Nature morteI tried to paint herI had already set the backgroundthe cold and warm colors, the surroundings,the atmosphere, the light,the soothing feelings,the sheets on the bed, forever unmade,a plate of fruits on the nightstand...but then she leftand all I have nowis a fresh paintingd'une nature mortewith a plate of fruits on the nightstand,the tortured feelings,the atmosphere, the dust,the cold and distant colors, the surroundings,and her form, imprinted in the sheets on the bed,forever unmade...
EmptinessI stopped cleaning my roomdust lays everywherebut I'm confident the void inside mewill suck it all inand leave my roomclean
The reality conjecture. Monolithic dreamsWhen you live so long among dreams,they start shaping your realityWhen you live so long without...reality shapes you
FireIf life is a slow torture anyway,Then it is a blessing to be,From time to time,Tortured by loveAnd if be consumed,Let it be by fire
LiminalSome time ago, when I first started analyzing my art, I saw the metaphors embedded in it, and intuitively refined my way of introducing those metaphors into each new piece.But I'm starting to realize that maybe I moved away from my original purpose and I've been looking at this too narrowly.It's not so much about the metaphors...More importantly it's about those creatures we shall never be and the worlds we can never fully grasp with our minds.It's about understanding this world for what it is - not in every detail, but in general - and realizing it's not enough, it's never enough.And then I came to realize something else: I am not an artist. Or at least it doesn't really mean that much.What I am trying to do is merely to expand my mind beyond what is. Art is just one of the ways to do this.I am also not entirely human... I look at myself and I am stretched and d
PersistenceI have a black old sweatersome of you may know ityou've seen me wear it so many times,too many... some might say.it has a few holesthe sleeves are almost falling apartthere's a pink decolored spoton the left side, near the stomach,where bleach fell on it.but it's my favorite sweaterand I still wear it very oftenin fact I'm wearing it right nowwhile I write these linesand though I don't attach myself to thingsthere are some that no matter how much you tryyou can't completely replaceand you will always loveand you will always missafter they're gone
Night haikuThe moon comforts a waveBefore its impending deathUpon the shore
Hall of MirrorsEvery time I turned an inner eyeall I could see were infinite reflections of myselfin cold mirrorswith no flaws But now I've started to replace each mirrorwith an imageof youand I smileeach time I turnan inner eye
Morning haikuA burning sunriseThe eyes catch fireWash my face in the pond
pretty little poet fingersfabricated gods rest between thelanguid crevices ofher fingertips, scribbling profanitiesall over her skin.she's just mismatched bones& blue bruises, telling of forbiddenlove through archaic letters.a tongue made forwanderlust, & eyes madefor the stars,even the devil fears her.
Said the DamnedScreaming butterflies invade my brainTunneling through my ears, making meSensitive to light and sound, sped upUngodly beauty, unending sorrowThe brightest of painPinholes of light cut through the darknessForming a pattern of words unrecognizableThey can only be read with the heartI know those wordsThe words the butterflies screamI know that ache, that poundingThose echoes from metal wings flappingThrough soft caverns of miseryNo relief, no release, no way to pryMy own fingers from my throat
MatterIt is only a matter of timeuntil the stone lays down with the sheepand sleeps.Rested firmly above the holeswhere our eyes used to be.It is only a matter of matteruntil epitaph and eulogy diminish to dustand sleepbecomes the eternal home,not where our souls used to be.It is only a matter of factthat our words will become reductionist, redundant,and sleepilythe world will forgetwhere our words used to be.
Metamorphobiait is a wonder all the changesthat one endures in a dayat dawn, in fear, desperation,then words pull you from the abyss,your lungs inhale a swift elation,the eyes perceive a kind of bliss,then clouds, dark clouds, again in silencethe rain, the wind, the sun againat last the dark, the taste of violence,the sensual rhythm of a trainand like emerging as imagoyou exchange fear for delightyou are a thing of many facesdepressed by day, a god by night
GladiatorBeing an artist sometimes feels like being a gladiator.Though the occasional flowers heal the superficial wounds or boost the ego after an exhausting fight, they do nothing to keep pain at bay when I go back to my cage.Just like gladiators who die in the arena, spilling their guts out in the concrete and omnipresent dirt, just like the reality of the screams and wails covered by the cheers of the masses... so do I spill everything I feel on paper, for your entertainment.And just like the cuts of a sword through the flesh, going down with a shriek on the naked bone, are real, so are the nervous strokes of the pencil real, and the words are real, and the pain is real, and the love is real. And this is the only way I can do art, and you have it all, the gore and the sublime.And I will keep doing it this way until I collapse in the dirt, with my guts spi
Cookerymy blender does not understandsmoothies"Accept My Gift of PineappleThou Foul Beast!"this is a blood sacrificeand she is sadly unreceptiveI begin the main courseI have cupboards full of wordsSee-Jane-Runsquick brown foxesI have half a mind (no, three-fourths of a mind)to sauté themintothe golden eggsmore difficult to crackthan I had thought they would be(forge? My stove doesn't gethot enough,I think)I will spice the adjectives withmadnessI will verb these nounsthrow in a voodoo doll ortulips! Two! Lips!Crack open a maracaand sell you some rhythmOh you will love thisyou will devour thisYou will get up and dance to thisI thinkI do not understandcooking
strong, held the seashorelet yourworld crumbleand then collectevery grain of sandto buildnew castles
Jealous WatersPale twilightfrosted the waters;nymphs sigh, jealous of Pan.
.the birds flysouth andwarm theirwings,forget theirempty nests
ThursdayRumors of tumors, chatty neighbors, the grateful deadA broken swing on a deserted playgroundAnd bones; oh, the bones that pile up, more everydayThursday I had nothing to sayA weak and pale moon glares down at the snow, impotentStars in motion whisper my star-name, callingTiny spiders build homes in my beer-soaked brainThursday I had nothing to sayPizza or Chinese for dinner? I can't hold a thoughtCraftsmanship went out on a three-hour cruiseThrough the swamplands of South Carolina in the rainThursday I had nothing to sayA brass-toothed journeyer shines a light in dark cornersNudges and pokes at the beasts sleeping thereScraps of re-arranged words piled with the bones rot awayThursday I had nothing to say
AquariusShe is the winter's heartand a January zephyr—amethyst ankles frozen in time.(eleven stars circulate her glacial ribs)Forever shin-deep in the seas ofa conformed humanity,she shall always sanctify the stains.
our aging seasonwinter comes in waveswarmth enough to leave you weaksoftly slips away
AcheA chink of gold held her tooth together. If she applied pressure she felt the sharp blades dig into her tender gums. If she probed it with her tongue, curious or absent minded it elicited the same bark of pain but she continued to do it nonetheless, convinced that the right amount of pressure could stop the pain.The tooth fell out.
AutobiographyIf you want to understand me,A neat little paragraph will not suffice.I’m too many things to list.(for example)I am the cracks in the pavement,The potholes that fill with waterTo trip you when you walk alone at night.I am grass so tall a child could get lost,And fields so barren that a man will nearly cryAs he curses the cloudless skies.I am broken skin and broken veins,And trails of scars that tell storiesNo one wants to hear.I am smoke and fire and ashesAnd I am what is left behindWhen everyone has taken what they wantAnd ran far, far away.I am secrets and wordsAnd I have never been able to decipherWhether I am a truth or a lie.I am a shadowBut I am moonlight;I am a star that is too far awayFrom anything to look bright.I cannot tell you who I amThe way you would have me write it.I am more than that.
Lovely ThingsHappiness in not meant to break and bend. It is a lovely thing that is difficult to mendAnd all lovely things are ruined in the end.Like a broken angel tumbling down to the ground, Crippled as the pain echoes and resounds.Lost, so lost, and never found.Like butterflies with burning wings, Like slit-throated birds trying to sing,Ruined like all lovely things.
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Heart's LullabyNo one's heart beatslike the one beneath your chest.It is steady and familiar,taking strength while we rest.I am surrounded by its serenitywith the constant time it keepsit's rhythm is like a lullaby,singing me to sleep.
The Girl with the Glass HeartHe pitied the girl with the glass heart for she was not made of stone like him.He thought, “her poor, battered heart must be so broken that its shards cut her from within.She must wish she was not so fragile, that she was unbreakable like me.”Then one day she said to him, “my love, how I wish you were free.I pity you and your marble heart, carved of the hardest stone,So unmovable by anything— you must be so alone.”Shocked, he argued, “but you must feel such pain in that frail, little heart,and I know nothing of sorrow for I have remained apart.”Eyes and voice soft, she persisted,Stubborn and silent, he listened:“I know your black, granite heart is beating, but I realize you just survive;a statue standing still so long can’t know what it means to be alive.You pity me for my
ZenSometimesIn the zen gardenRocks contemplate people