light

And I'm thinking about her long brown hair
And how good she looked in a dress
And how she never hurt a goddamned soul.

Posted via email from Will Conley's Random Things

What I Found in the Garden

So I'm tilling and I'm toiling, weeding and woiling, making rhymes no matter what words I must invent, and this is what I found. In the garden.

Little shards of broken glass from when the house was still being rebuilt
Weeds
One grub
10 worms, which, I recently learned, are more expensive by the pound than ground beef
A dead bird, rotted and decayed and headless
Yellow tulips
Dirt
Sand
Rocks
Three cigarette butts, none of them mine
A box of matches promoting a club that is "The Sexy Side of Nightlife"
A small metal pole with a hook on the end, embedded in the dirt
Leaves
A lot of those little winged spores you used to call "helicopters" when you were a little kid
Parsley
A 10-gallon bucket with a section of power vacuum tubing in
A three-tiered wooden rack full of dead potted plants
A concrete gutter beneath the storm drain
A plastic gutter next to the concrete one
My cat, alive, walking
My fingers
An idea for a blog entry

And that's it. Thank you for your time.

Things That Shoot Up

I wrote these two poems in the summer of 2001.  

 *****
"Things That Shoot Up"

heroine addicts, weeds; skyrockets, fireworks, bombs
bursting in air, oh-oh say can

you

see

all the things shooting up? billions of lasers climbing, shot from the
billions of fingers in the great wide open nothingness?
like the rain dreams of upside-down androids; a
computer-generated chaos that just can't stop organizing
itself.

no floating feathers, or gentle bobbing ships on waves that
elbow each other in jest in the ribs. just

BLAM!
BLAM!
BLAM!
BLAM!
BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! ribboning cyclones, a barber
snipping himself to the piling end, the cocaine sniff that
lasts a whole gracious slicing lifetime, the weed-infested
field plucked and plucked by children with A.D.D. forever,
BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! but the clincher is BWAAAAAAAA!
BWAAAAAAAA! BWAAAAAAAA-HA-HA-HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

*****

Um. What just happened? One more poem now. Or whatever these things are.

*****
"What the Bar Looks Like After Ten Drinks"
Bodies
advancing and retreating
bobbing and swiveling amongst
globes of gaseous gold and
planes of cloudy black.

Multifarious
human-made objects
discarded
in eerily recurrent complex
patterns: rectangles re-
ceding, circles
mushrooming in unharvested rows

a silent rainfall of heartbeats

a rolling murmur in the shape of a giant cube

cosmic calculus.

*****

Okay, I lied. One more. From that same era.

*****

"On Time"

Today, by its very length,
weighs twice as much as yesterday.

Each breath
(another debt to pay)
metes away the seconds slipping slowly,
slower, up

the


hill

to
blink

(finally) my sleep away;
to resume,
too willingly,
the morning, scrrraping across my back,
and I am stuck between the doubled day
and its Siamese twin
yesterday.

*****

Apparently, I was on some kind of mysticism/perception/experience kick back then.

Erotic Poem

I am right next to you
Talking
Just talking
Intoning colors
Chanting incense
Switch to the other ear
You in darkness
Sitting on hands
So you won't touch