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
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.
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
Night haikuThe moon comforts a waveBefore its impending deathUpon the shore
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
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
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
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
Lilac II - tankaa star-glow connects their breaths -a river path. in lilac light she forgets to sigh.
Jealous WatersPale twilightfrosted the waters;nymphs sigh, jealous of Pan.
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
BlindnessThe images in my head have always been overwhelming,eclipsing or completely drowning the realitythat lays before my eyes.How thenam I to see?
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.
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
Framed[ I met him at the county fair.It wasn't like the songs predicted;I had mud up my shins and hehad grass in his hair. What a mess. ][ I kissed him at my grandma's house.He swallowed me and digested me;I became a part of his simmering self.We fused together, and I died. ][ I married him in a triangular church,When I turned up in white he grinnedand whispered "what, no muddy knees?".I put a leaf from my bouquet in his hair. ][ He kissed her at my grandma's house.She had left it to us when she passed.In the house where I'd learned about lovehe taught me all I know about betrayal. ][ He left me at the train station.I'd helped him with his leather suitcase,struggling to get a grip of the situationI gave a habitual kiss goodbye. Awkward. ][ He met another girl in group therapy.They had a mad, passionate affair for a yearthen, it expired. Shortly after, she did too.He came to me, life turning to sand. ][ I forgave him at my birthday partysurrounded by friends wh
our aging seasonwinter comes in waveswarmth enough to leave you weaksoftly slips away
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
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ParchmentI speared you with a black-ink pen.I tried to balance the weightof our weare-worn shoulders.Tried to counter it with beautyand hopefulness , with my hopes,persistence & with my dark love.They came to see it in hundreds,Droves, of similarly seekinghope and a reason to continue.Reasons to love, even when ithurts. Reasons to try when thevast weight of differences 'tweenus can't be fixed by addinga single strike of strength through the middle. Our love wasn't strong enough for poetry to save. It crumbled to nothing but the paper beneath the pen, and my half broken voice whispering atale of our forgotten, broken, love.
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.
OIt permeates everythingIt is the cells. It is the cellin which I am rotting.The sheen over my eye,the flesh I rip from the side of my nail,the teeth I grind it with.The tears, blood and sweat.It is below carbon and hydrogen,embedded in the air I breathe.It is sleeping under my fingernails,It is the undeniable, genetic, atomic truth.Oh, my oxygen permeates everything.It is the cell.
ZenSometimesIn the zen gardenRocks contemplate people