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...
The reality conjecture. Monolithic dreamsWhen you live so long among dreams,they start shaping your realityWhen you live so long without...reality shapes you
EmptinessI stopped cleaning my roomdust lays everywherebut I'm confident the void inside mewill suck it all inand leave my roomclean
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
Una mattinaAnd once again this morningI have succumbed to sadnessFor much too long been blindedBy hopes of the divine. And on this cruel morningI see, despite your kindness,That I was always yours,but you were never mine.
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
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
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
Night haikuThe moon comforts a waveBefore its impending deathUpon the shore
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.
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.
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
Terminal frostI am contemplating stillness. A desolate and flat land breathing an unnatural silence.The ploughed dirt has taken monstrous shapes as if the hand of a tormented sculptor wanted to impress his agony on this land.The traces of my footsteps are long gone, probably blown away by the blizzard. And the snow... the snow is a dirty white. It doesn't even have that feel, the one I remember from childhood. It crumbles in my hands, like sand. The sky is also grey and if it weren't for distant trees you would not be able to place the horizon in the picture.Everything is frozen. The trees have frozen, birds on branches frozen too, looking quiet and at peace.I have to move now. I remember I was going somewhere... North... I think. I'm in no hurry, but I've seen all I can from this point. My hands are a bit cold, but it's bearable. Chest feels warm enough and the walk will get my heart pumping again. It's going to be a hard winter. Hard for the land... hard for the trees... h
RainTodayrain caught us by surprisewe started running for shelter,but then you stoppedand, confused, I turned to you...you gave me one of your big smileswith your wet hair framing your sweet face...we had forgottenthat the rainwas just another reasonto take our clothes off
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
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
strong, held the seashorelet yourworld crumbleand then collectevery grain of sandto buildnew castles
Unheard of and undefinedSometimes,I have this sudden impulse tobite off my tongue.It wasn't made forpretty words and kept promisesin the first place.Back to back andstraight on til daybreak,our soliloquy seems never ending.You laugh,I wince;I whisper,you interrogate.When was the last timeyou remembered to cry for all the broken heartsthat were not your own?
The Last Uniting Gesture of a Geriatric LabradorOn this day, the world did not end.In the past month, I had a feeling it was happening. Cogniscently, it registered that this was an inevitability. I was counting down the hours, though no one tells you how many there are to count. Work. School. Food. Mess. Things don't slow down in the last days, they speed up. Little things eat up more time than you ever thought they would. Food. Bread. Toast. Butter. Take the bag out of the fridge. Take a slice out. Put it down. Wait. In the meantime, see if she needs anything.Some days were better than others. We didn't go for walks anymore, but pride made her champion up and down those stairs every time. In her later years, she wobbled, but accepted no help. If a dog could show disdain, she managed it better than any other. She started to turn her nose up at her old food. We gave her canned. After six months, she turned her nose up at that. We gave her the vet stuff. The good stuff. The lamb-and-rice premium aged dog formula. I think my dog beca
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
stardust.my spine cracks beneath rose petals, and i realize i'm not worth fixing.
HauntedSo now I'm lying on the floorTrying to sleep, trying to forgetTrying to crush all the memories I regret.Hard as I try, I can't forget your face, can't forget your nameBut I can barely remember myself, which is almost the sameBut not really, not enough, not nearlyI still can't sleep; I've found your ghost too clearlyYou're haunting me, and I can't take much more,I'm dying here on the floor.Leave me be, let me restI feel you, do you hear me?Now let me go, let me freeI feel you in the endless tick of the clockI sense you laughing at me as you mockI find you in the blood on my skin, the drink in my veinsI find you in the chaos of my mind, driving me insaneAnd I feel you in the feeble beating in my chestPlease, just please let me rest.
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.
Are we born?Are we born to be dust in time?Are we born to live this lie?Are we born to be prisoners in our mind,Just to watch them guide on their path?Are we born to be afraid to talk?Face them, don't fall in decay under them
Are we born to lose it all?To rise so high, then fall?Are we born not to feel love,To be blind in front of a white dove?Are we born to die for material things,To be numb to unconditioned love?Are we born to wage a war?To be richer and so much weaker?I wish our lives had some color
Are we born to allow them crush us?Because we can't rise, stand up and fight?Are we born to be free,To live the lives we wanna live,To look around and see a glorious world,And to embrace our own glorious future?Are we born to be who we are?Maybe...
Look Away pt. 2Fighting away the tensionBreaking away.And even the prospect of windMakes the greatest of waves.Flying away to this peace of mind, andPiercing the mountains of clouds.Above the world and beneath the sky.Piercing the veil from under the shroud.Look away, look away...I'm weightlessly drifting to the ground.When the rest of the worldIs rising above you,There is only one thing left to do.Look away, look away...When the strings of your heartAre tangled around,Look awayWhen you hit the ground.
...not before I find youLove,Don't die before I do.
ZenSometimesIn the zen gardenRocks contemplate people