EP Preview; "Tomorrow's Etude"

I have been conjuring up a musical project for the past month and would like share a track that I am really excited about. 

Spoken word poetry has been ingrained into my mode of expression ever since I was a child. First it was classical Russian poetry, then a heavy dose of 2000's American rap music, then underground Russian all through college, and most recently I have been heavily influence by modernist American/British poets and specifically how adroitly they spout free verse, much like the loose yet premeditated nature of a Pollock painting. 

I decided to give my poetry form and set my words upon the tracks of fantastically produced beats made by some Russian beatmakers and producers. 

This is the first track of a multi-track EP that I will be releasing later this month. Mind that this is the most experimental of the bunch. If you can roll with this, you will love what is to come. 

I introduce to you, Glass Hamlet's "Tomorrow's Etude". 

I'm hopefully lost.

I can only classify this moment as one of supreme uncertainty. Brushing the ground of many who have left their indelible signatures scribbled on stones and steel and paper reprinted for the thousandth time, I feel a kinship of hope of possibility, one that will either inter my corporeal existence or lift it to immortality. With such contrast I have been losing my mind every morning, regaining it around mid-afternoon, and manically scrambling in the evenings to fight the urge of seductive nightcaps to normalize it all. I don’t believe there is a cure for this self-prescribed madness, less it be an indentured state to corporate state to a lifeless state. But then is this life? Is this constant loss with reality, then back, then astral excursions to summersaults of carelessness what life needs to be?

To my sponsors - my sincerest apologies that I keep on promising the world with these dreams and have nothing to show for it. You hold me warmly, wipe my tears, and encourage me to show up the next day, and the next. Maybe you see something that I do not, or maybe we see the same horizon. I will paint it for you; I promise again.


It aches.
It’s a dull ache as it takes
the form of nothing in particular
nudging itself forth through
the spaces between a ribcage
that’s holding in a monster
or a cure
but the key is dreamless sobriety
and in the palm is
dreamwater that soothes burns
but will never mobilize fingers to find the lock
that rests on the crumbling bastions
of determined confusion.
It aches and it calls again.
It aches and points to the universe of itself.
It aches
and asks
then calls
then basks
in its own incomprehensible genius,
lascivious and proud and forgetful
that it’s a part of a whole.

This silent rage can blind a man.
This silent rage can build a Rome.
This silent rage knows all but doesn’t understand its form.
It aches until
— yours dearly

My Father (poem)

On behalf of father's day,,,

My father pushes me through dooms of is
through haves of all
and palms of each.

A platform of world on which to stand
is a catch of height on which to fall
and far more ask than I will ever deserve.

He is an example of be
an Alexandrian library
cannot contain
through which I walk;
If only an epsilon
I will retain.

My effort only needs one laurel -
an approving smile on my father’s face.
And,
here’s a hope that tomorrow’s tomorrow
will further imbue in me
his words spoken today.

I haven’t a god for whom I will fight
and frequently myself I leave to burn.
But here is someone I owe my life.

If I become anything,
it will be my father we thank.

Mirror

 

Mirror

Do I speak to you, or the multitude of terrifying angels that all share a lineage of destroying the pearlescent walls of our own immortality? With one simple gesture of being, you hurl a pedestrian that was only going about his day into connecting all the stars in the sky to bring logic to a chance happening. Time. Stop. Eyes. Meet. Heartbeat. Stop. Did the birds always sing such orchestral melodies? And it all makes sense for exactly a fraction of century until I notice your wings bearing the silhouette of departure; but was there ever an arrival? Time and movement and grace and the dismemberment of eternity reveals a singularity enthralled in the fangs of a barometer that reads - 

This has all happened before -

It has and it will and with uncertainty we are propelled forward into something that should be as common to us as another blade of grass presenting it's gift at dawn and yet somehow we use light words and heavy niceties and pour even lighter steamed milk into the veiled trap of a coffee date so as to what? not scare this ephemeral creature away that tickles us so? So? So then mirrors turned into walls soothe the soul. Supremely staged fate leads to severely misplaced fear and on the wings of splendor, two enchanted instruments can fly as far as the lands of ice where the demon isn't arrival, it's departure - 

I repeat.

Sharing a bloodline of a race of memories won't affirm your choice of this or that or cross the t's of answers addressed to one as -

correct.

Yet you happened and I scream at myself in disgust of my own ignorance of existence. Yes, I am. Yes, you as a reflection allow vision of the contrast of ultimate beauty coupled with 

the ultimate beauty

and it prevents me from stepping into the footprint of another who walked on a road before me because I know he was happy and I also know he is no longer. 


Read More

slowfast

slip,
gaspeyes.
terminal abudance

I,
you, do you?
when? ok.

scratch,
sighsquint.
nascent everything.

I,
hey, me!
and

thising,
purposeblur purple.

bows are circles.

bows are tumble-ups.
— P. Kalachev

Brief words to NYC, Bowery Poetry Club

I’m running away again.
At least it feels when I’m saying it
but that single true rhythm sways
in a way that’s more stable
than the frustrated chaos
I’m hanging with -
that’s
Projected on brick walls
Lowering me past
East Side halls,
past 5th st. lofts,
past fixed gear lifestyles
and fear fixed futures.

New York’s been that sand
that’s trickles down at its leisure;
But when the hourglass breaks
it forms a rockless foundation
that looks a lot like a beach,
with sunshine for good measure.
But the principle of pleasure states
the id should be questioned.

And maybe I’m young
listening to my dreams.
Or maybe I’m Jung
collecting unconscious things
that serve to raise a resume
to something more beautiful
that can’t be razed nor
destroyed like
8-story
Savars
in Bangladesh.
-And then as fresh
as dew drops and morning breaths
my I wakes up
and to questions
placed in stanzas up
answers,
But this time it’s me who advances
with a time and a place;
i look down at my ticket -
my race leaves at 8.
Don’t know when I’ll get back yet
and sure leaving is great,
but I just hope I’m right and
my me
might with spirit
have their embrace.
— P. Kalachev

Duomo di Milano, I wish you were more than everything...

Sure, you’re pretty,
but too much for me.
You suffocate with puzzles of grand intricacy.
You see, perpendicular lines, aesthetic, long -
please and arouse when one comprehends form.
Yet you are all styles; flamboyant and loud.
Supremely imposing and not logically sound.

Oh, Madonnina, how to love you I wish!
So why put yourself on the spire of kitsch?
So why prevent ascension to our first gothic kiss?
— P. Kalachev