субота, 11 серпня 2018 р.

Fin Sorrel - Em 17

Fin Sorrel grew up in the mountains of Oregon, near a small town called Sandy oregon. Near to the town of Portland, Oregon. He ventured to the city in search of adventure, and found a love for Freight trains, painting, and politics. 

Spending most of his time outside, Fin sorrel explores the united states in search of freedom, sometimes crafting writings, and experimenting with sound, as well as video art. He is a traveler with a lust for the road and adventure. Many of the elements of his characters in stories are found in people he meets while interacting with the world around him. 

His work has appeared in many online and print journals around the world. Including ENCLAVE, SLEEPING FISH, BLAZE VOX, THE ANTHOLOGY OF SURREALISM, and GTK 8.

He edits the magazine MANNEQUIN HAUS with friend cassidy rios kane.

Static became the most televised, and frustrating hamlet to live inside, with wilting boots, blossoming trips across small grocery stores,

in segmented hobo jungles, the fruit cans switch to pots and pans, hang from the limbs of willow trees, leaning over flames of brass liquor store towns

concocting a violence to a cement hovel for weary travelers. Ignition realm of dust on boots and hands on night, sing

Shirtless, a long legged long dancing, a chess game for a head, spinning yarn.

Whispers flute
every whisper a flute or an oboe, or drum or a trumpet

every radio whispers saturday to life on a monday with a flute just for leaving her breakfast out too long and running away to station --

I will not mention names of the cloud, sit tight in time, forget me nots surround the life raft floating in the waters of space

imagine green shoots woven by hand in old baskets that hold your next soul floatation device or woven lapping basket in sandy shore,

cancels out all the sword, and fucked around certainly
fucked around
inside out
waiting for a next existence to breathe the boat back to life,

little sip of radio to the throat and muscle, tongue lapping and boat lapping in circles, round the flames breathing up the hobo jungle light, flames.

We are the humans going to mars, these are the right diamonds to use for the ham radio.

I need to know something about you for awhile, that you
will be glowing,
and right inside of your floating simplicity, under the stars
and galaxy forming
the tongue and glass hair that curls by fire and heat more
and more into long strands of dripping glass hair so burned bright, light bright, simplicity,

across that water fall beneath, the galaxy and stars
beneath, sipping radio.
Promise something to the galactic form. Promise you will
glow and not blacken.

Does EM know how far you’ve gone into the galaxy?
17 years into the galaxy?
Surfing the catacombs of your old nighttime visions

existing, everything illuminated?
A lot of these things cause the surface of your mouth to wax
into a form
so that teddy bears are the words you speak to infinity,

the stars, the galaxy above you,
little cute bears who

out pop
the tongue

and float free the space, causing cloud and puffed stuffing.
This is your language, and foreign tongue now.

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