Fareeha,

I cannot hear you

My volume is too low

by

Blaine Arcade

A micro-collection of poetry crafted from intentionally mishearing the hard work of the delightful streamer and musician Fareeha.

Audio Log of Firewood

(source video: How TOTK’s Rito Village Breaks Your Heart)

This is a recording,
let’s dig in—

We hear of enrichment
as our ears clock how much
we reach survivorhood.
The town gives its all,
working to the bone
of the blessing oak
I’m tempted to recall
as their blade articulations
vary rapid.

It sounds like shifting foundations,
because musically it is.
It sounds like a chihuahua shaking
violently in the wind.

We hear them frozen beautifully;
these feathered cults don’t get a break.
Sounds a lot like leaf instruments
and a pack of flying snakes.

The song was atmospheric:
one of the warmest sounding winds;
it can warm the ears of an elephant,
attuning well when others sing.

Day one by the hearth—
Frequencies babbling,
so antsy and cold,
starkest in fall…

What threatens to shape their world asunder
is looking at the tracks,
tasting all the skin to work,
to make things pitched in black.

Tale of the MailMaiden and the Lucrative Soul

(source video: The Biggest Thing Overwatch Did Right)

How often do you think of a scandal?
-A perfect story from the art of scrying,
Baked into your chain,
Gnawed for pleasure, both you and delicious.
Let’s get to the fun part, not marinate you in bastards—

Brace the laws of physics!
For she’s unhinged in her ability
To sit and weld
On the nose of a wrecking ball.
The way she’s mailing,
She smacks you with a hunk of metal.

Pull out the blasters, iron witch!
Flame shoots—
This meal of a sidearm works.
By gods who’re finely tuned
She gate-keeps flesh wounds.

She made a pioneer:
Actively alive and faithful.
He is the only character
Worth two fortnights.

Waves of missions washed over time,
Leeched the segment-bleed with anger
At the hands of the fearful.

He sheds his munitions,
Studies and meditates
On his lucrative soul.
His version of the mantra:
At great intersections
Carry for Zeus
A feather duster and a shield.
He carried more people
Than she equipped him to hold.

An archenemy: a Jurassic shift
To a towering mass
Of cable and steel.
Nemesis is a beautiful risk,
So tart in battle,
Clenched in contempt.
Complete destruction Ouroboros.

The ticking timer on this love
Has one person reach
And another nurture.

Two heroes out of flirting
Storied in life,
Love,
And laceration.

The bones will be obsessed with them.

Cupid’s Catch and Release

(source video: Why I analyzed these 2 notes to death)

Something unusual going on—
That bonobo sounds like a
Contractual cannon bawl,
almost like remorse.

Santa’s jingle might be referenced
In the sulfur of the witch team:
Big bone rollers
Occupied by twelve semicolons.

This interval’s attractive
as she rides on a heart;
Keys are to open doors:
That chicken’s way out,

Which then requires six months of observation:
Routine adventure-nomics,
Rarely isolating in a cave,
Understanding the other navigator.

Add a squirt of enthusiasm
Into a religious sea.
She’ll chase down an easy-to-prove mongoose
Held together with wood.

That’s the sort of majority we’re looking for.
Peer pressure is making me worthy.

The ‘New Abraham’s Game’ Micro-Cycle

Ha, you didn’t think I’d squeeze an entire cycle into a micro-collection, did you? Say hello to a micro-cycle. Now there’s nothing you can do about it, so buckle up. (source video: How TOTK used music to make this the BEST boss fight in Zelda)

A Sacrifice Born and Denied

‘New Abraham’s game‘
Scribes under-gird the magnificent quote.
The entire three day phenomenon;
the only thing left partial is blanket unwound.

Heightened drama and acerbics
where patrolmen leave to war and other common dangers,
able to puncture with the sound
of a hundred new visions.

Then comes the platter,
encouraged to rot into the temple.

Wily-runs into a bush,
surging in feet and barracks alley,
now willow grass.

You have to give a name.

Then Raised by Bald-Faced Nymphs

Eves facetious,
spirits born in water,
fall that the clouds were searing,
that trill and sparkle in trees.
Eight chimeras: slue and sandy krait,
sixteen pints in the lake’s
dipper-proofed polycistern.
They expound on mystery,
absolutely love the loam.

Enter the bindle boy.

‘It’s not a polar ogre…’
‘Man’s gift! It’s a lovechild!’
‘A rockin’ spiel.’

In interview he indicated fear and fact,
thousands screaming
of the reader’s penchant
to overlook the kingdom and chew.

Their roots flow green over and over.

Returns and Climbs his Father’s Mountain

Sweet callbacks bolstered
with the concrete of companionship:

‘Remember tight,
tributes help a lot.
Let’s throw our love
three liquid hearts
so he dwarfs this formin’ arc.’

A major target in the high-grown way,
a peak at neck of legend:
Spindelcap.

Hidden by the grace of friends,
Dipping into relatives’ chi,
pounding on the free-feet,
he pesters mountain,
woolly mantle of the planet,
jockeyed like a briquet,
tiny constant of edible wood.

‘My job’s rock dumb,
wisely decided to trench it.
Emphasis always falls on the earliest sect;
only ungulates fear table!’

Creator Battled in Servants’ Kitchen

The sun-cooked reader’s
high was skirted,
and so thy bade him up.

The readers have known the history,
ladder’s patience,
sharp as its pinprick spikes are.
Introduce key chains,
the last memory of the carer.
Unveil the vulture,
the monster’s living warts.

When Hell’s task rose,
league of two men are giving
in the treasured bowl
share of the ring ding ding:
holy young regal warrior
vs.
aged-up terrine.

In building real image,
watch-eye witch-tree thyme
together with two lips
turmeric color
before vomiting up
a round of spinach
hard cooked in tin,
bacon in flex.

Shepherds in pie,
lift your curly breams
with seismic worry.

Home roots hurt
this rye beast trial.
Slaw too from slop.

Den in your hugs,
for humans are a hero.

The End