1. |
The Escape Ladder
01:06
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2. |
The Potato
02:50
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The Potato
by Daniel Kirk
Your heart is a broken balloon on a string,
and an acrobat climbs up a ladder-like thing
to a trampoline triangle,
lived in by a woman with one round black eye.
A spirited stranger with wings of bright yellow,
is courting a gold ochre fellow—
who might be a bird, or a dog, or a fish,
as she clings to your head, like a wish.
Potato, potato, with teardrop eyes,
that elegant M on your hand’s a surprise.
Your reach, it appears, has exceeded your grasp;
and your laughter sounds more like a gasp!
Flags flap on a small fleet of sailboats at sea,
toward the spot where your very own stomach should be,
and the streetlight is sending out showers of sparks:
mustaches, snails or larks.
Your face is a visage whose features have spread,
and your neck’s an inflamed-looking column of red.
To a spud or a prickly pear it is plain
you’re a victim of your own domain.
Potato, potato, with teardrop eyes,
that elegant M on your hand’s a surprise.
Your reach, it appears, has exceeded your grasp,
and your laughter sounds more like a gasp!
In your throat a black sun beaming ebony rays
lights an ink blot, to capture the yellow birds gaze.
There’s a predator clown
snaking down through the air;
and there’s mystery everywhere.
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3. |
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4. |
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Still Life With an Old Shoe
By Daniel Kirk
No drinker, no cutter, no walker, no diner.
Although he is absent, his absence is present
in bright rainbow colors, that cling like a vapor
to all of the objects the man has abandoned,
and blackness envelops the moment.
A hand corks the bottle, the odor of liquor
still hangs in an aura of murder and menace
around the old jug, that’s haunted by spirits,
and sits on the table the man has abandoned,
as blackness erases the moment.
The fork is six daggers, staking an apple,
the fruit of his labor, a reclusive loner.
The bread is distinguished by dark hollow craters,
or animal pictographs marking a cave wall,
reminders of everything he has abandoned,
as blackness embraces the moment.
Still life with an old shoe, it is said
that life is just a mirror reflecting things inside your head.
Still life with an old shoe, everybody knows its so—
it’s easy latching onto things, but so hard letting go!
Still life with an old shoe, it is said
that once a thing has lived, it is never truly dead.
Still life with an old shoe, everybody knows its true—
sometimes the things you left behind, come sneaking back to you.
Each object a relic of treks undertaken,
and wreckage mistaken for things with a function.
The bones of lost lovers in stark acid colors,
fortellers, dispellers, beseechers, beguilers,
reminders of everything we have abandoned,
as blackness envelops the moment.
Still life with an old shoe, it is said
that life is just a mirror reflecting things inside your head.
Still life with an old shoe, everybody knows its so…
it’s easy latching onto things, but so hard letting go.
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5. |
Catalan Landscape
01:33
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6. |
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The Red Sun Gnaws at the Spider
by Daniel Kirk
The spider curls one graceful leg around a watchful eye.
Another eye takes note, and turns to face her, by and by.
Softly as a vise she skitters ‘cross the mossy plain,
and nabs a falling star to fuel the fire in her brain.
The soldier climbs without a sound,
as for the tavern he is bound,
a severed head lies on the ground.
The red sun gnaws at the spider!
The red sun gnaws at the spider!
Within an old man’s torso, pi is mirrored in a pool,
or maybe it’s two blackened bottles on a flimsy stool.
His dried-up member is a leaf that dangles from the vine;
he eyes the dancer longingly, though she is in decline.
A witness stands in fear or awe,
mountain fangs adorn his jaw.
Survival is the only law.
The red sun gnaws at the spider!
The red sun gnaws at the spider!
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7. |
Le Coq
01:44
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8. |
Figures and Mountains
03:58
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Figures and Mountains
by Daniel Kirk
Erection contraption, deceptive assassin,
fantastic obsession, her love is spurned.
Her anger, his sorrow, teeth gnashing, brow furrowed,
things taken or borrowed, never returned.
Rough-shelled gourds in razor grass,
grasping for the rocky pass.
Sun beats down on broken fountains,
figures and mountains…
figures and mountains.
Milkweed from a hollow tusk,
spraying seed from dawn to dusk,
blurting, spurting jets and fountains.
Figures and mountains…Figures and mountains.
The tattle-tale parrot-man’s running away;
he knows while the sun shines, he’d better make hay.
The dog’s disenchanted, the child’s upside down.
Their sore spots are rendered in oranges and brown!
The rooster has only one thing on his mind;
he wanders the green grassy plain, dumb and blind,
too cocky and strong willed to know he may fail;
for the top is the bottom, the female is male.
The duck-footed husband has caves in his head.
From his chin hangs his manhood, deflated and red.
Black holes mark the passages he won’t explore,
though he can’t but know what’s in store.
She draws back her fist, with her feet firmly planted.
He sees the blow coming, and takes it for granted.
Desire is the cruel part of nature’s design!
And genitals bloom, like flowers on the vine.
Rough-shelled gourds in razor grass,
grasping for the rocky pass.
Sun beats down on sand-choked fountains;
figures and mountains, figures and mountains.
Resourceful degrader, immoral blockader,
hormonal deflater, all faces turned.
Poor burro, bent arrow, sorrowful saguaro,
fire in the bone marrow, sombrero burned.
Milkweed from a hollow tusk,
spraying seed from dawn to dusk.
Disturbing surrender, pretender, dismember,
offending forever, his fate is sealed.
Malignant collective, sadistic, vindictive,
conflicted predictor, just squash in a field.
Rough-shelled gourds in razor grass,
grasping for the rocky pass.
Sun beats down on broken fountains;
figures and mountains, figures and mountains.
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9. |
The Nightingale's Song
01:43
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10. |
Composition
06:11
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Composition, 1933
by Daniel Kirk
Big man down, river so brown,
not a frown on the cat as she watches you drown.
Prickly cacti, corpus delecti,
your mare bleeding out, as you shout to the sky.
Fisherman’s lure, obscurantist aim,
the wound you endure, the match and the flame,
the stance of the fencer, the parry, the blame,
she strikes at her mark, and then stakes her claim.
Big man down,
river so brown,
true love spurned,
future burned.
Big man down,
drown, drown.
Big man down.
Horseshoe turned, to hold to luck,
but secrets are spilled, run away, run amock.
Composition defines what’s yours and what’s mine;
step lively my love, don’t step over the line.
The hammer, impatient for want of a nail;
the river swells over the well-trammeled trail.
The point of the saber, the sharp tang of steel,
no mercy, no pity, no more appeal.
Big man down,
river so brown,
true love spurned,
future burned.
Big man down,
drown, drown.
Big man down.
She lunges with grace, no regret on her face.
In this place full of shadows, she leaves not a trace.
And over green fields, she’ll gallop away;
the end of your life, the end of the day.
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11. |
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12. |
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Person in the Presence of Nature
by Daniel Kirk
Sever, dismember,
mortal remainder,
futile reminder.
hapless, hopeless, air, land, underground.
Raptor accoster,
daring disaster,
organ detector,
insect lizard fish, that tearing sound…
On legs and hooves stiletto heels be damned!
Savage, scavenge ungulate stampede,
blunder, danger, thunder, this is how we feed.
The scent of slaughter is the lure;
the life is hard, the law is pure,
person in the presence of nature!
The source of wisdom is the nose;
claws uncurl, where once were toes,
person in the presence of nature!
You crave that old familiar scent,
the smell foretells the immanent.
Person in the presence of nature,
and prey despairing at the sight
of your insatiable appetite.
Person in the presence of nature!
Mindless merauder,
dour defeater,
soulless depleter,
muddy, muddle stumble cross the plane…
Sinewy smasher,
render asunder,
steel jawed destroyer,
predator and prey on lost terrain;
mud streaked boulders for your camouflage.
Blood soaked hollows where the hungry roam,
slither from your clothes, now you are home,
person in the presence of nature.
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13. |
Dawn
01:33
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14. |
Toward the Rainbow
05:01
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Toward the Rainbow
by Daniel Kirk
Everybody reaching, reaching high
Everybody weeping, end is nigh
Everybody reeling, on the ground
Everybody dreaming, not a sound
Everybody needing, just a clue
Everybody seeking, what is true
Find the hunter, arms outstretched
He and his hound survey the scene
Around him eyes and teeth are etched
‘Neath Cassiopeia the old queen
The dog, the bear, the ram, the swan,
Toward the rainbow, before it’s gone
The fish the lion, bull, and twins
Toward the rainbow, shed our skins
Rigs and ladders up we climb
Making headway making time
Toward the rainbow
Everybody praying to gods and men
Everybody weighing the cost of sin
Everybody trying to find his place
Everybody vying to win the race
Everybody burning to flex his might
Everybody yearning to scale that height
Red orange yellow green and blue
Indigo and violet, too
The scorpion and scales appear
The hero, harp and charioteer
The archer, herdsman, goat and scales,
Toward the rainbow, turn our sails
Past the straights up swells we climb
Making headway making time
Toward the rainbow bead by bead
Star by star at startling speed
This is the way that we proceed
Toward the rainbow
toward the rainbow
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15. |
Petite Universe
01:48
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16. |
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Dancer Listening to Organ Music in a Gothic Cathedral
by Daniel Kirk
Eye like the midday sun, lighting the dark;
eager lips, in silhouette parted.
A white trail of torso with traffic cone feet,
appears as the program is started.
Pipes, breathing like lungs, mysterious tongues
lasso a shooting star;
blood orange the moon, a blank word balloon,
cut gems are strewn, a sine wave, a tune.
Mule ears listen, diamonds glisten!
Dancer Listening to Organ Music, in a Gothic Cathedral,
oh how graceful you’d spin and leap and whirl,
sad dreaming girl.
Dancer listening to organ music, hovers over the nave;
each fluttering nerve, every shape, line, curve,
rise and fall on the crest of a wave.
Cat faced the kneeling priest, vexed by the pull
of his crucifix, trailing notation;
by his shoulder the female, breasts free and full,
whispers a tune of creation.
Tossed, lost in the sound, figure and ground,
cochlear spirals fly.
Chords sucked from the teat, blunt wrecking ball feet;
he’s fighting the beat, but there is no retreat.
Sinners, sheep, in troubled sleep…
Dancer Listening to Organ Music, in a Gothic Cathedral,
spin through your hair the heavens whorl,
sad dreaming girl.
Dancer listening to organ music, drawn by a magnetic pole;
restless spheres, in canals of ears,
reflections of notes once whole.
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17. |
The Smile
01:14
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18. |
Person Throwing a Stone
03:29
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Person Throwing a Stone at a Bird
by Daniel Kirk
One big foot stomps and stamps the sand;
salt water black and cold, no hand
to shield a sandy seashore view,
one jaundiced eye, one aim so true.
Cursing person, swollen pride,
throw your stone at eventide.
Wide as heaven, flat as hell,
hit your target, ring the bell.
Sea bird assaults your ear with song;
she does not mean to do you wrong.
Sharp, the first note sung strikes home,
there where the black tides froth and foam.
Cursing person, swollen pride,
throw your stone at eventide.
Wide as heaven, flat as hell,
hit your target, ring the bell.
Her crimson plume, a bloom, a flare,
strike the bullseye, if you dare.
Though armless, harmless you are not…
as you prepare to fire off your shot.
Five toes, whale belly white,
emerald skies hang day and night.
The arc of changing mind has passed
As helplessly, she stands aghast.
Cursing person, swollen pride,
throw your stone at eventide.
Wide as heaven, flat as hell,
hit your target, ring the bell.
You cast your stone and so, so long,
to still that skittish siren’s song.
Now the dotted line descends;
too late to make amends.
And so you curse, and bring her down.
Red spreads wide across her crown,
red spreads wide across her crown.
A fireball, a scoop of moon,
to mirror the soon deserted dune…
A target at the tail end of sky,
she trips and falls with one last raucous cry.
Her crimson plume, a bloom, a flare,
strike the bullseye, if you dare!
The deed is done, away you trot.
Though armless, harmless, you are not.
You are not, you are not.
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19. |
Figures at Night
02:35
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20. |
Nocturne
02:23
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Nocturne
by Daniel Kirk
Travels in broken time,
the night family wanders in shame.
Man, wife and daughter steal through the frame,
clothed in dim moonlight, and doomed from the start;
a horse for his heart, falling apart,
the man reassembled as art.
Traders in broken rhyme,
where gold draws the eye to the scene;
a lantern, a wild bird’s transcendent dream.
Mother and daughter cry trickles of blood;
roadmaps of mud, fall with a thud.
Antenna, alert for the flood!
Trailing a broken line
across barren mountains of blame,
a dark stranger playing a waiting game.
Hunger, a jewel of glistening red,
shadow of dread, hangs overhead—
each gesture as fragile as thread.
Tracing a broken vine
of charcoal, to burnish the page,
as emblems of mystery cross the stage…
primary colors, red yellow and blue,
the hourglass clue, a brutal tattoo,
a jumble of stars all askew.
Dreamers in broken time,
the night family shambles away.
Their world is a field of black and gray,
with many long hours till break of day.
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21. |
Le Chasseur
01:54
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22. |
Blue
04:49
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Blue
by Daniel Kirk
Red lightning streaks a cobalt sky,
a plane goes down in flames.
The letter L, I don’t know why,
a pole for playing children’s games.
A lizard skulking in a pond,
twelve boulders form a row;
a dozen turtles on parade,
but why, we’ll never know.
Blue, blue, blue, it’s true!
Oh, my love, are you blue, too?
Blue, blue, blue, it’s true.
Oh, my love, my love, are you blue, too?
…Some words spelled out in code,
to hide their meaning from the crowd;
the border on a rural road,
a peculiar sort of cloud.
A calligraphy of shapes
scrawled in a hand that none can read;
a meteor in quick descent,
and then a spill of seed.
Blue, blue, blue, it’s true!
Oh, my love, are you blue, too?
Blue, blue, blue, it’s true.
Oh, my love, my love, are you blue, too?
Red lightning streaks a cobalt sky,
a plane goes down in flames.
I speculate on what it means,
and search the list of names.
Blue, blue, blue, it’s true!
Oh, my love, are you blue, too?
Blue, blue, blue, it’s true.
Oh, my love, my love, are you blue, too?
A shining glowworm walks upright,
a ghost adrift in space,
some pebbles tossed into a stream,
to vanish without trace.
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23. |
Head of a Catalan
01:58
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24. |
Dutch Interior
04:10
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Dutch Interior
Pale skinned and scant of hair, you pluck your solitary aire.
From your lute the notes cascade, a Netherlander serenade.
From fret to fret your fingers flit; you sit and play, you play and sit.
But are all things what they appear, in your Dutch interior?
Scales form atop your head, a totem pole of black and red.
A dandelion fit to burst; notes like seedlings soon dispersed.
A stave around your ear is curled, brings inspiration from the world
and translates life to music that transfixes dog, and toad and cat.
Surprise, surprise, it’s hard to hum those haunting melodies you strum!
Your balalaika, all can see, is turning back into a tree
whose apples you may one day pluck, unless the worm has all the luck.
Charms are strewn across your chest; the bearded man close to your breast
is stern or cruel, one cannot tell…does he not like your tune so well?
Surprise, surprise, my forlorn chum, there are no catgut strings to thrum!
While entertaining bats and bees, a pyramid rests upon your knee
and there, too, is a birds sharp beak, to peck away at your technique.
The red-skinned eyeball man’s incensed, his cheeks and anal chin glands tensed—
or is he filled with jealousy, at your fabled virtuosity?
Surprise, surprise, deaf, blind and dumb, how easily do we succumb!
Pale skinned and scant of hair, you pluck your solitary aire;
from your lute the notes cascade, a Netherlander serenade.
You play and sit, you sit and play, and wile the drowsy hours away…
But are all things what they appear, in your Dutch interior?
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25. |
Metamorphosis
01:46
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26. |
Harlequin's Carnival
05:13
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Harlequin’s Carnival
by Daniel Kirk
Acrobats grasp a blue banner of smoke.
The Napoleon clown’s a perpetual joke!
A squawking gold rooster head’s perched on a spring,
Snake hoses hiss air, circus bells ding a ling.
Metronome ticking the scales descent,
mayhem ensues in the old khaki tent.
Dr. insect stands firm in the cell of a die,
hot and cold flapping wings on a fly.
Fishing lure mobiles descend from the moon,
a barbed compass needle takes aim at a goon.
‘Neath a powder blue pool table, pets tug a string.
From a checkerboard heart, a black throat-bat takes wing.
A helium octopus floats in the blue,
while a scorpion threatens and harries a Who.
Curlycue shapes, in a mad symbol swarm,
see the suave preying mantis perform!
Harlequin’s carnival,
balance on a spinning ball, hitch the tail of a thrill.
Harlequin’s carnival, our hopes rise and fall,
daring great feats of skill!
On a platform, a blue marble blinks like an eye.
Take heed, for the ladder looks perilously high!
Down the untended tentpole, unicycling dreams,
the small blackbird busily plotting his schemes.
The wandering vendor, an egg or balloon,
works with the kidney clown, singing his tune.
guests browse the snack bar and souvenir stand,
then the master of ceremonies strikes up the band.
In the grip of a gland, microbial swarms
watch as the juggling dragon performs.
Black-spattered ants with their inkling arrive,
to meet the grand shimmering host of the hive.
The octopus head, afloat in the blue,
puffs on his pip and warbles, “You hoo!”
Curlycue shapes, swift traveling sperm,
as for our entertainment they squirm…
Harlequin’s carnival,
balance on a spinning ball, hitch the tail of a thrill.
Harlequin’s carnival, our hopes rise and fall,
daring great feats of skill!
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27. |
Constallities
01:40
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Daniel Kirk Glen Ridge, New Jersey
Daniel Kirk is an American artist, illustrator and musician who has spent many years making books for children. He was inspired by the paintings of the Spanish Surrealist, Joan Miro, to create this collection of songs and short instrumental pieces.
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