one day the paint becomes too heavy for the wall
and as it falls
i snarl at the wooden frame window,
going beyond
the being drunk for days on end,
curled flakes green paint
like that of a psychiatric unit
even smelled of it,
my body grey
not creased by laughter,
ceiling fan
juddering illusion blades
imagined tugging away flesh
from my bioluminescent bones,
bareback
once ridden by the sun
penetrated by raw illumination,
walls began to shift
i am to be released
as a lost savage
in a wet city
Tag Archives: feeling
other than inward
alone on a dreams forgotten shore
that stray thundering sea
reached towards the sky
wind creased and folded grass,
elemental human hearts
away from pale insignificance
chime together
the fire has not vanished
silent dune blue air,
these memories will scar
and no holy intervention
can claim a dedicated tear
sigh and embrace
an eloquent arrival of intimacy
ripe silent love
ingest the once plain indifference
short breath saliva glisten
someone else can trace you
by indentation in the sand
and what sea birds say
in discordant voice
transparency of natural endeavor
her indentation a pressure point
to suppress dreams
that did not belong
in the vocabulary of her sleep,
sheets hid insecurities and ideals
naked form foetal curled,
an easy stereotype of an agitated mind,
face creased as much
as cotton pillow cover,
reclusive cave to that
twenty eight year identity
and hide it,
vodka bottle an empty on it’s side,
unable to rise
some piss had escaped
lemon floral bloom
washing microscopic secretions away
drowning them
a noah flood,
some clung
to droplet coated vaginal fur
where other bugs feasted
on what he had left behind
jellied semen being consumed
by eager ticks and bugs
not those that live on deer
roaming a frost bitten forest,
rolling cigarette
finger stubs stuffing tobacco
strands into place,
sat up thinking of the tensions
of the night,
looking at balled up blue panties
god she needed new ones
fabric had small holes
from fingers and eager pulling
to expose that vulnerability
not hers theirs,
sentimental erect rigs of flesh
to drill,
find rich seams of expendable fossil fuels
gasification of the soul
for we are carbon
and can be exhausted as quick,
the restoration of vision from thought
so relentless was her life
in reality could not cope with the debris
it remained as she continued,
bic lighter sputtered for a second
cigarette taste washed with cold dregs
of coffee as mug became ashtray,
inhaling
toilet flushed in other room
the drench of his fecal smell
filled the room before he left
a sour note
yet one she accepted,
she was a historical condition
and redemption would not come
with glowing analysis
finding place in biological and physical realms
and stepping away
from a climate of
frustration
Vincent Van Gogh – Sorrow
In 1882 as a new artist he created this piece that envelops you in the burden and feeling
Birago Diop – Spirits
Listen to Things
More often than Beings,
Hear the voice of fire,
Hear the voice of water.
Listen in the wind,
To the sighs of the bush;
This is the ancestors breathing.
Those who are dead are not ever gone;
They are in the darkness that grows lighter
And in the darkness that grows darker.
The dead are not down in the earth;
They are in the trembling of the trees
In the groaning of the woods,
In the water that runs,
In the water that sleeps,
They are in the hut, they are in the crowd:
The dead are not dead.
Listen to things
More often than beings,
Hear the voice of fire,
Hear the voice of water.
Listen in the wind,
To the bush that is sighing:
This is the breathing of ancestors,
Who have not gone away
Who are not under earth
Who are not really dead.
Those who are dead are not ever gone;
They are in a woman’s breast,
In the wailing of a child,
And the burning of a log,
In the moaning rock,
In the weeping grasses,
In the forest and the home.
The dead are not dead.
Listen more often
To Things than to Beings,
Hear the voice of fire,
Hear the voice of water.
Listen in the wind to
The bush that is sobbing:
This is the ancestors breathing.
Each day they renew ancient bonds,
Ancient bonds that hold fast
Binding our lot to their law,
To the will of the spirits stronger than we
To the spell of our dead who are not really dead,
Whose covenant binds us to life,
Whose authority binds to their will,
The will of the spirits that stir
In the bed of the river, on the banks of the river,
The breathing of spirits
Who moan in the rocks and weep in the grasses.
Spirits inhabit
The darkness that lightens, the darkness that darkens,
The quivering tree, the murmuring wood,
The water that runs and the water that sleeps:
Spirits much stronger than we,
The breathing of the dead who are not really dead,
Of the dead who are not really gone,
Of the dead now no more in the earth.
Listen to Things
More often than Beings,
Hear the voice of fire,
Hear the voice of water.
Listen in the wind,
To the bush that is sobbing:
This is the ancestors, breathing
fictive beat
W/O/M/A/N
gone into abstraction
gitane smoke before the rain,
cello case velvet interior
soft and firm
W/O/M/A/N
breasts and silk once seen on canvas
could not concede to his kisses
or arch of bow
he had to wander
W/O/M/A/N
no more companion
than those strings he manipulated
with fingers callused,
she will not tremor
W/O/M/A/N
as absent as the background
waiting for a taxi,
rain effective conduit
to her misery,
he sheltered the cello
with umbrella
heading to a jazz club
W/O/M/A/N
is the beat
is the tender thrum,
a cello’s true heart
and poets calling,
absinthe and kisses
parted stocking thighs
he had found another
W/O/M/A/N
Musician in the Rain by Robert Doisneau
Olga Orozco- No Doors
With burning sands styling a number of fire over time,
law with a wild animal lurking danger from its burrow,
with vertigo looking up,
your love is kindled but a lamp in the middle of the night,
with small fragments of a world consecrated to idolatry,
with the sweetness of sleep with all your skin covering the cost of fear
in the shadow of leisure tenderly opened a range of celestial meadows,
did everyday loneliness I have.
My loneliness is made of you.
Take your name on your side of stone
in tense silence where they can play all the melodies of hell;
walk beside me with your empty step,
and has, like you, that look that I’m going to look farther each time,
yesterday to a glare that dissolves in tears, in ever.
The doors to my left as one leaves the heir to a
[Realm of anyone who goes out and never comes back.
And it grew by itself
feeding on these herbs that grow on the edges of memories
and on stormy nights produce mysterious mirages
scenes with the best bonfires fed fevers.
Well I’ve seen people with blurred malls who sacrifice love
-Invincible characters marble, blind-absorbed as the distance,
or deploy in the middle of a room that rain falling seaside
away in another part ¨,
where you will be filling the bowl with water a few years of neglect.
Sometimes blowing on me with a south wind
a stormy song that suddenly breaks into a broken throat groan of bliss,
or try to delete a piece of ragged hope
goodbye that you wrote with the blood of my dreams in all crystals
to smite everything I watch.
My loneliness is all I have of you.
Howl with your voice in every corner.
When named with your name
grows like a sore in the darkness.
And a sunset up in front of me
that cup of sky was the color of wet poplar and in which
[We have drunk the wine of eternity each day,
broke and not knowing, to open the veins,
for you were born as a god of his splendid duel.
And he could not die
and his look was that of a madwoman.
He opened a wall
and walked into this room with a room that has no outputs
and where you’re sitting, staring at you in another life like my solitude.
Anne Sexton Reading
William Taylor Jr – Lost Dogs
purpose of the song
red syrup lips and melodramatic coffee
with one too many sugars in,
cinnamon toast with a slather of butter
melting slowly into a last tango,
short neck ached and rolled his head
in no hurry to retire as master of the stool,
radio perched on corner shelf
gave a soundtrack that a morning
this dull needed
rain that sometimes threw itself
against glass so vision streaked,
another diner who had rig outside
looked vacuous as if part of his brain
had disengaged permanently ,
sumptuous toast bite butter ran
from the corner of his mouth
damn he needed a bib,
a single paper napkin dabbed it away
as he looked at her again
violet on the name badge
next time passing caught her arm
fingers harmlessly easing pressure
and made his smile as vibrant as
possible,
when do you get off
with a sassy shimmy and smirk
eat your toast and drink your coffee
then you will know,
he loved the manipulative tone
of his falling into a trap
that passion had sprung
gulping with an eager tremor
knowing he was ready
Sunday Whirl
velvetmedia 