Get all 14 Noah Barbosa releases available on Bandcamp and save 50%.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of mock daybreak for strings and magenta, snowing, snowing, Homosemanticism, ephemral favrites, l'absinthe / close encounters, You could release me, Augury, rarities two (2019-2021), Don't Feel So Shot Down, and 6 more.
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making the rounds about the backyard spinning like an extinguished star that's neither here nor there deft friend scrawled in red pen was 'only drink alone if you're an avant-garde' is that funny? dribbling down my neck's nape next mistake eight steps away propitiating the sheen between me and the asphalt whose fault leaves one laughing all the way down the boulevard Look at the moon like it's an old friend who can't read rooms i tried living on the calendar's cue but kept slipping on the simplest pools... the day's plans reading like a gabriel garcia. fall together in a sad gestalt i only care about the weather if it's past default or if last night was plastic and salt i guess i can't really record a result (push the stops in) miss last bus to boston hands off the watch call me quentin compson all that is solid melts into the message of a moribund lawn that i still get lost in often crossed aloft dodging coffins not forgot boxed on a steep escarpment chipping away bluffs from the heat exhaustion and heeding the wrong caution (push the stops in
last year at alpine street it took three months to warm my feet
last year at michael's house it took a hundred thousand years to figure it out
high tuck long coat traipse from front to back door and it's no joke suspended by cobwebs in a field of eventless time i start to learn it's either neither or both but who says you can't change the past? my internal clock was painted in figueres, i might ask, the dots of darkness step down for you if untrue then i'll make my next play at half mast. high life low cards too hung up to cower or stand guard 5AM light like a brand new language that never got told where to set the bar -- start the car, your life isn't a movie -- who's got the keys to make it all run smoothly something always gone from the penance jar the thought slithered away before it could even move feet
last year at the reservoir i wanna drive right past to tomorrow’s horn
last year at falafel king i only asked you to stop whispering
(heroic solo)
(roll credits)
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pomegranate (12.19)
04:25
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i'm not worried. hovering on the left hand turn signal stagnant/static/studying a burnt hymnal, watching closely til the cold december sun melts the last drop of snow off the shingles of the mount zion lutheran church on 15th the rift speaks to weeks of missed gists from skies and seas, on an evening of even-ing odd i'm gonna start a whole new school of art called missing my exit.
last night i heard the screaming
i'm not worried. eating a pomegranate on the front porch wanting to be cold as the wind on my run towards wind on my face and my hands as i run towards... as many patterns as the dust in my floor boards... time and again he accedes to the unwarm hard to maintain faith when the median is a forty mile wide field of dry grass to parse words in (my back hurts)
last night i heard the screaming
i'm not worried. thinking about the fortune from my cookie when i let the breeze in to pay for playing hooky, i'm like a tupilaq in my altered state and yet i still can't shake the way yesterday shook me. hoarding a memory i can't consume yet -- barely got two socks on figure out what the moon meant -- yeahyeah for a moment my headroom's tamped two altoids melting on my tongue mark a true intent two to ten again i'm roped in recount three days on which i wore the same blue pants (and to think i never watered a plant!) watch, i'm gonna slip again but call it a grant
last night i hit the ceiling
to choke with rope is to fail to rock or float the boat, feeling like stephen dedalus in my long autumn overcoat, my understanding of god is spinoza x kanye, feeling like a lycanthrope while speaking through a tightened throat. if i can't bring myself to text back my dad's new iCloud account how will i make a living? it's all performative for an audience comprised exclusively of stares through house windows spirit splattered across the pavement (skidding across the tenement) i found that shit under the stairs. i've outgrown sadness.
Holy shit! Turn on your T.V.! ANY CHANNEL!
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mechanical arm (1.20)
05:23
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bright bugs swimming through lacunas of my vision i was too fucked up to read what the tarot card said put that in the books right at the part when thoughts go from dick and jane to james joyce in the same voice i’m naming my new piece mixed messages, teetering on a fixed precipice (it’s like that y’all) conflating modes with substance each time a function gives me some thing to run with i hear the sound of the trumpets the otherly pundit roadside redundant bottle the shit and sell it for a liminal hundred everyone’s an outsider to the point they can fund it cutback we slept on sagging trampolines-- something tells me this is not a form of philanthropy. every siren heard as i’m falling asleep and every card on the table just so both of my hands are free. you’re talking a lot but you’re not saying anything; gear shift/shift from behind to in front of my eyes and it’s a perfect yet terse disguise sure as the devil’s purse is full of dead leaves or some shit
I wanna take a tour of my own home
I wanna turn back into an animal
if i wrote an essay about tonight you can bet your ass the title would contain the phrase social capital-- my whole countenance a performance to 48 judges congregating around the pale granite kitchen island and i need a clavicle, betrayed in the vestibule, if i wrote a philosophy book it would be called the aesthetic existence and most of the pages would be blank cause i’m not sure. if i was a bird i would turn into a person probably, closer to a thief than a vanguard third person is hard for those of my vain ilk still there’s plenty of filth to throw back in the clown car / if i had a dollar for the times i felt straight allegorical i would have a couple, headspace like a rushing river in a storm but if i give you a ride i’ll try my very fucking hardest to keep you warm
All dressed up for the schism / Gamenight skull like a prison / Drop those jacks on the hardwood / My past life in a vacuum
Twist my arm
And we bask in the syrupy limelight, relishing the idea of a deft divinely swapped head for a made up collection of pastel rose tints and I might… In the back of a lyft feigning nightlife or in a blinding haze of ripe sight, pull the belt back to the platform to have it drift off again i thought it was raining for a moment, isn’t that fucked up? no.
it’s a heavenly congregation in the exact way you don’t expect, sharing a stone with no onus i am just a reflection of everything when i’m lighting the candle with god’s hand
place a brick so it stays there, hey your eyes have stars in them i think-- he phone rings and it’s for no one cause we’re in a damp backyard up there thinking of badminton games and soft refreshments as we condense into geometric puddles on the creases of memory tents. my halation’s turning soft white like the surface of a beautiful fruit, like a syzygy in a nowhere suit going everywhere fast
And then it starts and then it starts and then it starts again
My headscape looks something like galaga
And then it stops and then it stops and never stops again
My headscape looks like nothing i’ve ever seen
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bathtub haircut (12.18)
05:07
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i can hear so much in your sighs and i can see so much in your eyes.. there are words we both could say.. but don't talk, put your head on my shoulder. come close, close your eyes and be still-- don't talk, take my hand and let me hear your heartbeat
i was rude to my love today/conversation with my bathroom mirror (halloween stores in the rain)
my new shoes dirty from the snow, my new thoughts i've gotta let them go (face down on the freeway shoulder)
i spent my years in tired coffee shops, waiting patiently for our drinks to cool off, discussing the disintegration loops
rolling paper in the dirt on the ground, waiting patiently for my change of states (call in sick to my own dreams)
i spent my years in mall parking lots, seat reclined, alone with my thoughts, watching automatic doors,
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you caught me staring
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mexican coke (11.18)
04:42
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airport smells (7.18)
09:09
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dtla (11.18)
05:11
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useful delusion (6.18)
06:24
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Noah Barbosa
self; analogue; nonwriter
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