accidental photography

10: paper plane

Paper plane: an old
word for moth which is older
still for hidden face.

It comes from beyond
spaces of velvet black:
a message for you.

Remember: your face
and the atoms of Eden
were both born of stars.


Sunset Over Ashbury Park

Thanks for reading!

Sunset Over Ashbury Park // The children on the playground / have slowly turned to yellow shadows. // The steady stomp of their feet / have raised up ashes and dust / which the sinking sun has / washed in a haze of orange. // Every so often, / if you look into the air / just above the din, / you can see a piece of mica, / hanging there, twirling / a tiny speck of light. // As twilight takes hold, / mothers and fathers / wield their children’s names / and lead them away / until the last echo / of laughter in the distance / is finally overcome / by the singing of crickets. // By Soren Warner Paris


The lawn mower wont start

Assuming I can get myself a descent job, I will be buying myself a new bug-proof lawn mower.


The lawn mower wont start // The god damned bugs are in the carburetor. / I don’t know why or how they got there, / but there they are. Chewed a hole / in the upper wall, hollowed out a nursery / and filled it with yellow, sticky egg sacks, / soft and pulsing. // These god damned bugs! / They’re out to get me! / They’re out to ruin my reputation / as an up-standing neighbor, as a proud owner / of a clean-cut bed of grass. It’s all / gone to seed. // And who will believe me if I tell them, / it’s the god damned bugs mucking up the carburetor? / Now see? Look at that bug shit / that spits out when I pull the starter. / A black spot stares up at me from my boot. // So what can I do, but hide behind the blinds / and turn off the lights? I have no where to go. / The mail is full of more bugs / so I don’t empty the box. / I see them pacing around / inside the rain soaked envelopes. // Let them machete their way through the wild mutant thorns. / Let them come and nail it to the door. // The bugs don’t mind. / They’ll get sick of me eventually / and move on down the row. / They’ll take over the Anderson’s, I’m sure, / chew holes in the walls and feast on copper wires / clog the pool’s filter, and blow the pump. / That blue water will fester a frothy green / and by November’s end / float a layer of wet, brown leaves // By Soren Warner Paris.



Another one from the vaults.

Grounded // After the astronaut returned / his friends all agreed: he had aged. / The mother of his children carried on as usual. / What else could she do, / but try new brands of hot-dog buns / and complain about the neighbor’s lawn. // At the Lamberts’ annual barbecue / he told no jokes and made no toasts / and did not launch the football across the yard / into the outstretched hands of sandy-haired boys. / He did not get drunk, but sipped slowly the water / the ice in his glass sacrificed to the setting sun. // In a moment he might’ve dreamt / he saw caramel colored liquid from his wife’s drink / hang there, suspended by nothing / against the ever darkening eastern sky. / It was then he realized he must have fallen / for his head to be so close to the ground.
by Soren Warner Paris


I’m done with you, Poetry

a rant of sorts. sometimes life kicks you in the balls.

I’m done with you Poetry. / Do you hear me? I’m done with you. / Go home. / You’re drunk! / I say, but she’s not drunk; I am. / I am piss drunk, loud drunk, mean drunk, angry drunk. / Yes! God damn angry drunk. / I think God will forgive me and that makes me drunker. / I’m done with pretty. / Give me your squalor, your ugly. / Give me your desperate, your hopeless groping, / your terrible grammar, your stumbling slur. / Why, I don’t even know what that means. / And why should I care? / I can’t not be grammatical even when I’m drunk? / I’ve lived happily for so long. Not even that long really, but / long enough to find myself, happy and free / in the wild green of the unpeopled country / in the wild raw of hidden animals. / And now what? / The money is running out, / The blood is running out, the blood of my dreams, / the roof of sleeping children, the food of life, / the peace, the blood is spilling out. / I know / I’m supposed to compress the artery, / but I’m not a surgeon. I’ve burned / all those bridges and I’m too far out; / no one can hear me. No one will come.