đź—ž
- 'Foreign Lands' LP out now
- New book ('Horology') + new EP ('Common Knowledge') coming soon
- 50% of all proceeds from 'Straight Grit' sales will go to GroundUp Music Foundation which promotes collaborations between artists with great cultural diversity from all over the globe.
🎵
“This is the music box inside a seashell side of punk rock and no, no one can tell me that side of punk rock doesn't exist cause I just heard it.”
đź“š
“Beautifully written.”
“Dre Carlan is a very talented writer,
and this memoir has moments of utter brilliance.”
A mother & son’s story
from sadness to solace.
Amazon rating:
Join a hopeless romantic on a journey toward an idyllic fate.
Amazon rating:
An assortment of fiction,
essays, and reveries.
Amazon rating:
(coming soon)
đź“ş
✍️
Personalized Poetry
For anyone on any occasion
with any 4-line rhyme scheme.
4 stanzas (16 lines) - $50
6 stanzas (24 lines) - $65
10 stanzas (40 lines) - $100
-Sample-
Sorrow Anger Regret Acceptance and Healing
Five little letters that covered my ceiling-
To the selfish life I’ve so lavishly led
I saw them overtake me from the comfort of my bed.
Put our names together, they construct a small riddle
Filled with pain and pride; quite a lot, not a little
But it does in-fact make such a lovely conclusion;
All actions need reactions-, and there’s the solution.
Free will and fatalism rarely co-exist
As cuts appeared in places that were heavily kissed
But I can two-hundred and one percent guarantee
It’s yourself who you’re so angry with instead of just me.
Then please don’t remember things wrongly or slanted
The truth is we took one-another for granted
In terms of closure, that’s as good as it gets
Cause I’m done paying on my past debits and debts.
A canvas of skin that’s inked with some BICs
Where deep scars and stretch marks can finally mix
That’s when you too will find peace with your past
And all the results from living wild and fast.
On the art of bleeding, I’ve been classically trained
And my creative similes, they’ve never once feigned-
From washing out the truth through faucets of self-hate
It started long ago way before our first date.
The need to harm ourselves was in very full effect
Or the throwing of a brick through mirrors that’d reflect-
Back to us a clear image of ourself in another
We were closer than having either a sister or brother.
The slashes have long-mended though they often still hurt
My calling card’s at rest right under your shirt
Lines of pure hatred that were drawn out with rage
Then you broke the curse and escaped from the cage.
đź’
There is a room. An indoor/outdoor room with a sofa separating the two sides. It sits looking inward while behind it, a flurry of fall leaves softly float downward through the autumn air. The piece itself is truly elegant; a Victorian Chesterfield, Oxford Blue leather or maybe velvet, hundreds of deep, tufted buttons patterned throughout, and of course, a cozy throw blanket draped over the back.
Next to its short wooden legs are stacks of extremely telling books in heaps of piles on the floor. Everything from biographies, classics, and poetry collections to philosophy dictionaries and sacred writings. On it are two people; myself and my “other.” The one who knows all and feels all. Sometimes we lay, sometimes we sit, most times were crossed-legged and at full attention. When we’re not sleeping we’re reading aloud to one another. When we’re not reading we’re talking about what we just read. And then…, sleep again. Over and over; speaking, analyzing, doing endless research on the universal human condition. Days turning into weeks turning into months.
It’s romance mixed with madness.
It’s routine shattered by epiphanies.
It’s my personal heaven on earth.
