BIG BRAIN SO monster family

ate my petals of yellow flowers

& i looked up toward the skies
(they say i was weak and aborted)
==never mattered to me==
Father killed mother
sisters cried//brother of mine\
held him down and i cried :::
what ever matters now?
i sang ancient cries telling ghosts
i leave you all behind; momma i
hate how you found evil when you
looked for Love/ like me \ we eat
dirt.
Oh Oh Oh i am just a shadow
looking out a window…(no one loves me!)
say, stop! A ate a thunderbolt
lightning down inside my bowls
sparing my life from monstrosity
demons hold on! Oh let me go
“No no no no!” Oh how the angels
sing for me! Every very bit of
frightening feelings! Oh how evil
and pure love me: oh let me go!
(we will not let you go!) Oh oh
let me go go go ! No no no NO!
Oh how the devil and God wants me!
Oh Mother!
The devil has designs for me!
God give me the power!
Shade my eyes from all evil! OOOOH!~
baby! Just got to get it right!
…?_? oh yeah oh yeah
…i am born a child. And flesh decays
and gods and demons feed upon our flesh.
but we win within the end.
Born above Angels and Devils.

😉

:: 11.10.2020 ::


SUMMER SKIES

IT’S not the reason  why we cry together
not the reason       we hold onto each other
not the reason       how you smile or make hair
(if you remember;  not why i want to spend the
reason of life with you)
not the makeup or how you  dance/ it’s more how you
cry at night alone\ when those figures came
to us last week from their ships and hurt us.

it’s how humans feel  and how strangeness feels
it’s not how you lost eggs or  how i gave semen
and sperm.  

you lost your mind lost my mind so divine
seemed so real, like a real thing…
in between i find what’s in between is a peach
of mind and how i lost reality…

so fine, my sweet love
lost spring
small beings from the sky
makes everything fine
with their large eyes
i lost my mind

and now i find i’m suicide
oooh yeah, oooh yeah,
oooh yeah

what’s the matter, love?  LAST SUMMER
we lost our minds /  oooh oh oooh oh
oooh oh love you .

how they rule humanity.

:: 11.10.2020 ::


MY OWN DEATH

At night of the Hight of winter, when from the Netherlands comes the brutal sun, lightning without rain
and at the same time clouds with frost, rain for a while, hail, snow and wind of the elements, large and small.

No end in sight; it is a day with a change, storm of clouds, storm of winds, shipwreck, submarine, decomposition
and the four veils.

No beginning and no end.

WHEN the moon in the morning or at noon is as bright as an orb, or almost, and it becomes night before the fourth
evening of the lunar month.

I, to stand in your light as in a spotlight:
I to look into the eyes of a crescent: love, flame, bed. You, great, powerful, oh so distant, as luminous as stars.
A desert of fire. At night you search for me.

THE cypresss of the monasticism are under your feet, the nuns walking barefoot, when they keep time, when they sing
while tying themselves together and when they put their tongues to the left and to the right in the custom of zdrakas.
On the walls of their chapel, near the chapel and the curtain, there are female saints, goddesses, whom they adore,
and those that they cover with veils and they cover with gilded haws. It is as if they were entering a house and praying
in front of the altar. The angel of women, whom they saw in a dream and whom they know to be linked to the will of God,
blazed with stars when they looked at her.

To them she is a light, a light that penetrates them like the opening of a wound. And they throw their arms over her,
when they press her feet.

That is how they pray.

WHEN i heard them chanting, I felt like a stone, as if pierced by the time of their desires. The stones of the market of Damascus
by the way of the river.

How have they lived, with their desire, like dew in their eyes.

I, my feet up, the state of being crushed, felt also that I have attained my purpose and that nothing remains, nothing is more than dust,
nothing any longer is alive.

One wind against my whole body, threw me to dust.

These are days of longing, of vulnerability, of vulnerability. These days. I stand like a young woman in front of a mirror.
Who is that person staring at me? Someone long dead and buried.

Everything that had lasted for centuries is gone.

I am facing my own death.

:: 11.10.2020 ::


THAT I HAVE FELT

THAT i have felt the winds of misery
of all that i have won through fright,
against steel and metal thoughts,
my arms are now weak, but not my heart
.

Not even a little.

What little tears me are drops of waves
against the mist of vast ocean
lit by thunderbolts of sorrow,
defined by unfathomable solutions,
or anemic eyelids.

i was born too early and fought for life
premature; then suddenly a fire within
my tiny heart grew and separated myself
from the chaff of earth; when wheat
hardens its little flanks and lifts up
its thousand-handed face,
i flew — as no human could.
the One who never shrinks from the
thump of darkness frightened.
My footsteps approach as fire
within the smoke, melting Winter
to live within Sprint, wielding Sun
to grow flowers and their petals,
and pushing earth away
in a wave of love and passion,
within raging rivers of flowerheads
does the light of sun and moon
reach my MOUTH:
as an old friend that meets me again!

:: 11.10.2020 ::


RAINDROPS NEED SUNBEAMS

Like winnable wars like broken hearts
feeling there’s no living gods
Like a poem that is out of reach
that no ink can write — i feel you.
While dreaming hope like a smile of love
without a lover a little foot step
without impossible dreams
there’s no unbeatable odds.

Shall I say it again?

With dreams there’s no
invisible walls and i sing,

“I just want you”

There is no Juliet without
Romeo, there are no thrills
without incurable life.
and I just want you
and I just want you
And how are you?

There are no in-crimeable crimes
no reason or rhymes why we lock
doors between living and life.

If there’s an Alpha I say
oh me again (omega) possible
dreams and I just want you

i just want you i just want you
how i dream fall-smiles
within your soul dear

Are all the beautiful flowers of your soul!

:: 10142015 ::
rev: 11.10.2020


BLACK CLOUD

The same black cloud that rested over the field the morning after the mower put out the haystack floated over the tops of the silver-trees on the edges of the rose-garden. Through the silver-trees it turned slowly, lowering itself to the ground; and, coming to rest, settled again on the rose-bush, and raised itself high into the air to sniff the atmosphere. I should perhaps seem to be speaking about two roses; but they are not. The two roses I have in mind are of the same kind, but not to be compared. The one is a white rose that came out of a grey-green pot that lay for seven years in a drawer, which probably no one noticed or cared about. Its title is new, unknown, to many, and cruel; and its smell is not the smell of any known rose, nor of any olfactory attraction.

The other is a tall, straight, dark-red rose with a peculiar odor; but which is still admired by young men for its beauty, and in the old age of some is planted in the centre of their friendship gardens as a memorial of a lost love. Both are rare, and will always be rare; but the dark-red rose of the shadow of its twin is a seedling of an old rose, and nothing of its own. It stands tall, straight, and, in old age, very angular in the clover-field, in the darkness of its own cottage garden. Though it has lost all its fragrance, and every leaf of its branches is a stark white, it can still present a pair of great dark, shadowy leaves to a tender, young heart, whose troubles it used to inspire with its peculiar sweet perfume. That is its own, and it can never gain its other title.

It is a rose which grows alone, with one thing its sole delight:–the memory of a lover.

Next morning, in the garden, after breakfast, and after I had written a letter which I had forgotten to write the night before, I stepped back from the garden-wall, and looked over it, with its rose-garden lying before me.

The same, overhung, dull light as had filled it the night before lay thick upon the field, and sank, in the distance, through the silver-trees into the water of the stream. I could not see the water, or the island, but I knew that there would be no change. The earth and air were as heavy and thick as before; and there was no desire or intent to move or to stir; the nature of things had not altered.

The same cloud lay over the field and the island, and seemed to pass with the shadow, in the nearer atmosphere, over the path and over the garden wall, as it had before. I could hear nothing of human life; only I knew, all the same, that people walked in the distant streets of the town to and fro; the hollow claps of the shoes, the speaking, snatches of words, the idle voices of men and women at their workplaces–all these had ceased to catch my ear, and the silence that they engendered closed upon me; and I went back again to the only object which my eyes could make out in the darkness. The night before I had noted the footprints of the man who had cut the hay from the field the day before. He had put them carefully in a nameless direction, in the hope that it would be the path of the threshing-machine. I saw that he had only tried to follow the track that he had made; and, instead of going round the field, he had gone straight across it. That was all!

:: 11.08.2020 ::


THE INNOCENTY OF THE WATERS

PEOPLE with eating disorders are “allowed” to keep their identity secret. You’re not allowed to be a person.
You are simply “a stomach that ate.”
Everyone who sees you has a lot of power over you. You must be nice to them, speak in a certain way, present
yourself in a certain way, and never be so self-conscious that you don’t want to eat.

You don’t want to eat because if you did, you would be severely sick.

You wouldn’t be in control of your life.

You would be a creature.

You would be weak.

It was during my treatment that I learned who I really was.

I understood that my eating disorder could be cured, because it was merely a disease of mind and body.
I didn’t have to be afraid of food, because it’s a powerful human tool.
I knew that I was not being a stomach that ate; I was a person who had been infected by a brain that
wanted control. My illness wanted to make me not a person but a mind that ate.

A mind that went through life being controlled, and told what to do, and how to feel.
A mind that no longer could think for itself.
A mind that wanted to give up control, but didn’t know how.
A mind that could think but couldn’t act.

I understood that I had to take back control of my life.

I had to make myself be a person who was not a stomach that ate.

I was a girl who thought, and had dreams, and wasn’t a blob.
I was young.
I was a daughter.

I had big plans for the future.

I was a Christian.

I was a girl, who needed love, and felt loved.

I needed to be loved, and loved.

I wanted to be strong, and able to live a life that my illness would never again keep me from.
I wanted to make a difference in the world, and to love others.

I needed to learn to love myself, and to use my illness to help me learn how to love myself.

I could choose.
I would choose.
I would love myself.

I could have a beautiful life.
I could be happy.

In order to be healthy, I had to learn to let go of that which I didn’t need.

I needed to let go of the need to control my life.
I needed to let go of that which scared me and made me afraid.
I needed to let go of the struggle to know what to do next.
I needed to let go of the confusion of what I wanted and who to be.
I needed to let go of the struggle to say no.
I needed to learn to say yes.
I needed to let go of my imagination, because life doesn’t work that way.
I needed to let go of my imagination, because my illness was reality.
I needed to let go of my imagination, because my disorder was my life.
I needed to let go of my personality, because my illness was my character.
I needed to learn to find my own self.
I needed to learn to let go of being tired of not being a stomach that ate.
I needed to learn to be a person, because being a person is what I wanted most.

And after I learned how to let go of that which I didn’t need, I became a person that my illness no longer could control.

I learned to say yes.
I learned to say no.
I learned to laugh, and be silly.
I learned to cry, and have emotions.
I learned to write, and speak, and love.
I learned to have fun, and to love life.
I knew how to make choices, because my disorder was not only no longer controlling my life, but was helping me to make choices.

My eating disorder was the healthiest thing that had ever happened to me.
It was a sickness of the mind, and a sickness of the body.
It was a sickness of the body that was a sickness of the mind.
It was a sickness of the mind, that could be treated, and a sickness of the mind, that could not.

I learned, over time, how to say yes.
I learned to say no.
I learned to find my voice.
I learned how to be brave.

I had not learned how to be brave when I was diagnosed, but I learned it with the help of my mind and my illness.

I learned how to be brave, because I had to be.

I had to be strong.
I had to be able to overcome this disorder, and be brave, because there was no other option.

I needed to be brave, for me, for my parents, for my friends, for my boyfriend, and for everyone who loved me.
I had to be brave.
I learned to say yes.
I learned to live in a world of uncertainty.
I had to live with the uncertainty that my mind and my stomach might not agree with.
I had to live with the uncertainty that my disorder would destroy everything that I ever wanted in life.
I had to live in uncertainty, for me, for my parents, for my friends, for my boyfriend, and for everyone who loved me.

:: 10.22.2020 ::


FIGHTING FOR COMPLETE UNDERSTANDING

i held my arms, sleeping, around her breasts, bending, allowing myself to fall, the ghosting, dark wake, the fiery sands burned by a storm of thorn trees, burned by the march of sea and the keys of incense that hang near her bed. Soft and fiery sweetness, a book of songs that didn’t affect me, a white dress with a tattered hem, elegant skin whose breath has already evaporated.

There is no physical reflection on her breasts, my love, the fluidity of a river in the shadow of the heron’s head. There is no destruction of a dead river in the pale water of her beauty. Your eyes, the depths of their ravines, the fire in the dark, your hearts, holding mine, their tornness, the loss of a companion, in the silence of the corridors where the footsteps of strangers run.

From the raves I must admit I will never feel intoxicated, but I need so desperately to feel intoxicated, to finish my life in the warehouse,
under the light of an old beveled mirror with a knife propped against the square of glass, the light of the ghost, of the burning card,
of the ghost of unimportant dreams, of the funny dreams I dream every night. I would like to exist like the strange creature that thrives
in the laboratory of an art dealer in an abandoned warehouse.

Held her ankles, enjoying her existence, trembling, embracing, trembling, our breath circulating the smoky air of a kiss.

She only exists when my back rests on a cold polished floor, in the darkness, in her natural state, my brother, my pride, my hope.
To touch her, to feel her breasts, her lips, her hands, all the parts of her body that run all over mine, that brings me nothing, for this expression
is simple, low, they do not consider her existence, my love, to raise her up or to lower her, to grab her legs, to kiss her lips, to kiss her nose.

Everything but the head, where she is still touched by the forehead of a stranger, from one of the corridors, one of the cracked doors, where her
lovers walk, from the stones and shadows of cold halls, the one that is lifted from the depths of a world of books. You only exist, my love,
with the touch of your palms.

From behind my childhood wall, I have met the daughters of stars, from behind my own walls, the girl that lives in the corridor, has warmed up my life, there with me on the cold polished floor, my passion.

Everything is there, hidden in the dark depths, revealed by the hallway, the fading curtain of candles, the evening light, a kind of passionate romance,
my love, whose bones are growing every day as if they were long-dead, those young girls, the memory of the last night, the abandoned street,
the shadow of an old bed, a memory of the night that passed, but only lives in the room where I am lying.

Leaned against a window of a skyscraper, red-eyed, like a demon, muttering, covered with a black apron, sobbing from an open wound.

What was that, love? What did you see?

Those eyes of the future, seen in the silence of my mind, in the chaos of my thoughts.

It was dark, I have left the house in the street, I have entered the house.

What was that sound?

I can not go further, there is nothing here, it was dark, it was closed, the doors were closed, it was dark, the house empty, but it was empty as
the city when the people pass through fighting for love, compassion, and complete understanding.

:: 10.21.2020 ::


LOVE CAN BE THE BEST TREASURE

Love can be your best treasure, and all the rest after that—by that I do not mean money, that is after all in very short supply in any society that places more of value on family and society than it does on money—do not compare.

My treasure is a bit of you and a bit of me, a scattering of memories, of places and sights that speak of us.

When I am old, and if you will still be with me, I will hold up my pocket knife and let the tarnished blade drag against my body and stare into the wood, as if to study the grain, so that I will know you better than ever before, so that I can tell you a few stories about our days, our strolls along the marshes and the rain-swept fields, and we can close our eyes and remember being together, like in the days when my name was Cassie and you called me Jennifer—at least for that night, when your name was Silvio and I called you Toma—in my dress with a jasmine moire ribbon in the back and a couple of velvet braids going to the middle of my back, and you in a white dress with ruffles at the collar and a buttoned-down plaid jacket with velvet trousers and stockings. We are wearing white hats, white gloves, and white shoes and holding each other by the waist. I love you very much, Toma, very much—so much so that I fear I will fall, if I close my eyes, to that dark, cool, damp land, which has been calling me for a long time. You love me too, you say, but in the way that one loves a mad brother—you love me in a way that reminds you of a friend you once had, but you don’t love me. You love me in the way that a child loves her father: you love me unconditionally, and you tell me all the time that I am beautiful and that you can’t live without me, but you don’t love me like a woman loves a man.

You tell me to get a head start if I want to get home before dawn, so that you can sleep without your fear waking you up in the middle of the night. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I wake up, thinking of you. I am lost in dreams of you. In my dreams you are waiting for me, standing in the courtyard, waiting for me to arrive.

:: 10.21.2020 ::


TRYING TO SPEAK THE UNSPEAKABLE

Is it a society of wicked liars?

Is it a race of contemptible malefactors?

Or is it, instead, just a group of people coming to terms with their lives in a different way?

A growing number of people are choosing to live—and die—without judgment, without the reward of popularity, without the flattery of public adulation.

Most people—without much fuss—are choosing to die quietly, often in comfort, not coughing up blood, losing organs, gasping for air. Rather, they do the things they like, they have their lovers, fall in love again. They experience as many experiences as possible. They have children, watch them grow up, let them out. They do the things they love. In fact, they do as much as possible.

Maybe they are only one of millions who will die this way, quietly, without much attention at all. But for those who read about the Swedish model, maybe they’ll read about this man who, when he was ten years old, decided to end his life when his family wouldn’t let him live the life he wanted to. Maybe they will read about one of the last people on the planet who were given the opportunity to kill themselves.

Maybe they will read about the first person.

Whether he knew it or not, it was Doran, the poet, who led us here. In 2020, when he was 36, he pulled his wife and a friend onto a commuter train in Paris. They sat at a table, drank wine, and ate wild boar with the train’s conductor.

After that, he had a drink with friends. By 2:

Then they all took colors all within their head. And they tried to say the unspeakable.

:: 10.21.2020 ::