Tim Barrus Blog
Posts tagged with photography
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the timekeeper
you and your adolescent wandering/ all the dark places and that lurid glare/ your river stories/ the villages are always deserted/ your age was that summer a jury/ morning snowstorms and we just went back to bed/ the virile ivory in the temples of taboo perceives the shipwreck and the…
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orphaned by the tide
in some place of sun/ the light spills dancing on your work/ the quick day is just an accent of bones and dust/ even the word work is more drainage than sweat but sweat, too/ i need room to think/ i need equivalent deserts of the sky in pain/ ripped…
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pretty pictures of you
the hunger for voyages was in his face https://tim-barrus.format.com/tim-barrus/238927-i-opened-my-eyes
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visiting hours
they arrived when visiting hours were supposedly over of course they arrived when visiting hours were over everyone was supposed to leave the hospital so us inmates could all die alone like guards of the dark under our death sheets and our tongues of foam and our pushing the sky…
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Tim Barrus Poetry
his solitude was the soft breathing of a morgue everyone in morgues breathes like that our road trips together had us following the grateful dead whose heroin bones had that damp smell of honeysuckle just outside the farmhouse door https://timbarrus.tumblr.com/
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That Boat Has Left the Dock
i bought a boat from old man hughes for five bucks/ it was really only worth three/ the boat leaks/ i can’t afford to fix it but who wants a boat anyway/ i do/ i take the boat out to the middle of the lake and sit there with a…
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drinking with the dog
u sitting on the bed again/ explaining yourself 2 me/ u looking downcast/ u unable to meet my gaze/ and this secret life u live is supposed to be unknown 2me/ please/ i have known u since the age of the dinosaurs/ like i give a flying fuck/ but i…
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you carried him
you have carried him on your back through oceans of your sweat for a long while, now/ we both knew it was only a matter of time/ the big old boogeyman, time/ before you’d push back/ hard/ that way you push back when you push back/ it is always a…
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U Know What I Mean U Know What I Mean
you burned holes where my eyes had been the nagual doesn’t have to be the desert we had it in our hands not knowing anyone could fall down that vortex and the gravity of the thing could easily crush diamonds into the sound of a piano i was the guy…
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sometimes the past
I work with kids whose different pasts have the effect of trying to swallow them whole on a moment to moment basis. The past is not always our “little friend.” Nor is it necessarily representative of a better time in a better place. It only is. I have no fucking…
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i know who u r
i know your kindness i know/ your scars i have some of those 2/ i know where you’ve been/ i know the smell of your shit/ i know your guts, and/ i know/ when you are giving up i do not want you 2 give up but it’s not up…
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He Cannot Swim
I knew right away that this kid was going to push every button he could push. And then, he did. He’s draining but I have this magic weapon I can and do use which is called I CAN TURN AWAY AND STOP GIVING HIM ATTENTION WHEN HE BEGINS ANOTHER DESTRUCTION…
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Dead Whores
Stop asking me what photography means. The dead ones and the ones who are still alive. They do not become indignant or outraged if I call them whores. It is what they call themselves. Only normals get their hackles up. Stop asking me who the normals are. Normals are beneath…
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The Bed Last Night
none of my lovers has ever been what you could call the timid type more like unruly dogs who do not forgive each one smells differently i smell their smells in the bed i sleep among them in not unlike the weather fadeaushka smelled of russian vodka and his butt…
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CinemathequeFilms: Les Russes à Paris
CinemathequeFilms did not disintegrate like a melted marsh mellow grimace of 16mm film burned at the alter of my untimely demise. We never did get that license. We just kept making videos. We could pick and choose who saw them. Usually, only people who had cheered them on in France.…
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Appalachian Savages and the Stigma
Stigma has its thick-skinned tongue licking out their fastidious shit holes it is a crisis it is a nonchalant devoutness it is inflamed, of consequence, provoked, quivering. Just stick me, God. I am usually far more interested in their reactions to stigma than I am in stigma itself. Run, as…
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A Shifting of the Clouds
the woods behind the house extends a sustained but curious sense of authority as if their push against the sky was preordained which is not true/ but rather/ we are all creatures of evolution/ we were not always this/ but arrived walking out of oceans (heroically) long since disappeared/ more…
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Video: Smashing the Silence
Usually, they are following me. This time, I am following them. With cameras. Three to be exact. We switch roles. They have always followed me if I am organizing. But not this time. I can only write small glimpses of what they do, what they’re about, what being marginal really…
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Video: We Are The Travelers & We Have Returned
We are the travelers whose empty lips have foreshadowed the wolves growling at the door. Some say the strength of twenty men.
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broken trust
Many things can fade with time. The sexual abuse of kids is not always one of those things. The average male who has been abused, does not begin to articulate that abuse until the age of thirty. At Smash Street, we try to put the pieces back together again because…
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Driving Through a Dream: Post 1
You don’t know me. I used to be a Smash Street Boy a few years ago. I left because I had an opportunity and a scholarship to attend a flight school. I have been back to Smash Street a few months now. I am helping Tim. Trig and I are…
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the fate of wishes
https://tim-barrus.format.com/orbitlogue
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Tim Barrus: New York Times
https://www.nytimes.com/2019/02/22/opinion/christopher-hasson-extremism.html?comments#permid=30758363 I live in a small town in Appalachia. Hate is ordinary. It has a silence, too. A silence that says everything. A silence of indifference. The silence of ordinary people. My neighbors have always felt threatened. They listen intently to the hate in the media. The corporations – all…
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I Steal Their Jeans
i once wanted now, there’s a title/ i once wanted/ to write a book called THE ONES WHO LEFT/ and then, i realized that was all of them and it would be a very long novel walking the dark moors at night with heathcliff and i would have a candle…
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The Death Watch & The Desert Poetry
Real Cowboys i could not ride for days like he could my ass my ass my kingdom for an ass https://tim-barrus.format.com/about