A reckless mind in a restless body, he seeked answers. In the beginning it was about the end, In the end, it became about his start. He dove heart first into the sea, His knees grew in neap tides, and he rose an illuminating height. Gazing at the blazing vapors of water, Orange, And unapologetic. It seemed a vehicle. To disappear, Into the wild, wild blue. And he gently turned and pushed back the hands of the sea, Aching to embrace him, And he divided waves with his fingertips, Parting currents, To reach the shore. Then he heard the quiet whispers of the fluttering waters, And he listened closely, Connecting the words into a glistening circuit, That sparked and powered a fluctuating sequence of his answers. There was a story; a mystery under the flaps of each time, And he would slowly exhale the dust fastened to it, As he lived a life, And as he stood with himself, When he searched for happiness. Then he would know, Where his solace flows.
I can feel the scratches unravelling something of saddening depth, as I try to claw my way out of things I have exits for. What am I doing? I’m being loud, so you can listen, I’m being silent, and so you can taste the outlines of fine print when you search for prayers, and answers here without repetitive interruptions.
I’ve pressed my chest against the hallway, and there are the blaring sounds bouncing off the walls, straight into my ears, and it seems to hurt. They’re only and always echoes. I start to fiend for the source, I push my shoulders towards the wall and my abdomen forward, I raise myself and walk freely towards the door. I walk free. As if there is no magnet in my mind that’s attracting the metallic stiffness of fucked-up daydreams, which have been washing in to make a brain beach, which I can’t touch or reach, and don’t have the courage to explore or imagine. But in the end the source, a goddamn thought, seems pointless, and dishonest, so I settle down on the floor, I lean into the air and bow my forehead to the ground, I urge my blood to recede off my fingers, to make them numb as I cradle my nostrils, and fiddle with my shoelaces. The receding blood rushes intimately through my body, there’s a focus region, its large, and it hits me from angles, that I’m too attached to envision and I……..
“I pray to catch you whispering, I pray you catch me listening”
It’s a first-class, second-hand word to live by. And I do get high off the sound, and I mingle tears and soda, and I combine some informational spit into the medley as I began to stomach it. Sometimes I think I’m an addict of my prison, maybe because I built it, and my fascination towards its design is my self-absorption. It’s strange what I’m doing right now.
“There’s an incessant greed to take, pushing up on me, and cornering me into dangerous edges of my capacities, aiming doubts along the black and white outlines, keeping me from inching away into different places, each fading day, softening, loosening away from time, and circling around the bottom of my head, lifting my mind in watery uprising. And me being descriptive of it, fronting my personal revelation, the intimate revolution that is cycling around my lips as I breathe into decisive space, gazing at the ghost lost in my reflection, slowly emerging in urgent reaches of my fingers, seems spastic and loud, an escape. So much definition crawls around when we dream, and our mind loses threads that connect to the puppet that is our body, accomplishing compromises, and promises. But in the end, when the sun sets, and the sky dims, something whirls and twirls and spins, I can feel it rushing in, its heartlessly inevitable, and it washes into me, an ocean of my realizations, and my identity starts to surface another time. Then I know, as I embrace the secrets and the flawed laws of myself, that there are bridges to construct, and the work that goes behind it won’t have me losing my mind, and if lost, its someplace I can find. And I can grow, and not grow blind”
Hiding behind the sunrise,
A reflection whose hands stretch to the night,
While the day rests on his chest.
Him and I, we have common comforts.
As he gambles his eyes to shadows to travel into sleep,
I don’t let him leave me behind,
Because everything has darkened into a pitch-black sky,
There’s nothing here for me anymore,
And I don’t want to be on my own.
A promise summersaults on the string to which I have him tied,
And an escape is not flying in the open for him to create or find.
We become runaways,
Running from all the signs,
Searching for warnings on people’s mouths,
Arresting holy war,
Scratching visions of the road on the walls.
There’s something there for me, places and people,
On these counted cards,
So I shelve him and them on the corner of every chance,
Now, I’ll never be alone.
It felt like everything had moved elsewhere like thin paper at the first contact of water. Shrunk away.
Soon, the anguish was gone, his ashy arguments narrated once in sounds that twirled like swirling gusts of air, now enclosed in bubbles that would shatter violently at everyones sighs. He was left neglected.
Silence conquered the territories that once kept him proud, emptied his heart, flooded his mind with infesting taints of agony, of a hollow eyed longing. He lost himself.
Regret started to crawl in old photographs, and behind each mirror was a blackening memory, necrotic and wilting, like petals curling up in their final hours. Time began a changing image, infected by habits, a running movie in which he chased himself away, into rivers of tragic returns.
His hands would gnaw at pages, his lips would recite promises of the past, dreams that vanished into what seemed like another life. A head full of compelxteies that was mingling with blood and seeping into his shuttered mouth, flowing into fingers mounted atop static legs, body ungiving.
And he tried, and he cried, he broke loose into shards that blanketed the floor that made troubles bleed into its fractures.
Over time, real time, life has segmented me in sides and faces with very vague definitions. I sense that there are things about me that are routinely yet obscurely fed to a vending machine which gives me newer passions, different interests in return. Maybe I can trace it back to “when” but “why” is draped in nights when I lay awake with a dream in mind, and the next morning seems to blur it into a background that slowly fades into wallpaper that needs to be torn down because it’s just not as pretty anymore.
I know what you mean.
December raises the downy hair of yesterday on the back of my neck. No embrace for the girl of that calendar month, just a sigh of resignation and despair that rustles all the other pages of the calendar. A whole year of good intentions and failed dreams that cling so desperately to that wall and under my skin. It’s like the realisation that last New Year’s hope was just an impulsive mistake and I forgot if I even made any resolutions.
And it becomes an yearly abstraction, a push that plummets fractions, breezeblocks, out of an otherwise linear tower of reality. I look back at the lost pieces, and with what may be an illusion of growth, smile. That ache seems so small, unimportant, and what I have now seems okay for a minute. Maybe longer. Depends on the length of the song I listen to, and the longevity of the setting sun.
I can only say it in a whisper but this year has magnified the aches that have lingered for a lifetime. There’s a desperation in looking for the missing pieces in the fading colours of the sunset. In the hungry chaos of noisy gulls, I try to collect my crowded thoughts into groups of words that might ease my chapped lips and pour my coffee in the morning. I string them into necklaces and charms made of sentences – poems of moonless Septembers and melancholy Sundays. That way I can at least look at the dawn without shielding my eyes.
There is something about words strung together in a sensible philosophy. Its incomparable to have had times in your life that sharpens its blunt edges and cuts into parts of you, refreshes everything somehow, and becomes strange to look at. Like gawking at your reflection on the mirror plated wall of a hair salon, while the barber keeps trimming your hair in a really bad way but all you can do is investigate your face and strike your eyes with a gaze they obviously meet. Just to realize, that it’s all there what needs to be, what isn’t, will grow back with more original strands and fibres. There’s always a road to walk towards everywhere, and since ‘all roads lead to Rome’, why does anybody worry.
As we nudge December I look at the ocean and ask it this question. Sometimes my catastrophic mind is too primed to see the tragedy in a gust of wind, to tread water when I need to swim more purposefully to my metaphoric Rome. The sea answers me in soothing syllables of its rolling tides, calmly led by sing-song directions from the moon. And there I see that maybe there is a path for me, that I am connected by gossamer threads to possibilities I have always longed for but never thought I’d find. Love, even. I just need to dive in and let the wind swallow up my caution and taste the salty water of the dawn.
The sea has all the answers, it’s like a friend for all seasons. It’s funny to think that whatever is marked by anything doesn’t make sense to anything except the candle and the lighter, or the sea and the rocks it washes away from the shoreline. So, we ramble on and gamble with our hearts, and tear pages, anatomies away from old chapters and our memories become a collage of these broken bones. So, in our search for love and happiness, we see too many disappointment and aches but to not linger on them would be best. At least, that’s what I think.
So maybe as the clock ticks this time, we should linger in that place where soft lanterns and gentle hands light and guide the darkened alleys of our hearts. Maybe it’s in that dim but shimmered glow that we find a stillness and a beauty. A calm within our storms where there is no pitch black or bright white and there is an infinite wave of connections between all of us. Because surely, it seems that this is where we should linger, in that place where the paths lead us to each other.
May everyone lead 2020 with brilliant direction!
If I lie to the stars, To wrap up the shit that I've been dealing with, And to cover it in smile printed paper, Then I knew that in the sorrow of everything, no one can hear you.
And if I cry in the ruins of a sand castle, bury me and remain in the flare of the sun. Until the night wears on howls of the tiki bars, absent in the mind,dull in the body, tired state of the fingertips sketching the moon with round Ray Bans, shadowing the hues of its whitened width.
As I tie my legs to light bulbs, loosening my eyes, breathing down from above, hanging from the ceiling, separating every fragment of my body until something touches ground, and someone comes around, to feel the light of warm life.
“I feel that I’ve lived in a lonely shadow that has echoed across my thrills, resounding and reverberating to a zero whenever it wished. There’s been laughter, nights that grew faster, days that have clung on till my haircuts, and I’m headed a way that leads me to more. Sadness is fastened to my mind, and my hands are in seismic shakes of caressing my forehead, and hair. Moments are flung above my eyes, and I watch as they fly away, they look back, keep making me feel more of something that I have boxed and wrapped in dust so it can unravel in age, in time. Yet something empties me, wastes me somehow because the manner in which I narrate myself can’t navigate thru my desires, which are many and unclear. I can survive being alone, and move on, but with all this space in my mouth, my tongue flattened, stuck to my jaw, the air wrestles and flips in the abundance of space. So, I stare into the two or three stars in the night sky, feeling the chill on my vacant arms and legs, lights dripping oldly from the ceiling, draped in thin boundaries, fading into the walls like paintings struck into museums, still, lifeless, objective. My head bobs, my mind runs, my brain knits all these dreams, and makes me imagine scenarios that exhaust my satisfaction. I should sleep but instead I’ll watch Blade Runner”
He carried thru the day shuffling vigilant eyes thru the center stage of the sky where the sun wiggles in between the tip of clouds to set and end the day. The traffic unzipped on the road and paved way, so he could drag his bones in their pulsating skin to his destination.
He studied sanctuaries of mountainous papers, and libraries of secret prayers but all he found were stunts and glimpses, advertisements wrung in stapler pins, and zero meaning. Yet again.
Does this cycle of discoveries make him less afraid to die? Make him more capable of last goodbyes? Because now he measures time in his head, binds hours in handshakes, and dreams at the blink of an eye. And he dreams forevermore of visiting those place he failed to see, his fingers pacing, and hair tracing the corners of his memories, ailing to stomach that slight twitch of the body that lapses in between states of sleep and awareness, and districts of travel and stasis.
Scratches permeate the membranes of his imagination in the concise cut of hope, and as he looks onward the indigo sea on his calendar, focusing his vision as the pages flutter from the breeze. His weariness hurries to the top of his lungs, and he cannons an exasperated sigh into open air, burying the days marked on the calendar, waiting for a howl of release.
A hundred paper lamps were floating across the river as the sun was going down, scorching everything in moody orange. Jim touched the strips of sunset colors with his cheek, in shiny, shiny leather, and gazed at the magnetic plunges of serial suits and ties, boxer shorts, and bright shirts rolled up. The tender September moments fleeing into the mirroring glass of office buildings, and the chemise of the day was golden, with sneezes and smoke settling snugly into the sparkling air.
Things look different in this effervescent glow, like the light itself highlights the cheekbones of the riverbank, darkens its eyelashes and dilates it’s pupils. Some unreasonably complimentary filter that softens thoughts and faces, and a low electric hum crossing wires and connecting the disconnected souls on alternate sides of the riverbank. Floating frequencies and bridges where there were moats and dissolving moonless September nights in the glistening water.
With teeth like piano keys, children smiled, and faces came out of the horizon, as parents shuffled and bumped into each other to reach the riverfront. Jim had the unwavering faith of starting an adventure, seeking inspiration from the suburban parental, familial satisfaction, and the Christopher McCandless, exploration of the wild. He thought he had enough age on his head to have it all. And his compact home, he remembered, had seeping pipes and now it beckoned him to go bathe in waterfalls, and not showers; climb more mountains, and less beds. This dream in his mind collided with the clanging of the barefoot footsteps on the bridge. He stared wide-eyed, short dressed into the seams, where the blankness made him move slowly to complete a scene of revelry. Just roping him with the clutch of its happiness. Cartoons from newspaper stands flew in the animate the sky, and he propagated himself into the fields of long, brunette haired people.
There’s a shared frequency here, and Jim tunes in to the atmosphere and turns the radio waves up until he can feel the air grow loud with the sound of his favourite song. It’s the kind of coincidence that feels like destiny and reverberates from somewhere within his chest until he cannot help but hear the beat of his own heart and the sound of his own hum. It’s a realisation, and before he knows it, his vocal chords open to the tune of possibilities, happy birthdays and gratuities sung in some hidden place of adventure. He sees his name rolling in the credits, words tumbling everywhere ready for him to collect with his pen in the cinematic release surging through him as he dances in the sunrise of tomorrow.
This is my third time collaborating with the talented In Mind and Out. We sparked a sense of happiness and plugged it into the character I’ve focused on writing this month.
Underneath the soaring sky, the Svengali above making sure that his baby earth remains, rumoured to kiss an apocalypse soon with its body writhing in polluted hotness. The Svengali hanging earth high on a rocky noose in his garden of intergalactic quackery. The hospital downward on the bones of earth, released Jim into an ironically brisk atmosphere.
He predicted the architecture of the day, in the end he wouldn’t lose something as good as himself. The thrill of chasing, and escaping, and falling had withered because he rippled too fast, the water probably waded and gave way for him to flow down bars, and clubs, to pavements and avenues; hospitals. Nothing seemed so loosely suicidal to him than to have fences closing in on him, blinding him with grass greener in a more calmer way than his eerie self-destructive greenery. What was so profoundly found as to keep him Collected. Untamed. A freak.
The thought of running after and beyond the end of this plateaued life, where his time had been poured out of a Corona bottle, and his soil was Marlboro ash which flowered deception and imperfection, was jumping in and out.
He captured his feet and dared them to trek the steps to a bus stop, and deliver himself to any mountainous region. The rocks opened and hailed him in, the breeze pushed him to carry the weight of his body forward and submit to the summit. Soon, night drew in closer, magnified by the stars, the darkness was fondled in the eternal distance, and the moon threw up light at the clichéd romanticism. As hours sailed by, he extracted a sheaf of prescription bills from his pockets, and unintelligibly etched with his nicotine stained fingers: I’m exploring a third dimension, a sturdier perspective to hold out all hills, and trees, and not be a one trick pony, no million dollar mountain, but a traveller of infinity.
Fading in, he hadn’t known much about the ring that bound him to existence with a promise that now he hadn’t memory of following. Recalling, and Xeroxing his steps, he couldn’t trace his fall, seismic fears quaked his legs to a sprawl, he couldn’t find the energy to even crawl to the edge, and to beat the living out of death. But it was equinox onward and on. The fire fades, and his eyes polished the blackness of a viscid liquid dropping out of someone’s arm, collected in tubes that shaded rainbow-colored cups. Was it a hospital? Or was it some kind of freak-show? He couldn’t decide, so he swept himself off the street where he found himself lounging an hour later. Each moment was a thought, at every point in time. The next thought inched further toward him, as he reached for another place, and his thighs dwindled out of the rush, his barbaric arms were danglinh and touching glassed walls and crystallized window panes. He was perishing, his mind couldn’t surf thru the flood of his collusion. There came a fold in time, his shoulders tossed themselves down a flipping wall, and he landed on his blood drenched head onto a parking spot, where three strangers picked him up, and they retrieved him to the hospital bed, one of whom rich enough, to be kind and pay for his rest.
A dithering army of states corrupted his mind, made him stand up, and salute himself from behind, where there wasn’t much, but his ripped hospital gown. There wasn’t enough, to prompt him, or help him figure out the condition of his humanity, no gravity either, or balanced position, it was always a collapse and then another plummet. Soon, someone threw him to the next night with sedatives.
In the next morning, the lights were soothed by effervescent whiteness, and the emptiness between the bed and the ceiling was besotted by faded visions of journeys to Stockholm, parties by the beach, or midnights coached by the thunder of youth. His mouth opened to reveal pints of medication, and ultraviolet rivers started doing stunts in his hurting head, as he floated to bloated sleep.
A wrinkle in his awake quietness was his father, aged in warm light, warning the sign of decay in smiles, and clinging to their history with solidified salts and sublimated roses. They helloed each other, and the father received a call, to which he paid his attention, while the son bathed his upper lip with the splash of his spit-wet tongue, and he rose, arching his back to the bed and gawking the entirety of the walls decorated by silhouettes of outside based trees, and cars cruising down the coast. Patients were cursing the cranky doctors, and people were accumulating coffee in plastic cups. Out of the blue, he gazed at his father in a soft grin, while his father guzzled the orange juice placed on a tray by his bedside, and they talked about the sun, and their respective mornings.
“I’ll follow you with my fascinated mind into this trip to darkness, and I promise to make sure you glimmer like a night in Budapest, as I collide with the dramas of harvesting my melancholy and searching for happiness. Are you ready?
Before we go, remember to warm your heart, and balloon past the mountainous landscape and map each voyage as you set sail to lands above. There’s nothing I can say and there’s not more you can do. You glisten in a bell jar, and pandemonium breaks loose in my mind sometimes, so remember to collect me too. I will deliver everything you gifted to me onward the grounds I touch, the islands I discover, the truths I unravel, and the threads I stitch with time into a sweater to fit the blustery weather on my way back, alone. Now, there’s sun and an ocean, we can spend days in canyons, and have waterfront conversations, and end our days, our sojourn in another life, lying on a hard ground, scattered, not because of being lost, but because of being everywhere, because we covered a distance beyond white light, and we’ll tie silk-roots to the skirts of the earth, and we’ll set a bow-tie which comically strangles our mismatched outfits, and our mismatched world.
It’s cold. I’m cold. But I will set you amid disco-balls, not LED’s, no normal thought, carnival Ferris-wheels will spin you to Malibu, and I will be there soon, as fast as an airplane can get me, or I’ll just learn to surf past the coast of Biarritz and trace the same fall to forever as yours. I’ll endure this cataclysmic heartbeat because I guess it’s only symptomatic of our infatuation with being alive, and making mistakes, darting thru abruptly by windows in sleds, silver-tinsels tied in the hair, always jumping, and talking. I’m filled with visions of us.”
In the silence this echoed
across the membrane of a
fractured planet, seeking
faultlines of restlessness.
Choosing a mood that suits
my hobo clothes to disguise
the rays of prohibited hues
Thoughts are surging inward the mind, and outward the eye, meeting the grey waterfront. And the sun is veiled in pebbled blobs of clouds, which raises, by hand, a mindset that travels on painted walls, and tightens within you, but in blackness.
You search for the escape, from the electric theater of human bondage, but in real life you’re in tranquil slow-motion. A hundred arrows chasing after you, with a screeching imprint of words racing away, as you stand, gazing the mystery of the waves squeezing the shore, and the concrete that gives place to you seems to be salted by gravel spilled from the ovenbirds that that set ablaze the sunshine, and then crash against the pillar of your resting palms.
Stare fixed at the horizon, nose flaring at intervals in semblance to segments of broadcast news.
Standing motionless, with a psychological dream at repetition, a movie projected on a celluloid monitor like the one you saw in Ibiza, or Ljubljana, or two meters away from home. Home. Where you’re going to be next, with your heart still intact, and your veins throbbing in dull pumps of blood, but your mind flourishing in darkened colors. Soon, you will tear the folds of the paint-tube, to release a splash of paint onto the world, which is a tainted canvas, and you are its cult leader for the minutes to follow under possession.
The noose loosens? It does now.
Words that magnify ache, and oven mittens that bake pastries, devouring in the existential cartoon tragedy show, which life is, happiness being the ads that attack and invade the television, trying to brainwash you into a vortex of zero contemplation, and full-on amazement toward dance, and drinks, and laughs. The scene is set. And you box one word hitting another, until knockout – the beautiful win whereat you finished an entirety. Now, its time to publish, bask on a softened mattress, dream a little dream of tomorrow. Tomorrow. With all its sickening parties, fizzy morning espresso, and all things in between.
Today, I settled by the verge of the bed, searching for a resolution or any new substance to the poems that had been scribbled on dry fresh-wipes, and stored in a box with a roll of sheets containing old handwritings of literature tucked beside, held in the clutch of a friendship band that colorfully wriggles. Now that I read it, it hardly qualifies as literature and I read it now with downier eyes, eyelids drowsy in a young haze. The footloose howls of experience, heading a closing verve alongside the dark margins that are festooned by new recognitions, and regrets, and wistful thinking that perfects a deception of marveling traits, and sparks a chain of events and sequences, which are reminiscent of hill rides, and souvenir gift shops. ‘Whoosh’ goes a sheet out of a hand slippery with spilt milkshakes, and the sole of the shoe on which it falls has been deranged by mud from the rocky beach of Portofino, and has kissed the cold of Moscow. I think a little dream of people, happy people, and old men raging on their roaring lounge chair, aching, breaking, falling down, darkness hiding the double floors out of which they storm, like in a noir movie. We’re all in a game together, and some of us look highly at the lights, some stares stay level to each other’s, and I bet on everything, teething behind a sofa, legs swept off, imagining all that lives forever or dies trying, and perishes in a race to the quilting move of sand by a beach, or a gliding, innocent pebble dropped at the tip of a pulpit mountain, toward an abyss, going endlessly in the tunnel of a body, onward and on, forever and ever.
It’s a pretty day, warm…
Here lay violets in a hawk-face celebration that gawks out of my window. An assurance lay nearby, ‘Everything’s going to be alright’ And I headed out with a crescent-shaped smile, and a gorge in my eyes, to collect the blaze of lips shutter in a rose-colored brain. All the burning idleness, recalled in passionate wind. The day lay at the center of the galaxy, speckled in children’s scream, and it floated away at the tap of the chest, beating in advanced laughter of the sad, sad, unforgiving weather.
Night was an exploration, that searched for a steering wheel, to trundle in the dregs of a silver memory, bathing in suntan-daydream swimsuits. And a wobbly pedestal arrested me in its comfortable clutch, I placed a hand over another hand, and my legs crawled toward the accelerator, building up force, slower, slower still. I flew deep into the night.
The wind made walls that closed in, an aviary of chirping colors, changing my head to my hands, charging my nose with mawkish wetness. And the brick laden streets were snapshots of an ancient, emptying heat that was breeding in long, blonde fields of what could have been, what I believe should have been. If only I was in a standstill in a stranger land, I would collapse. But I’m still here, nails sunk into the leather covers, and fixing the chains of my seat-belt, always looking out at the rain.
“Come, stare its legs off, and wear it down in a spiral, hungering its beauty”
“There’s a fountainhead inside of my mouth, and all the times words break loose, my mind rambles thru the wildness of this world. I travel thru dimensions engraved in cemeteries and embedded in our embryonic beginnings, but that’s only an explanation. I have no real cause, I have only a dream. And much of what I see, most of what I catch has only had truth building in findings over time, slowly, growing out to be a fatter, more fulfilling sandwich of all the events that led to a sane pretense- as my front. What do I show, and what do I mean, and to what people, at what costs. These thoughts get no one nowhere, and nothing compares to that quality of time to push wave after wave and high water, right thru the open lips, in a revolutionary splash, and spasm after spasm forcing the making of swimming strokes. And this life feels endless, sometimes, and on good days and dark nights, it seems to close, just awaiting sunrise.
What I mean may be lost and disarrayed when released into the difference of crowds that aren’t an audience. But it’s betrayal really, that we scatter over matter, and hardly get to sink completely within ourselves. We do the best we can, to curl, and to curve into corners, sense the second-hand wind that blows in thru the west sides, taken in recesses before, by others-strangers and future or past acquaintances, even celebrities. As indulgent as this seems, it helps. But there aren’t enough moments to keep, so many waste away, since we have so many things to collect and we have so many hatches to bury, simply to end up in a better position. Above all we have to create many attachments and connections to distribute like sweet candy pre- the dusk of our era. That’s just what being a person is. Be a good person.
Because there are nails on fingertips that can scratch the finest Mercedes, and there are words that can bruise even diamond skulls, there are storms that take oceans in a swirl and sway them across the harbors, onward the cities, crashing buildings, crossing them with one another, flooding lungs and hindering heart-beats, hunting love and storing it in heart-shaped boxes. And seconds fall into constellations that divide with memories into nano-seconds, while washing you to the sidewalks in aquatic defeat forever.”
Space is this tiny interlude, between the choices, and the love-threads. But somehow, somewhere along these misty aeons, you create dangerously meaning that can substantiate your shadow and transform it into a dream, that you can change, and that you might never have to run away from, simply chase till other turns. And thru the incidents that show so many trails, and a judgment at crucial cruxes of swinging time, you’ll summit upon a place, upon a grief in the nights to foresee the great phases. Discovering sparks, and eyes that glimmer in the blue apocalypse.
An apocalypse, where the sky is asphyxiated by an array of destructive planes, and the vengeance darts in thru openings in the sky, and the guns are shot inward, and the crowds dither and wither and run, while their arms get mangled in each other’s. But to each his own, and so many fall within a district of influences, and those feelings rise only inside of you- perched on a lifeguard stand… The clouds float loudly thru islands of mud, and bodies share and sell themselves in an audition, an attempt to free the captivity, over the sounds of the flat-broke-down minutes, crossed with a funereal submission.
These events that occur in your head in unstable surrounding, become descriptive of all the things you are. There’s no cure for a diseased soul, and no fix for becoming, no highway thru this hell, no separate table to transform mundane water into cherry-cola, there’s a whole lot of nothing amid a vinyl library of troubles.
A library lined with bulleted shelves wearing shades of gloom, and accommodating personality traits, pages of pessimism from an anthology of despondence fly loosely and stick to the head. Some shelves dangle with books of good memories and feelings that stick out in the new load troubles that unleash into limited yet liminal space. And the video camera faces you for your message, your momentous love song, your wooden laments, and your anguish all dolled up in a blank recorder that spans decades of lifetime.
“I make my world close, I put the sign up on the door and rest myself there as I pull threads until I unravel. I make myself smaller until I am invisible within it, even to myself, and I am happy here, with no-one and nothing. I feel desperate for the solace and I curl within it like a comforting blanket, under the layers of my mind. I know people see me and my eyes are open, but I am closed, and the signs are there. I will it and I seek it behind this melancholy door, unsure of what hour or for whom I will ever open.”
“So you open up the butterfly doors. There’s magic that travels thru the air that we just leap to breathe, we skip the breaths and they escape us, runs to a louder catcher. We carry our disappointments and we create our disappointments, trying to make our mark in infinity and in space but eventually the weight that comes with it begins to close at its zenith, and then we have to make a climb before we’re abject ashes waiting for another life”
“It’s so quiet here, but I press my cheek against the wall and feel the vibration of your words. My heartbeat is an echo and reverberates in return. Everything is distant and it’s safe that way, and I wonder if I’m capable – of opening the doors, and even what this means. How do you find the a magic in a breath, in a moment? “
“We’re all capable, we’re just not honest enough to kick start commitments to life, its too tiring. But you can’t jump life and then come apart in darkness, all that will remain of us afar our tarnished names- is the old memory, the old mistake that we’re worried about. Now, I’m not saying there’s no fix, there’s always the substantiation of moderation that wavers on the movie screen, while you gobble popcorn and then sleep early for the big meeting at work, but maybe the magic is in the tragedy that we sing about so often”
“But why do we sing about tragedies so often? Is it because our hearts memorize those songs the best? That it’s they that possess the best salt and the zest of our lives? Those tattoos that we live to regret but we love to reflect all the same…. ”
“Do you ever get this feeling, where everyone you know is happy. It’s a snapshot, basically. It won’t last you smiling. But everyone remembers everything that you do, and they love each other for their importance, for their stories, for their being. And then there’s someone for you. And you stretch that smile into your soul, you don’t know any other time, no moments flee, this time seems like a ghost, and you are a ghost, but you’re not fading, you’re in a ghost town. Tragedy exists. It makes happiness more real, it sort of trims the overflowing expectations so you know when to cherish, when to celebrate and when to just misunderstand and close your eyes.”
“Sometimes I get the feeling that it’s easy to trim the edges of happy so brutally that the only bits of happiness I may have kept for a smile are discarded casually, like junk-mail or spam. Deleted, and my inbox empty just like that. Sometimes it feels like tragedy is my second skeleton and my best backbone. Like without it I’ll collapse onto the floor, a ghost like you say, translucent skin and lifeless body. Tragedy keeps me awake at night and when I see all the happiness I feel like I want to prickle it with a pin to see if it’s real. See if it will survive if I prod the artificial material or if it’s melancholy disguised in a flimsy dress”
“So you know what I mean? Well you almost know. Nothing compares to the knowing of truth, if you do then you’re God or whatever variation of it is the figure whose name I take in troubled minutes. But all in all, life isn’t that hard, right? Tell me if you think it’s good, I’ll be happy to know I’m not mad to think that it’s all going to look good somewhere or someplace I will be. Soon, hopefully”
“You know, I think life can be easy if we let it. If we notice how there is a glittering stone in the dirt, how that tree grew leaves that are so impossibly lush and glossy and it didn’t even have them yesterday. How our eyes are always beautiful even as our faces contort with emotion and age. Those things are there for free and for anyone to see. The only contribution we have to make is noticing. Taking our minds from the clutches of yesterday and tomorrow and all the could and should and tears and sore hearts and just let ourselves wander in the open and lavish and expansive arms of today. Dancing, moving, laughing. Even in the micro-moments among everything else. That’s what freedom feels like to me. Putting down all my baggage and my luggage and feeling all the everything of the right now. And not caring if people or even myself think I’m good or kind or beautiful or strong. Just putting all that down and finding my actual skeleton, my first one, the one that is me”
“Hmm. I guess I never thought of it that way, the good way. I mean, I did once say that maybe we have to accept peace within chaos, and now I think we do. No one knows how long we have, so we work toward extracting parts of each other and each day. And that’s when death becomes so terrifying, because there’s no gravity to it’s meaning, no rainbows to its reasons, it’s just an endless sleep onward and on”
“There is not much more intimate or salty than the topic of death – well, perhaps you could argue that sex and religion are on a relative par, politics for some people too I guess. Death as an endless sleep… when it’s said like this I nearly find it inviting. A nothingness empty of expectation. A silence that is enveloping, dense, complete, lonesomeness that is uncomplicated. Sometimes I see it as terrifying but every now and then I wonder what it might feel like, say in that moment when you have just been hit by a car, and you know it’s about to happen. What would that moment be like? I don’t know if it’s normal to have these thoughts, and I never confess them, but here they are”
“I don’t know. I’ve always been against loss. It never made sense to me, it seems hollowed in a way that is unique to humanity. If nothingness is the climate of our mentality, then we’re witness to doom. I know its maudlin, but its true. We spend fractions of our life in shedding our shadows, and stepping into sunlight, but sometimes it feels that we just survive in a world that nakedly tolerates us. And if you jump the existentialist secrets and transcend generational wisdom, then you’re in a place close to silence, but its not death. I guess, all we calculate is our backwash, and we remember the worst possibilities, and that beats us into these factories of dismal defeat”
“I think I was always against loss too. But you know, when you’re in a situation where you feel you have nothing left to lose, the fire escapes and the panic buttons start looking more like legitimate options. Like fitting endings to your tragedy. It starts feeling like it’s the extreme measures that might save you, so you put the closed sign up and you start gravitating to your darkest thoughts. And you know, it’s self-indulgent and it’s weak, so you listen to others and you take the beautiful hands offered to you and hold them to your heart. You also take the medicine because you know you have to and you have no choice”
This was my Anna Karenina!! I don’t think I can say the same for her (In Mind and Out) she probably has better pieces. This is a conversation of poetry that begins with her, and then we alternate until it ends with her too. This was probably one of the pieces I’ve been proudest of, and I love love love what Rachel did with it. I’m not being kind, I’m being honest. Seriously, just read how she manages to belt out one beautiful anthem after another.
He gawked at the world’s obvious history…. Something revolutionary, something vintage, something Incan too…. And he came to realize that there is time to come.
There are days away from the spoils of his own history, which involve too many things that he couldn’t fix or make better… And he thought that he was fine, that he was wasting living by rambling thru only what was true.
So he cultivated fields of dreams and fantasies whereat to unwind, to undo his belt, recline in his car, forget about his creations, and breathe…. It was in the open road. Still. Quiet. Tranquil…. Eternity sold for a dense pause in the woody clarity of a lonesome road.
In many ways, he begin to share his story in a language that is currently silent…. It is only a starlit whisper…. And so when people would call him, he would begin to pace the asphalt until the soles of his shoes were worn down…. He would promise a return to himself, a rest and release…. But then he would leave.
Then a day came, when he hiked thru his uncertainty of future and his disdain of past…. It wasn’t anything…. But he was someplace, and he didn’t hate to be there… It wasn’t the road or his home…. But it was a middle…. A mawkish wetness that overcame his body, and it freed his brain from a contemplation stretched forevermore….
But that was a dream, a death that was still in a passage that he was yet to undergo…. Consequently, he asked if this was it, in the end do we have to make peace with chaos… Accept meaning with a gun at the back of the head…. No God to answer, but he recognized that today or tomorrow can only be okay, until he changes… And he would have to be good one day at a time, and he would have to be good every day.
Alright, you caught yourself burnt amid the dark—- And life didn’t promise anything…
The floods of shouts teethed at your chest—right when you were hiding behind your hair— and calling out the depictions of daylight in a barred dimness.
On a dark night, you rose tumbling at the figures of fame and the darkness crashed screaming—in mountainous treasures that way you tread— and wouldn’t be caught gleaming.
You dreamt of an escape—always the same—-cruising your body—wrapped in the coastal breeze—-running, running—-onward the balconies and laughing.
With white lightning and thunderous applause—receiving highly the summer daze–and you said you never wanted to be caught.
But that was just a persuasion from the fantasies that unwind today on the static of your electric buzz—the one that keeps hot your lushly lit love for the stage—in all the great phases that ravel onto new time, and habits—pride that couldn’t commit to your craze.
Then one day, you’ll bend backward in angelic clothes, ball your game to the top—-doe-eyeing heaven—while the hydrangeas glisten in gardens—closing your eyes and lulling you.
Rocking off the toppled floors, slowing down only for who could handle you—inflate you with hopes and answers—suntan, tie-dye short dress, hissing your remains—covering the sparkle in seams.
Nothing lasts forever——-nothing really matters—-nobody is infallible—-nobody indispensable—and that much you knew and more….
Sometimes, you just have to move.
Even if it frizzes your hair
If it frazzles your body,
But it excites your soul,
And it fizzes your hours,
It beats your exasperation into cheers,
And you are freed into polished arms while your feet sweep the creaky wood.
Then you laugh, amid and atop the dance of bright lights.
That’s just what you do.
The sunset is dead, oceans are crying,
the sky is vicious in red, people are lying.
Life is sickeningly beautiful
And beautifully slick
With the blood of the dawn
That comes much too quick
You walk as you yell,
Left alleged of a purple dream
The stars and the wind widen a void
To pull in the morning and night, to divide the day for darkness
To rust and corrode, to age your bones in warm decay
Has it all been so lost, so long.
As pretty as a celluloid cry,
Gamble for what’s broken, iconic soul,
Darkened days, glittering city,
Grey skies loose over the edges and horizons,
Sparking colors to seas, covered at its seem
All the favorites, the places are ruined, your stroll ruined every past affection, without the air
Of a soft resurrection.
It feels that Bullets have lined my chest,
created canyons on my body,
river of bloody regrets circling the world
Then disappearing, fading into velveteen clouds
On which I can scatter my thoughts to distract and help myself.
The edgy valley is my home now, the one I follow
Always verging. Always verging.
it is the world’s persona
to shear the horizon in half with scissors
at dawn, to mock with romance of blazing colours
The chandelier shatters it’s patterns on my shoulders,
And I brush the glass that litters the bed
where shaded red spreads like sunset
On my empty fingertips
I wish for a figure-eight in the sand
A sleight of hand, so soft
For a fate not tainted
with parting words and shattered worlds
or sickeningly beautiful things
The better half of this poem A.K.A the second part was written in collaboration with In Mind and Out. I celebrated every conversation we had to get to what this poem became. I hope all of you have read her vivid array of masterpieces, and if you haven’t then I strongly, very strongly urge you to do so as fast as you can. I promise you’re missing out.
The picture credit goes to Tom Plevnik as usual.
The avenue sleeps as the neon flames thru the marquee hung above the bars.
The chanteuse sings a tune in her acoord.
And you lay your head on the marbled counter, musing at midnight an angry poem, vanishing in the cobwebs of your thoughts, while your mood withers in the pattern of ironic changes.
Your mind occluded by themes of burning Saturday in company so intently, amidst the chant of such dim strangers,
You’re desiring that you could have the sun as your eyes- scorching whomever you want; the clouds as your beard so you can hide your tears like the rain; a radio for ears, so you don’t have to listen to the confessions and interviews of actual people, only celebrity types and all you want to hear otherwise is music.
Your freedom has been confiscated by a pretense that was symptomatic in lifestyle,
Draped in jewels of quasar-diamonds in your ring,
The constellations of episodes disappear in your histrionic cranium,
Your veins like tunnels on which tequila overflows.
The hunger blackening the tips of your mind, twitching your fingers, bruising your chest, and touching your spine with a cold clutch.
Endless nights, awaiting your tenement apartment where you can lie blankly, just la-la-la lie down.
I stepped out of the hospital towards the cold breeze and the grey sky. The fluorescent lights of the stores smashed against their utility, which was decimated to none because I had nothing to ask for. The blankness amazed me, I was swept off to the alleys, behind crypts, walking the boardwalks, lines, toward the unknown spurts of locations. Maybe there were places in the world sadder than this, or maybe more beautiful, but for that moment now, the city seemed hateful, engrossed in a busy talent, distant, and unwelcoming like all places in the melancholy paint that lazed here, to graze a field there, where I was not, somewhere drilling a tunnel to connect further. There might be places brooding darker in their search for uniqueness but what scalded over me was a school of bitterness that entangled growth with such devious notions that couldn’t be overcome by the train of imagination, or the notoriety of remembrance. Did I have to be so lost, did I have to be so far away from a place that I never had, home? I wasn’t robbed of a home, I never accepted the one I had for its flaws. The bars, galleries, apartment complexes complicated the skyline that I wanted desperately to be consumed by, I wanted to spin a sweater that could warm me to volcanic heat, which could breathe me a new attack and parachute me into an unsound abyss. I wanted to plummet without it actually happening, since I wanted to be there to see myself survive, I wanted to be another person, a spectator of myself and others, a bridge, another; just not what I was, never in this time…
Ruminating the soul could be helpful, maybe that’s what they were all doing. I kept everything contained in my jarred souls, where memory was churning into a sweet jam and becoming a cause of inspiration towards the vague corners of vicious passage. And as I embarked on the voyage to move onward the oceans of faded time, just as fast as I could, to inhale the truth, to realise that when you’re imitating nothing, life is the ultimate truth. The setting parts with light thru the sighing shadows that began to dance in accord with the rippling instability of the lampshades. A netted veil covered my sorrow, and I took apart the pieces of recall, and got free, got idle, looking for a mission, a reason to completely abandon the emotive weight. A psychedelic lie could shamelessly carry me to my bed, illuminate the way to the top, and educate me about the things that I have to do.
“My feelings are a stage, and the actors loan me an ashen daze, to which I must comfortably submit, I must conveniently pay. There is no sole liberation, there is only a constancy to which I comply, for it might be wrong to be the believer that may rue the morgue of actual rightness. I live my life by swimming between schools that could possibly identify my novelty, if I leave I might get lost. The planetary rules apply and revolve around my locked head, because they embody elements that inevitably blaze around me, quiver in between my thighs, make crooked circle that twist my eyes and kindle fires that surround truth, everything that could happen will be an abstraction under my possession, my unstable guardianship. How elusive is radical change? But if I walk away, try to attain difference, I know I will confront untamed comparisons to another life, consequently, instead I should try to translate the complexities of unhappiness to an evermore stand, and I will follow the nostalgia of tonic time”
The bells toll proudly, thru the way in which a street is hazed, flagged with fables, salted from grace. I travel, celebrating the minutes of light, and as I widen my revelations to dress the horizons, as I drive, I spark a bevy of memories, of faults, of cheers, of yesterday, and towards the secrets and whispers that float a star trail apart in the times that lazed here, now grazing there with no matter in between. The sea whistles a poem to be unraveled by someone of a caliber well known to me, as I had reached the waterfront, and the stares mawkishly mock the wind rippling auroele in the spots of the sea below a golden djjay shade, the electricity of stillness disturbed by the play of weather. I had stopped to witness, but now I carry on again, I continue my attempts to attain an attestment that states years out of my aviary, after the climate that dangles unfazed and perfumed by a spectral mist, that I drearily found as I was missing a path to escape, as I was searching for a spine to wear and travel further. The ecstasy of adventures drips thru my hands, amid my trials to reject or admit my admiration to the confessions of my greater half, my better mind, my sweeter heart that awaits all the way to the top, or discovering it all the way back home, which I have left to run. I drive even now, a little slower, slower.
The mighty minute of the leisured blue world, as I walk to explore, there ascends a broader highway, the planks build nearby, with three men lining its balcony and singing “What do you do wrong?” Shadows seal the key passage, it is the end of the line, it is a judgement to which I can’t say no, I cannot deny it here. But an escalator emerges and carries me off to shore.
A sandstorm filled the wind, strongest in its first fifteen minutes. The hit started swaying alongside the magnitude of the wind, the house in which I went became more susceptible to drifting. Time needed to be drugged with Prozac or some seizure medicine, the ground emerged from beneath the ground, the manic hour began drizzling, sizzling gawking all over the places, sporting roars of gust, the planks began to tear in the anterior and started imploding, the wood blocks started to tear and fly toward the ramparts. People walked and ran, fast, fast, hatefully fast, speeding, exploding thru a reality of corrupt glory, a dark glitter beating in the doorway, zigzagging through each corner, coarsely runny time, grenades exploded, guns were fired from outside the house, I began to trundle like a stone, wheeling myself to find a way out, I could hear shrieks outside- a man’s. I tried to trap a squall before rushing to save others, people bawled, people sniffed or was that a hallucination within the hallucination. Punches lapped, a body flew in thru the downward, the sand entered my eyes, and I was irritated, quite literally. I could feel the pain that arises when the person most close to you is done in the dark, wherein that person palely shines, with a halo, and phantoms escaping to subway walls, the bells toll in supermarkets. The roof hatted the ground soon, everything tumbled, guns had been shot, bombs exploded consecutively and simultaneously, I had to escape. “I’ll miss knowing you forever, you were my life, my most recent adventure” I closed my eyes so I could be awake and see the relics of it, the survival.
Slaughtered, wired, weary under the cover of stressful notions and truth. Awkward seconds led to a bummer, happy hours to a happy summer. Yet I miss all the sights, mountains, and the long drives, bars of pleasantries, birds in canopied trees, trenched bridging the light that dwindle, fluctuate between nighttime, daylight, icing sugar on the sight, pressing a howling, scowling mood of weather. My length is angry, my eyes trying to recover from the return to truth, I still remember so many things, yet not as clearly as I yearn, as I had earned by simply presenting myself.
Institution and industries, part of a memory forever, evermore magic moments, caught under my sweater from the spills of milkshakes. I miss shooting around the shouts of laughter, and the screams of inner worries. But they were all hidden, hidden under the letters that I write to save a recognition, a coarse cognition, that realizes color and splits its joy. The time in dunes were fresh out of luck, with an abundance of ducks to keep tracks of lines, staying in a hostel was fine. And oh yes, I miss the excitement, the revelry outside walls, outside the realty sewn into jobs that make hateful unoriginality. Inspiration comes from rocks and wells, paintings of Rockwell, texts of young poets, lit by the stars and the moon, repeated in electric insomnia, cherished in mutual friendship, love, and the affairs cracked under the crux of legalities.
Soul, spirit, clung whole around the intracranial handwriting, firm carves of distinctive canvas, uppers pink and purple, factories, burgers and shops around the empty streets, around the Dutch beats, revolving around oceanic renditions of Israeli prayers. Watching movies, silver screens, trash magic, agony fiend.
With the rumors of ideas and delusions being exchanged in my specimen mind, I lulled myself to a sleep of pastel pastures intercut with red holes and bright lights. I was in another place, a worse world. I was on a map, but long I stood not in familiarity but amid assortments of stranger settings, on a swing set with blurry vision. It all seemed blue, a minor difference from my visions but a plunge back into the shades of the place where I had started. I wasn’t waking up yet. It grew more vivid, the swing was rusting at a rapid pace, breaking at joints, the steadfast sight of blue proved to be the sky, and I forgot to escape, and I forgot to shout. I took the choices less erred by, I took a path of apathy. I lifted my eyes and fell to the power of a dream. I crashed on the floors, but the reverie persisted. The sky flickered and cried before me, I closed my eyes, but consequently, the sky collaborated with the fluffed clouds and grabbed a terrorizing reign over the immobile me. I collapsed to the actuality – I couldn’t be out of my dreams. In the subsequent sequences, I lost my hearing, my ability to speak, well I lost myself. I was only my eyes. Then the rain came rolling down and took that away too and so I was finally in a black sleep, a true sleep.
In the sole liberation of a time that did not undergo my squandering, I ringed a wire thru the war calls. People collected at the printed edges of my books, two-toned solid checks of airplane silhouettes grabbed me off the walls, native styles, tentative desires, and dragged me past the evil motorways. The skies were overcome with rainbows of the history, something revolutionary, something equated, something a little Incan too. There was always the sun in my eyes, the morning after, in it’s final hours, closing my visualization. Ah, the sun.
I suppose everything on earth has an extraterrestrial meaning.
To leave, first you have to stay.
And to say it’s never too late, you have to be right here.
Life, a free fire, freewheeling I, gambling doors of a home in the dark night,
barefoot roaring through the glisten of bright lights,
with the premier of escaping circling my eyes,
and my eye sockets giving bed to sunglasses,
and my shoulders blanketed by leather jackets,
and there is a beautiful feeling, there is that, to sing off the din of doubt
and to raise a thousand whereabouts, in the newspapers.
Beneath the grounds on which I venture though the quiet darkness,
the prospects start whirring, begin rattling to welcome me.
And I ride through their palpitations, I ride through their excitement, I ride through the danger, I ride towards a stranger.
I promise. I promise.
The magazine tearing of grief, happiness, coffee cups, and lushly layered advertisements, follow me through this closing verve. They can keep up.
- To Sarah Abraham
I hope someday that I will possess the world and I hope when the time is right, I will forget it. Secrets dawn upon the day and turn around the screws and spiral of the night, they keep me tied to a rock, and I can’t find the way to lead me out of the caves of jealousy, beyond all the hatred that is dusted atop the things in my room. It’s a cold, broken fiber that binds the fabric of life together, weak and sacred in an unknown pride. Spiritual darkness claws from above, maps the drawings of body, creates dangerously the constant obligation to fulfill in the islands of discoveries, shakes the places to attach to and detach from, then soon all the troubles toss high in the sided night and its weight crushes the speech beneath. All that washes away in the backwash is the skin of worry, the blood recedes into nothingness, and the soul floats away above the yellow hallucinations that wear the horizon. Then everything shatters windows and tears the drums to kill without shame the prospects that beckons on, “Starters need to come home”. The tables implode into a cut up of wood, the motorbikes arrow across the country and crash into Colca Canyon, they crumble and the riders sink into the aerial defeat, all the things that are coldly bound in the falling out of dealings, in the ripped vocals of vain contacts, start downing the knees breaking the teeth brooding darker looking for meaning but in all the wrong places – around the corners they get tighter, get tighter and bleed the veins dry. Meanwhile in the meantime, I anticipate happiness as if it were homeward-bound. True, that I couldn’t belt the country that death does apart, puts in its pockets and let’s seep through the graveled shoes, but I withstood the pain that cuts the throats, let the wanderers roam alone through the dusky dawn, I illustrated my path and I strolled thru it. When life imitated harm, when I sensed glitters as gold, I walked through the marbled rows, I marched through the impoverished lines, I crusaded through the emptied wastelands, and I paraded in the nakedness of honest settings. Every lipped breath that is drawn to shield me against the uncertainty of time comes from my two eyes and my heartbeat, never mind. I’m punctuated with visions of my hair clothing me as I walk through the terrorized hospitals and schools and I sing a figure absorbing, strips and strings of judgment wrangle in the cluster of thoughts that flock and hover, look up towards the sky, and look away from the trialed road and I will follow the flight of the scattered par avian, reading long lost love letters, and letdowns, life’s greatest hits. I don’t quite know everything so I read and read; for life is my atoll, wherein I’m aided by the letters of the people in lands so distant in feelings still in throes. I’m moved, move with me. Did you this time?
“It has happened before, I have done it again. All the bars come crashing down, the sky ascends up the straits thru which ropes of vine spiral and screw. And I watched, I looked, and eyed and smiled all over the faces. I’m resting in my mistakes, running wayward in the waterways and blades and shards await and behold the other side.
Circling fears, irresolute disappointments, swinging trust refuse to leave my thoughts. All the times I close my gates, I wake up to the relief of nothingness. Every time I close my exits, I find a place of comparison, of contemplation, of communicative stops, of collaborative stunts, of collective death. No one narrates my dreams and reads them to me aloud to set me adrift an avowed ocean to sit and set me awake, in consequence I can’t adapt, I’m chasing a time to be afloat. I’m driving and drowning. If I lay closer to the ocean, lie nearer the truth, get old and free, drunk and idle to waste fallen years.
Everything begins to move. There’s a velvet darkness through the looking glass in green eyes lost in daylight, while everything rushes to the signs of Amsterdam wherein I forget the world”
sing, sing, sing, sing, sing, sing.
sing, sing, sing, sing, sing, sing.
sing, sing, sing, sing, sing, sing.
It’s like I told the body, listen to the mind. Oh, the steps that I take to open all my doors.
Through and through a thousand splendid stars up an up, up in flames. And a million nights align across the hollowed sky, the ceilings crush slowly inward the decor of the room. The room of the house of the color blue, in the streets of Basque tongues in the hollering mouths, the city of mythical complications stretched slowly after the effervescence of the morning street scene.
Because I’m wandering lost towards the tomb of inner freedom, because I tried a judgement before the law that was flawed wherever I would fail. All that is true is truth, all that is unknown is a star trail apart. And I’ll be right here.
If there is no godly creature, the rocks are scattered in the glow of great sunshine, in the escape of black seasons, in the madness of young dreams, of beating hearts, of barbed veins of twisty, dusky afternoons draped by the dress of clouds. The crystal panes of windows bound in Spanish wood show a hundred years of cold smiles. Over here, the dim paradise of the gifted present, a human being on the balcony can be seen humming because the whole happy mess of being is jazzed by a funk beauty dream.
The pebble white angel cloud’s sonnet is long-drawn-out athwart the mystic sky. The holes-in-the-wall have a lilac frost, outside there is a lilac breeze amidst a hyacinth mist that forms an alliance with the innocent menthol tree-of-life. The pale blush of celestial mysticism is the essence of my dreams, in the quite refuge of still aqua. The burnished sun is dressed in ivied robes of flares. And I’m sailing on a boat, to my dream maker’s castle-in-the-sky.
Doors open and doors closes. Everyone is in a room, I’m out in the hallway. Watching and wriggling with shades of green on postcards, nestled in a cradle, inappropriately placed in the corridors. Time drives by and I age a year each day.
O, all the time we scurried to places, on the inside we worried, and to see all the faces made us happy. Onward, the ocean we look blurry, to get free and we hurried. Sit in the midst of time, where the wind swings chimes and we’re never weary.
To trap his breath, then give, gave up before birth at the kingdom and the clan, impossible truth, he was inside a day, he was inside but now he’s collecting outward at the edges, the hundredth night of the year is always distant, its the last good night, last day that is okay, he’s hunched on the baton criticizing his own eyes, it was he who wades through the rocky pathway and fails full of apathy, one hand weighs on top of the other while both sleep on the metallic edge of the baton, he shouts to flicker the light, and his breath is trapped. He can give newness now, the lights waving horizontally hollering a chance, a probability, his legs draw a sprawl however, dropping at the knees, same old leather jacket, the stiffened tails stick up behind, day dawns, he has only to open his eyes, lift it, to vow afar a promise, a moment past he tackles to hunt, someone divines him, divines us, that’s what he’s come to, come to in the end, a sight to the mind, there divining us, hands and head a little heap, the hours pass, he is still, he seeks a voice to catch a goodbye.
Ruined land, hot, unforgiving ruined land, that he has beaten black with footsteps through the northern lights of Norway, hiking up the Pulpit rock, the best selling show of Scandinavia, trodden black with grunge. He gave up, hugging the lines between the water and the mountain, praying quietly for a little panic to run him up, a little night music. His elbows digging in the rocks as he nestles his head on the grey scatter, confusion of memory and covet of loved ones and impossible youth, grasping the baton from his backpack, in the middle he stumbles bowed over the edge, a life of his own he tried to put in his pockets and drive away in the multitude of meantime, in vain, never any but his, worth nothing, because of being lost, he said it wasn’t one, it was, still is, the same, moments still inside, the same, he’ll put faces in his head, names, places, churn them all up together, all he needs to end, phantoms to flee, last phantoms to flee and to pursue a new zenith for a happy ending.
I have a recurring reverie that is most prominently being expanded in my imagination, its like the set of a movie that occupies all the studio lots from California till eternity.
I meet passion, its a lip that is painted a greenish blue, it’s breath smells like lavenders and Robitussin, and it speaks in a European dialect but with a pronounced Australian accent. At first, its voice comes through a black dim dark, then its vices shine a little line on its parched edges, then all of its wounds redden the outlined countenance, it isn’t truly there and I can’t imagine further so its a fluctuation of sordid truth, and it disappears and the lips pluck a few words from the musical mind to interpolate to my humdrum. It orates a danger to die for, a fashionable drama to change within. It’s warnings are warming, the struggle seems worth the recessions since the dispersal have a strong release. It seems that every man gets his wish when he sees those lips, and he hears its voice come through a icy ease, a given comfort, and just a long fatuous dwindle between the cool and the cooler. In vivid interludes, it interviews me with tough questions, I ask it where to be. It says an island and explains the spirits is an island to unleash and that powers is a pathway that is not easy or trigonometry yet another sordid truth that gives the islands palm tress, Mercedes, white sandy beaches and an evermore reason to distract from the mundane stories of commonplace isles at the supermarkets.
I cannot leave without a penny in my pocket, I am setting out on a journey, but if I accept the offers, I would be obliged to turn back. This might be the greatest thing for me, greater than a magazine or a funk beauty dream, just a little anonymity. Perhaps someday, if all is sadly done then looking back I will say “if only I had turned back, instead of going on”. Everybody lies, in some cases, I suppose people do blurt the madding truth, but other times most people are incapable of smearing the reality in the weakly outlined weeps of the day. Yet I, having bounced out before I could creep in, resent the sacred merriment of the helpful pathway where you admit to all those who handed you up and up, up in flames or anthemic Irish days. I’ll get my day simultaneously as I fulfill my hunger for fame and food, hope and hymns. What’s tougher than the aftermath, who’s wickeder and mean then the bitter end of luck and love, yet we persist through the feelings, our feelings. And in consequence, I must weave a sequence of plans to purchase me the didactic hand of mind, heart and the will. While the barriers are many, too many, to overcome maybe I could find a cove in the walls and jump while the prisoners watch in the gaze of swinging time. My own attire, a signature look, to heat the light of life, suture the bristles of brushes that failed to hold together the ravings of a kind that would have distributed gold coins, many gold coins. Serious and humorous in the eschewed night of beginning, to push the door back to the walls of the doorway and depart in the company of unavoidable circumstances, and to confront the future in a manner that doesn’t compromise my reliability as a hero. My hands are up hanging, so as to receive from the night, the resistance is in my journal, and then, in consequence, I open the peace and sweetness of my awake footsteps interrupting the said resistance so I may walk on, and I wish I might walk on.
Out on a lone, near the shoreline, circling trash cans, behind the ancient galleries, the racing mind cradled in the photographs of yesterday, the aspirations of today, and the heavy hope sailing for tomorrow. Hung in the deep current, prickled in the flesh, with furious eyes coloring the room, opining that the woods are upon the places you enter to spectate the outside. Strangeness fades into the odes and opuses you compose, and you’re of perfect gravity in the real world, the real world. The light knows I love, lie, live, borrow, and I cry in the beat of the night, among whispers and caressing hands, in divisions and in lonesome crowds.
Sequences of carousels, consequences of carnivals and open air – CONTEMPLATION.
Marooned in the methods of courtesy, those will be, who in the flicker of crying cigarettes contend with erosion of monetized life, turn to vagrancy. They’re always fundamental in times of adversity, always alluding to their rusting age and the cruel, unforgiving world. Its a cruel world, a cruel unforgiving world in which he unfortunately walks. And he might insist that the rain gives the best baths, and that the cold wind is the best way to catch your falling self and there’s nothing softer to the nestled head then muddy grass. All the windows that are subjected to his peek have shutters, he doesn’t know better, that’s what I say, what I think, where this thought was made- somewhere in between urgency to present and to venerate the whiteness of his dins.
Panegyric panacea for the gentleman whose lurking shadow is Joyce, and his dream is impoverished by the stricken maternity.
And to be where, a place, somewhere or someplace
Pressed against the sugarcoat of greatness, on its slim chest
Wanting to be fresh, wanting to be there in regular frequencies
And to clench the study, light up the reason and smile at treason
And breathe the swollen air.
Five stories high on schools and vows,
And the daytime is now for the witnesses to ascend,
Down the flights of fine friends to an eternal lie.
But breathe the swollen breeze, squall easy the Heath.
Recall the sights of shining bends to the fitness of avowed wreaths.
Can the hourglass silhouette, quicksand the land of bets
Days that stood still to kill the man of crass nets,
And be the becoming that becomes the being for startling
A wrecked starting that the quicksand pulls in majors and minors, minus and plispl,
Taming the gaming blame, gambling the flaming shadow of belief, to release a relief, to catch a thief.
The sky is of sapphire ice drops, the crowd is worried
All the things I have, I have in the bruised memory,
I ought not hurry to the ride, to the raining sunshine,
But as time goes by, I hit and run the mountain and azures,
In the pale fire, the grinning moonlight, and settle on a journey.
His naked eyes were stripping further into blindness, but not before watching the answer to his call.
His call for help.
As he stood in the middle of the road, the wind seemed to draw in from corners, reaching slowly once, then quickening and ripping toward him from every direction. It ceremonially roared and rotated before touching him, now holding him in an unreal clutch.
The air became forceful to push it’s way out of the crowd, toppling other particles to grasp the sky, reaching reaching. And the storm then deflected. Still with eyes on him.
He was untouched then. But lost. And he heard knocks and sirens, as if he was being divinely crazed alone. Life continued. Without him.
And he stared into the twisting, turning sky, sipping seas, the sun blinking and blazing in flutters of the dawn, as it submarined across the desolation soaked storm.
Uneasy darkness settled but only in him. He could see people flashing torch lights and lanterns around the translucent walls of the wind, chasing after one another. They were speaking of the news, and new apartments, and openings in ozone, and if their was life on Mars. Nobody knew.
A brave design marked his brain. And he crossed his mind with strength, knowing he didn’t have a lot, reading into an existence of his own. Operating in the future, he would be more sure of the unknown, and prepared and repaired for all that has been and will.
There’s empty, open spaces once where things used to float about.
And those things were clinging to each word I said, and hiding in everything unsaid, and unseen.
Now, all my dusty daydreams are clearing away to make banks, and all hope washes in and takes away parts of it and flows downward.
If I follow this river and search for myself, will I see myself as a shadow on a surfaced rock, or will I see myself at the bottom floundering with all my life?
Could I see the sky then, is that the persistence of hope? Of dreams?
As I chase after myself, gazing hungrily at all I took down in my watery disappearance, will I have new things to keep?
Will I tire and breathlessly rest against the dusty beach of those things?
I’m coasting away, and yet still circling the same surrounding.