Cloudy Lines

Cloudy Lines

Entrenched and aching,

In a mild prison, that is barred by soft breasts,

And visions of a delight that never arrives

If you can look into the darkness,

That I have erected in the midst of my perfection,

You might tumble into rapturous laughter,

Gently urinating on my funny dreams

 

There’s a girl who lives in a cottage,

That stands beside a thin river

She lives alone, she smiles,

She bakes bread, has a dog,

Drinks whisky every night

She spares no mercy to offer her heart to the world of men,

No time,

To lend her ears to the tremors of fear that rule our world

No television, no radio, no internet,

Just her whisky, dog, and bread.

She’s happy, I’ve kissed her, loved her in summer,

Hated her at fall, touched her warm skin in winter

I’ve known her fears, tasted her dreams,

Drank her whisky, stolen her wine.

Her life rolls on toward oblivion,

Like the stars do at dawn.

She spares no thought for tomorrow’s possibilities,

And dies to the whispers of midnight light.

 

Lyrical delight leads us to naught but damnation,

Too much I have kept my hopes in verse

Invested my heart in beauteous tones,

Strung my heart to give life to words.

I have no complaints. Just a broken heart,

And a mind too small to hold and embrace,

Its endless frames of melancholy.

 

Words exist to tell lies.

There is nothing a word can tell,

That is anything but a lie.

Can you see? Look far into your mind,

Can you see?

Without words, our lives are nothing,

And yet everything, and nothing.

Without words, these constructions of color,

Have no place in existence.

Our world is a world of words,

And we, the most gifted of all liars,

We wondrous tellers of verses,

We poets, we dreamers,

We weave the deepest,

And most elusive of all worlds.

 

I feel like my soul empties into the night,

As I give birth to more verse.

You cannot see, no looking into me.

I bleed. A blood that has no taste,

From a spirit that has no breath.

I am the messenger of death,

And I say to you,

“Go now, live. Tomorrow is a tearful thing,

Death is our blessing. Our end, our gift.

Tonight you see only the endless sky,

So, that when death comes,

You might see beyond it.”

Advertisements

Broken Painting

Broken Painting

I want all kinds of things,
Like a life with no work, no hardness,
Simple moments floating around,
Like paintings, to be looked at.
I want lots of whisky, laced with magical syrups,
To do all kinds of things to my mind.
To be innocent, I want to be drunk with innocence.
To know nothing, and be in foolish awe at every penny,
Striking glass, spilt water on the floor, boiling milk.
And to laugh with the wind and dance madly,
To shave my head, leave my hair to wildness in winter.
Let the snow freeze my balls and the sun of May eat into my lips.
I want to leave my tongue to touch the rain, leave my ears,
To be slaves to the senseless semblances of old music that live today.
I want to be a bad poet. A good one. To listen to good music, and bad.
And drink cheap wine, expensive whisky, illicit rum,
To die young. To waste my years into old senile rebellion.
I want the world.
But here I am, sealed to a plastic chair and brightly lit screen.
Looking at the reflection of a large universe,
Dying every moment.

I want to fuck her with her hair pulled back,
Pouring peppered boiling whisky into her mouth.
Watching her groan for more, and smiling,
In all that dastardly pain.
I want her seething and rolling in thorned cotton,
Screaming for her blood to come rushing,
Through into the light,
Spurting through tiny holes in her skin.
But we as men make pacts, as women we settle,
For cheap roses and hot chocolate.
For expensive wine, satin clothes,
Plastic condoms and boring nights before a dead flickering screen.

I want me, in absolute insanity giving origin,
To new life. To let the whisky that dances on my lips,
Birth some great new verse. Great new dream.
But then, I’ll stay sealed to these old ambitions.

I want no schooling. I need breed insolence,
Bloody wreckage in all that is orderly.
I want to heat the blood of every working class drug addict,
Every tobacco smoking fool who’s sold his life to repetition.
Every alcohol consuming shit-speaking contract-making,
Hair-trimmed half-spectacled well-dressed dead body,
I want to teach them how to dance.
But then, I settle as a brother to them.

Only defeat makes me write, and I waste my wisdom,
To be ashed into the trays of self-righteousness.
Dead, already.

In those older years the words came from honesty,
Now they come from disgust,
Flavored with a strange taste for life,
To keep on living.
For what? Who knows?
The song keeps pouring away into the future,
And we remain, stuck to yesterday

We are the men and women of our dreams,
Freeing our hearts violently,
Fucking each other with our lies,
And seeing the final freedom in our bondage.
What a joke?
Life! Aha!
It takes a great taste for madness to understand it.
A madness to want nothing and yet all of it.
And then the cowardice to switch your love to that whisky bottle again.
A deep column of sweet shining gold,
In the sweet embrace of which your dreams find a marriage,
To everlasting non-happening.

People have forgotten the charm of tragedy.
To stand and behold, the subtle subliminal flavors,
Of injustice and monstrosity. The evergreen messages,
That linger beneath the ever-elusive grasps of death.
Tragedy is our friend! Our friend! She remains,
Till time frees us from whisky and women, men.

Here comes the bad news, we are all going to die.
And between the lines I see it,
The great hoax. The things I’ve wanted, the things I’ve had,
And between the photographs of red lips and heavy breasts,
Lost trips to wonderland in chemical indulgence,
Forgotten bibles and bashed folklore.
Between it all, I have found myself, and yet,
Not the self I quite expected.

Give me more drama,
Or I will fade away into the backstage of existence.
Forever left unsatisfied,
And screaming for one more breath,
One more inch of open eyes and honeyed lies,
Never to return.

Dancing through Hell Fire

Dancing through Hell Fire

I often feel we cheat ourselves because we’re afraid of our own glory. We’re afraid that deep down, we truly are magnificent creatures destined to keep on living, not achieving, but being the most glorious pieces of light that stretch across the endless expanses of space. Sometimes, I feel that the greatest purpose of breath is to dance, to dance through every single day like nothing matters. There lingers deep down oneself the immense urge to explode into oblivion, to become a simple nothingness that is more glorious than the atomic truth of material existence.

Every time somebody reads something, it seems like they are looking for something. In every act, it seems like each person is expecting some kind of great mystery to come rolling down onto the floor of their conscience, naked, bare, and innocent. It’s only a daunting thought to see that there might not be any mystery at all. If we remove purpose, meaning, tomorrow, and time from our lives, we simply aren’t able to imagine what might be there to look at in the sunshine. There might be nothing at all. Say I just give up thinking entirely, would anything be there at all?

So many people are searching and searching. I like laughing. I adore the human ability to burst out with energy from the innards laughing into space with a sense of insanity and absolute craziness. Because of the way so many people have told me life should be, the mold it should take, the kind of boundaries it should be limited by, the kind of stupid scientific theory it should be reasoned by, I find even writing this difficult. From deep down in the unconscious I feel an almost unstoppable forcing drawing only dishonesty from me. There is a kind of living organism stopping me from touching life. I don’t know, maybe the organism’s just another thought.

You know I’m afraid that if I stop writing, I might lose myself again. I might forget life, might just disappear into the endless void of non-being. But then, I’m this endless explosion tickling myself at this little corner of the galaxy dreaming of doom and hopeful of a blessed tomorrow that hasn’t come for over a billion years. Funny, eh?

Morbidity is this little flash of wisdom that sits smoking a cigarette made of childish doubt at the tips of my little goose bumps that come erecting through every little molecule of breeze that touches me. I sit here, asking the sky to come molest my existence and cloud me with more and more confusion. There is great evil in this world, and it isn’t our enemy. It is our experience. And we make it because we like it. We love great tragedy. Deep down, the human heart is crafted by soil, wind, and spirit to handle the most grievous torment, the most heart-ripping sorrow, and the most devious and disastrous self-deception. The human mind is made to feel evil at its greatest height. This is not our destiny, this is our creation. And we play it out so well that all our acting has transformed itself to become real personalities in this desert of verbal and mathematical calculation. Only gods can hoax themselves to perceive mortality as a real concrete thing. Only gods can take this existence ride into absolute mayhem and uncalculated misery beyond self-understanding. This confounded movement through the undefined cosmic soup is the absolute glorification of our divine existence. You know, it’s great, hell and all. In the deepest fire is where you will find the light. Rotting like a living corpse in the deepest, deepest most unimaginably painful place in your infinite self.

I stopped searching for reality when I discovered that losing touch with reality is reality itself. This whole thing, this life, it’s too fast. We try with paintings, music, poetry, we try, but those are just desperate attempts that come meagerly close. It’s too fast to capture in a sentence, it simply can’t be done. Ah, it’s great though. You know, we’re all drunk on this great cosmic thing. It’s a great and long intoxication, almost eternal. In the mind, sixty years seems too little. Run to Medicare, fitness, hit the gym, sport, diet, good food—bullshit. When you forget tomorrow, you’ll just be dancing out there breathing the very air that sustains you. There is no tomorrow, so many idiots are fighting a battle that does not even exist outside their mental space. The mental space is an elusive entity. Everything that exists in that space is a dream. And it’s funny when you realize that the entire universe as you knows it happens in that limited mental space.

Does anyone really set aside time to think of useless things? I wonder. The world is so preoccupied in making tomorrow better than today, they are interested only in productivity and mechanical manipulation of every dam thing. Even this thing they call love, it’s a mechanical process devised to end in confusion, torment, anguish, and total indifference. Duality defines the world every minute in such a way that each intention is bound to attract its diametrically opposite intention. If you chase happiness, you will run into sorrow. If you chase salvation, you will run into damnation. If you chase love, you will run into hatred. Success and failure. Life and death. How can there be so many people out there who never figure this out? It is so, obvious. So, concrete. Yet people live in a way which merits the belief and hope that one side of the coin can exist without the other. It’s absolute ignorance. It is hope that keeps you crawling in the shadows addicted to wishful thinking and endless dream.

You will not wake up if I ask you to. I will not wake up if you ask me to.

Whisky, wine, rum?

 

art: Vincent Van Gogh

Tears are Real

Tears are Real

Erasmus looked through the silken glass at the best seller’s shelf, ‘The Dreamer’s Stagnant Poise’, a new book by Dr. Randall Bay. There was something about it that called him to it, asking him to give it a read, to stroke and feel each page, and swallow every word and make it a part of him. Another side of him taunted him strongly, to leave it and just walk off, it wouldn’t make much of a difference.

He knew what the book was about. It was a novel about a wealthy middle-aged man overflowing with talent who always fell short of complete expression of his innate gifts because of his addiction to dreaming about the future.

‘Sir, why don’t you come on in, it’s getting pretty itchy outside with this heat’, the book store teller urged Erasmus in. There wasn’t much on Erasmus’ schedule for the day anyway, he toddled his way in slowly, a part of him pulling him away, the major part of him submitting to curiosity.

Erasmus thought to himself, book stores smell really good, one of those places you could spend time at even if you didn’t want much to do with books. Erasmus tried his best to stay away from ‘The Dreamer’s Stagnant Poise’, pretending to himself that he could find some other book in the store that would make him forget all about Dr. Bay’s new hit.

He eyed the bookseller with contempt and irritation, wondering why he catered to his welcome.

To add to his battle between curiosity and ignorance, a very unwanted voice came ringing in from behind as Erasmus made his way through the other shelves of fiction. ‘You might want to have a look at this one sir, it’s been selling like mistletoe during Christmas’, the book store owner was now standing near the bestseller shelf, pointing at ‘The Dreamer’s Stagnant Poise’. Erasmus would never understand his weakness to the suggestion of strangers he sincerely wanted to ignore. He walked up to the bestseller shelf and picked up the book of conflict.

Without having a second look at the cover of the book, he paid the man, collected his receipt, and headed off out into the burning sting of summer walking home as quickly as he could.

It didn’t take him much time to finish the first ten chapters. Calvin the protagonist of the book was a gifted pianist who wasted twenty of the best years of his life in doubt, never expressing his skills to properness because of his endless fear of failure. Calvin was now forty, with all the wealth in the world he could imagine, running successful businesses for which he cared too less to hoard or be proud of. Calvin was a broken man, with a wife he dreamed of abandoning every night and a daily routine he loathed as much as his involuntary fear of failure.

The tears rolled all too easily onto the pages of ‘The Dreamer’s Stagnant Poise’. What had Erasmus done wrong? What had he done so wrong that he was left with nothing but an empty hollow within him that filled itself with uncomfortable adrenaline every time he read or heard of the success of his peers?

As he flung his newly purchased book across the floor, he buried his face in his palm and sobbed. What had he done so wrong that he was left looking forward to nothing but the embarrassment and failure of the friends he involuntarily loathed? Randall Bay was nothing at all before the monumental talent that Erasmus was. He was a man who identified perhaps a couple of skills and a few moments from his life that he worked into two of the best-selling novels in the last two years. There was no soul in these novels, but there was enough sweetness, charm, and conflict that would excite a million readers.

Randall was one of Erasmus’ closest friends. He had known him since he was eighteen. And now Erasmus was forty. While Erasmus was ever more skilled and gifted than Randall, Randall wrote, while Erasmus dreamed. He dreamed of what to write, and how to write. He did write, those rare few lines that carried power and magic, but few lines every three months or so. Erasmus dreamed, while Randall wrote. While the world read and entertained themselves to the technically crafted artwork of Randall Bay, the bitter tears that graced the pages of ‘The Dreamer’s Stagnant Poise’ remained to be the only testament to the once possible alternate fate of Erasmus Slade, a gifted writer who dreamed of many words, but wrote too few.