Albums up on iTunes
08/12/2009 02:23 a.m.
Some of you may know, and some of you may not know, but in addition to writing bad poetry, I write pretty decent music. Over the last few years I've been mainly writing Ambient/Electronic music and releasing it for public consumption. For the most part, I have received positive reviews of it.
In addition to the Ambient/Electronic music, I also do sort of an Alt-Folk kind of thing.

The electronic releases tend to come quicker because it's a lot easier to edit and master electronic music than it is to do the same with 'organic' music.

As of right now, I have three electronic/ambient albums available for purchase on iTunes. Each album is $9.99, the typical iTunes price for an album.
If you're interested in that go to http://itunes.com/adronus

Just this month on the 7th, I released a 6 song EP of my "Alt-Folk" music, and that album is going for $5.94.
If you're interested in that style of music go to http://itunes.com/sonudra

I would love to get some ratings and reviews of the music, as well as some album sales. I write, produce, record, and release everything on my own, and I get all of the profits from album sales, so if you find it in your little poet's heart to support Independent artists, then go to the style of music of your choice, buy and album, rate it, and leave a review on iTunes telling me (and the world) what you think.

Much love,

Chris

I am currently Anxious
I am listening to Chapter II - Nightrealm

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Great Song
02/07/2009 08:26 a.m.


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In honor of poetry
01/07/2009 02:20 p.m.
I don't know how many of you follow the comics, but this one is a favorite of mine. I thought everyone would enjoy the subject matter.


I am currently Better

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'Twice' by Little Dragon
12/31/2008 08:25 p.m.

I am listening to See video

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Merciless Beaute
12/31/2008 12:40 p.m.
Yowr yen two woll sle me sodenly.
I may the beaute of them not sustene
So wondeth it thorow out my herte kene.

And but your word woll helen hastely
Mi hertis wound while that it is grene
Your yen [two woll sle me sodenly.
I may the beaute of them not sustene.]

Vpon my trouth I sey yow feithfully
That ye ben of my liffe and deth the quene,
For with my deth the trouth shalbe sene.
Your yen [two woll sle me sodenly.
I may the beaute of them not sustene
So wondeth it thorow out my herte kene.]

So hath yowr beaute fro your herte chased
Pitee that me nauailleth not to pleyn
For danger halt your mercy in his cheyne.

Giltles my deth thus han ye me purchaced,
I sey yow soth, me nedeth not to fayn,
So hath your beaute [fro your herte chased
Pitee that me nauailleth not to pleyn.]

Alas that nature hath in yow compased
So grete beaute that no man may atteyn
To mercy though he sterue for the peyn.
So hath your beaute [fro your herte chased
Pitee that me nauailleth not to pleyn
For danger halt your mercy in his cheyne.]

Syn I fro loue escaped am so fat
I neuere thenk to ben in his prison lene.
Syn I am fre, I counte hym not a bene.

He may answer and sey this and that.
I do no fors, I speke ryght as I mene,
Syn I fro loue [escaped am so fat
I neuere thenk to ben in his prison lene.

Loue hath my name istrike out of his sclat,
And he is strike out of my bokes clene.
For euer mo ther is non other mene,
Syn I fro loue [escaped am so fat
I neuere thenk to ben in his prison lene.
Syn I am fre, I counte hym not a bene.]

'Merciless Beaute' Geoffery Chaucer

TRANSLATION:

Your two eyes will slay me suddenly.
I cannot endure their beauty
So deeply does it wound my eager heart.
And unless your word will heal, without delay,
My heart's wound while it is new ...

On my oath, I tell you faithfully
That you're the queen of my life and death,
And in my dying will that truth be seen.

So has your beauty driven pity from your heart
That there's no good in me complaining,
So does disdain in his chain bind your mercy.

Just in this way you've paid for my innocent death,
I'm telling you the truth, I don't need to pretend.

Alas, how nature has drawn with compasses
In you such great beauty that no man may find
Mercy, even though he dies in pain.

Because I've escaped so plump from love,
I don't expect to be in his lean prison.
Being free, I don't give a pea for him.

He may reply and say this and that,
I don't care, I'm saying what I think.

Love has struck my name from his slate,
And he is stricken utterly from my books.
For evermore there is no other way.

I am currently Bad
I am listening to 1,000,000 - Nine Inch Nails

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River to Sea
09/24/2007 11:36 p.m.

Paralytic
09/24/2007 08:05 p.m.

Dedication
03/02/2004 02:02 p.m.

Of all of the poems I have read this is my second favorite of all time, only topped by one of the cantos written by the great Ezra Pound....

Decication IX

author unknown

I know you are reading this poem

late, before leaving your office

of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening

window.

in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet.

long after rush hour. I know you are reading this poem

standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean

on a gray day of early spring, faint flakes driven

across the plains' enormous spaces around you.

I know you are reading this poem

in a room where too much has happened for you to bear

where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed

and the open valise speaks of flight

but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem

as the underground train loses momentum and before running

up the stairs

toward a new kind of love

your life has never allowed.

I know you are reading this poem by the light

of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide

while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.

I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room

of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.

I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light

in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted

out,

count themselves out, at too early an age. I know

you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick

lens enlarging the letters beyond all meaning and yet you read on

because even the alphabet is precious.

I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove

warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your

hand,

because life is short and you too are thirsty.

I know you are reading this poem which is not in your

language,

guessing at some words while others keep you reading

and I want to know which words they are.

I know you are reading this poem listening for something,

torn between bitterness and hope

turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.

I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else

left to read

there where you have landed, stripped as you are.