Frederick Moore’s Microtonal Page

 


At Hooker Docks (2002)


There’s a corpse scented flower

Floating soft in the wind,

And the carbon dust raindrops

Glaze the white of your skin.


You should have been home

    arranging the moonscapes

That still hang from the

    walls of your bedroom.

It’s hard to grasp it now, but but another time

    it wouldn't have happened.

You just got there an hour too soon.


On a tree in a garden

Lived and orange made of sin.

And you ate it not knowing 

All the storms you’d begin.


That dark little place

    made space for you.

Your bounding heart and your face

    glazed by the fleck of light

Spinning through the keyhole like a moon.

And like a baby, you sat there for a week.


You would float from wall to wall

Like a disembodied soul.


There was a fountain for drowning

The dreams and the sins of the bold.

You should have been cautious;

You should have been older.


They inoculate us with fear, sex, and TV.

In these narcotized, tepid dreams.

These breezes please coverted skin,

But their averted eyes despond you.


Within your second heart,

A picture strobes, and with every pulse,

Encrypts its image into your skin.

Shadows obscured in blue,

Morph into your aching heart,

And the beautiful thing never stops.

Nomalte (2001)

Ajab  (1993)

The Blue Night with Anna Homler (1991)


It’s just a series of seamless steps

in which the blue night resides.

Like  some old movie you know of 

but have never seen,

The one who isn’t here lies below on the beach.

But the moments form and the moments fade,

Each one chasing the cumulus further west.

Its darkening clouds dispersing wide

Like so many songs for the doomed one.


Like so many songs for the doomed one,

She counts the gossamer covered veins

of her hands.

Her eyes befitting the deepening pain

of the skyline,

Her mouth betrays a longing.

And with feedbacking loops of faith

In times as dark as this time seems for her,

She craves a species of silent tongues

Whose words have become luminous but vague.


If freed from weight and freed from form

She’d slowly crawl into the open mouth.

Her only path an extended tongue

Descending far into the caverned heart.

And at this depth seduced obscure

Her twin of flesh would be carved away.

And every piece of the one not here

Could be gathered up

    in the warm arms of her voice.


In a series of seamless steps

The blue night arrives.




Metallic Birds (featuring Asuncion Ojeda-flute)

(1992)

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