“Not being able to create art, they will not understand art.”
I have become very fond of our scuttling, our tossing and turns
Where are we going but in the arms of another once more,
into the rays of the brightest days ahead, and the soothing darks
Shadows passing by, to a classical promenade – we’re filled
with the ecstasy of a new favorite taste,
touch upon these tongues the juice of gods
the dripping filth of a fruit truly enjoyed, flesh devoured.
You dove in and let the primal loose, and used your skin like a paint brush,
Dragging across the sky until every star shone precisely how you desired,
and you desired a lot – You desired that every breath be held properly as you moved,
and passed with a right amount of resistance, a reminder that something in you is raging
to leave its mark! Clawing with every neural snap, every electrical pulse, POW – it will
leave the walls of your room dripping if that’s where you want the master work, it calls;
a summoning howl to the torrents within, dangerous, but magic always wins.
I hold the sacrificial dirk, a dirge dripping in blood,
it’s clear I keep making choices.
You ever make a mistake while actively knowing it,
and say, “ah fuck it.” ?
Life you showed me,
doing nothing because of sense
But because it struck the senses;
Because it felt good.
You did things this way because you lived out a different chord with different rules and expectations; things that applied to you and only you. To say I understood could only be a man trying with every sinew to convince the other in an argument, with passion that he struggled, and knew what it meant to live from your center.
How presumptuous. How pompous.
I wanted it though, o I wanted to comprehend, I deserved to for all I’d worked towards — to be at one with that mind and give it my nod of approval. But fuck approval. Every entity that seeks it dips into the darkness afraid of its own shadow. And that thing which I wanted, would no longer be desired if it sought to illuminate the dark out of fear for what might be beneath its cover. Go into the dark curious; feel on your hands and knees – claw for discovery, and be beset by hunger no more.
Everything is a sacrifice — What will you wither, what will you grow?
I draw you–in–many don’t go down this road.
There is too much to do,
even with what we have we’re short – we’ll make it work
I see the world writing,
a new story everyday
poetry month, another year –
It’s me, it’s me, it’me,
With brave words I hide many fears,
fear of loss, of pain, of truth,
I am not the words I’ve written
It’s me, words I’ve always been,
how to use them, how I bend,
Yet in all this months time,
I’ve managed not to rend
words from within. I am dead
Never doing what I’m supposed to be doing,
and maybe I won’t do what I should,
but I’ll end up doing what I’ve done,
and that is something.
I’ve got more life!
Have you seen me with a fire?
Have you seen me when I’ve got everything together?
Just the right amount
The right mask,
A taste I can enjoy at my own pace; nothing moves at our own pace
To my own tune – I’m sacred
Off key and I’m still enraptured – a captive audience does not decide what it likes
I see photos with remarkable composure and draw, I see smiles on the faces of those in her closest circle, I read extremely well written words with impact. I sit in wonderment more times a month than I imagined would occur over the years
I even edited her magazine once. I can dig the email up if I need some type of solid evidence. I do the things I do, and still could never imagine putting together that electric fashion show of a life she calls her day to day.
I want every line to have a purpose, there are no strays here, only intent.
It has been so long,
you’re so young,
But I’ve heard deep things
Come and dip your feet in
Che la mia ferita sia mortale – may all your wounds be mortal
Feeling like a computer attempting to execute the commands, but something in the logic is stickingxxch
The question is not whether the ship can be saved, there is no confusion around this truth.
What we are here to determine is what of the ship should have an effort made in its case.
Of all the good, and the bad, what will best serve the survived in the years after descent.
Would the lungs make the list if they weren’t intrinsic to the body?
Perhaps only what, by chance, climbs up on the sands nearby.
I think we can agree all of the collections hard earned, are perfect for the rite– A burning. Quick set the flames before any other decision is made. No moment to waste as we take on water, this won’t be complete without black skies and a warm asphyxiation. Now that things are a bit more pressing, take only what you need. Not what you want. Not what you love. Only what you need. If, when you find your way to shore, your hands are empty; you might consider yourself lucky. Washed clean of all the preconceived notions you had carefully crafted loop after loop, you can drink from the bottom shelf and feel no different.
You don’t want any drinks, but you will need one or two– just for the taste; clarity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be sometimes.