The Killing Moon, in rain, on hold, something for Belarus, and a wick ingnited in capture.
Episdode 24 weighs in with five featured pieces from five brutally talented writers. Led by Echo & The Bunnymen's famous song, these five bring their steel breath and beauty into whichever device you have for them...
Here's the link to the show.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FO84K-eB6zw
And here are the featured pieces.
https://www.theprose.com/post/810836/maine-in-the-rain https://www.theprose.com/post/811862/windowsill
https://www.theprose.com/post/811914/extra-hold https://www.theprose.com/post/811937/a-poem-for-the-burnt-out-belarusian-houses
https://www.theprose.com/post/811905/to-hold-a-candle
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Pablo Neruda’s heart, god of Rusty James, history soup, Bob Ross paints, spins, and a fireside story.
In number 23, on Prose. Radio, Pablo Neruda sets the tone, and a wave of talent numbering 8 takes the wheel and drives us through some dark alleys, and some sun beaming through the window. RustyJames blends into the six to appear, each shining down in their own untouchable light, with Huckleberry_Hoo taking us into the firescape with something beautiful.
Here's the link to the show.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_LxQOO-4ROs
And here are the featured pieces.
https://www.theprose.com/post/811409/i-am-alone-there-is-no-god-where-i-am https://www.theprose.com/post/811326/simone
https://www.theprose.com/post/811410/sharing-history-soup-with-a-friend https://www.theprose.com/post/810851/bob-ross-paints-his-eden
https://www.theprose.com/post/811211 https://www.theprose.com/post/811248/on-the-road-by-myself
https://www.theprose.com/post/811317/the-24-spinz https://www.theprose.com/post/811208/two-stiffs-and-a-weirdo
https://www.theprose.com/post/811397/the-pooh-tutorials
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Summer Flowers
Summer flowers, filled with the promise of tomorrow...
Born of the seeds of discarded yesterday.
I hold one close to me...,
The softness of it's petals reminds me of your touch...
It's delicate nature reminds me of your love...,
It's beauty of your heart.
Summer flowers, reflections of our dreams and hopes
Of our nights and days.
I place it on your hair, like a crown of olden days....
A symbol of not only of my love but of your beauty...,
Not only of my dreams but of the hopes you inspire.
Summer flowers, growing wild in the fields...
Dancing to the wind and calling our names.
I listen to their call knowing only
That they bring you closer when comes the dawn.....
Unplatonic
Your words are razors,
your mind’s a knife,
when we write together,
bleeding out strife,
linking like magnets,
a helix of life,
I feel the energy, the pain,
our minds like well worn shoes,
but I wanna get unplatonic with you.
I wanna feel that energy
pulsing through my veins,
feel your skin, your passion,
let go the reins,
run like stallions,
fuck like rabbits,
rattle bedposts, black and blue;
I wanna get unplatonic with you.
Our music dances,
wails and rings.
When we play,
we make the songbirds sing.
The beauty of the notes,
the pierce, the sting.
I can feel the love,
the energy blows a fuze,
but I wanna get unplatonic with you.
I wanna break down walls,
holler and scream,
slap and smack
and feel the dream,
link hands, pound skin,
pour it all out,
blow out windows, black and blue;
I wanna get unplatonic with you.
You are my soulmate,
my partner, my friend,
but I need more,
and in the end,
when the pain and suffering
rounds the bend,
you’ll always be there
and we’ve both paid our dues,
but I wanna get unplatonic with you.
I wanna break the rules,
ignore the walls,
let our screams of passion
fill the halls,
get naughty and sinful,
get perverted,
get crazy, black and blue;
I wanna get unplatonic with you.
I wanna squirm with passion,
feel the night,
go at it hard
til the morning light,
bring down the house
and fuck all night
til the sun shines through;
I wanna get unplatonic with you.
My Love is Suicide
It kills me to know
that your happiness
is torture for me.
It kills me to think,
thoughts of you
like swarms of locusts.
It kills me to cry
myself to sleep
then hide my red eyes.
It kills me to write,
all of my words
coming back to you.
It kills me to love
when my love
evaporates like mist.
It kills me to live
in your absence
or your presence.
Simone
This is the jaw of the lion that last yawned,
At last light
came the lamps labored breathing...
breathlessly into the corners of nights’ invisible equation
The lamps stood somatic and still
as dust froze in prayer blown against
Word
Sound
Music
You sweet singer of nights sorrows and youths' sins absolved
You left me in bandages invisible to the eye.
Hung up as if lone star’d extinguished the promise of slumber steering toward the misery and the strangeness of colors.
Noise of your throat- done swept me, done take me forever shyly heart breaking against itself with each scorned symphony of your breathless pauses…
Finish me
Break me
Paint me on the walls
Break me down
Take me to where the phantom birth of slaughter is but a dreamed cramp of mine
The 24 Spinz
maybe Spinoza would 360
in the grave today...?
change his mind
split hairs
with God
for hygienic
distance
draw a blind
or a double,
hide his head
in the sands
of the glass
While tipping
upside down
refute existence
of either this or that
as all influx...
Ostrich like,
from China
to British Columbia
disputing
which way
is up...?
...and
humming
in the calcium
of eternal sleep
he would dream...
It's the Spin
it's the sPin
it's the spIn
it's the spiN...
04.09.2024
Spinoza turning in his grave challenge @Prose
On The Road By Myself
I’ve walked
the desolate night
collecting lives
along the highway
•
Am I a lone prisoner
of my own limitations
destined for mediocrity?
I’m not positive
I even know myself.
•
The constant cries
to be merciful
on the off chance
I seek companionship
•
Am I a good listener
to nonsensical ideations
driven by probability?
I’m not reclusive
but enjoy time by myself.
•
Unable to trust
lying for entertainment
seeking vengeance
for my birth
•
I suffer terrible miasma
with a tragic moral pain
in this nightmare glaze
with unctuous friends.
Trusting only myself!
•
On this road of
darkness filled insanity
I leave bloody crumbs
to this mental puzzle
•
Speaking with a phantasma
my convoluted brain
partially in a daze
tries to make amends.
I begin to reassemble myself!
Mazzy Star’s spell, dusk, Spinoza, leftovers, and one Russian love poem.
On the show today, Mazzy Star lights the way into a dark and light wave of five unyielding talents from Prose. Mariah leads the rest of the requests, down or up through the beauty of these brains, all wrapped in a bow from Russia with love.
Here's the link, you magnificent mofos.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5TII4uFRDm8
And here are the pieces featured.
https://www.theprose.com/post/804782/dusk https://www.theprose.com/post/811051/converted-brahmanist-2024-spinoza
https://www.theprose.com/post/808088/you-took https://www.theprose.com/post/810984
https://www.theprose.com/post/810980/leftovers https://www.theprose.com/post/811048/-