Tag Archives: #surrealism

GIRL IN AN ELEVATOR ii

U hear that noise?
It’s an alarm.

It’s telling you you’re in a bad place
and you have to get out.

Don’t’ panic.

It’s just another day in life.
I’ve been here before.

One day I’ll meet you.
I’ll be at the elevator shaft
taking this elevator like everyone else.

Somthin’ would be so disappointing
for us if you don’t show.

So go and enjoy the view; “it’s only a plane
or two or three, no big deal.”
says the manager of tough reality — oh me!

:: 12.30.2020 ::


PEACH BURNT SKIES

EATING peach burnt skies today while aching from the pain i
caused you______ i never wished to bring a frown
or the tears that drowned our voices.

i never wished to mark your skin with my lips.
i never wished to lay you down and scream in your face —
the pain you showed in taking that fall.

i never wished to live with you, though i was living with you.
i never wished to cry out in pain over your body before,
and i sure never wanted to put you through this.

All i ever wanted was to make you happy and in doing that,
why then did you leave me?

i know that i love you no matter what,
and i know that i will always hold you close to my heart,
but today is not about the love that you have for me.

Today is about the love that i have for you, the love you gave me,
the love that i have for your Soul and for your life.

So i think i must bid you farewell and leave your eyes closed.
Until the next time when we meet.

Smile through your tears for us to be together forever.
EATING peaches burned skies today.

:: 12.12.2020 ::


WITHIN MY ALL “DREAM”

CRU
SHINATELY

AIN

CRU
SHINATELY

is  Godless 

PUR __ ,
pose
AS WORDS that cry
and break SILENCE ——
(endbegi ndesginb ecend)tang
lesp
ang
le
s
of EnteralL i ght
WE eat blood and flesh
2 B e per Fect
PAIN IN OUR H8ARTS

LO ve
Lit(
-tling-
for souls
of) ! (a. Sprit because we
Adore Birds for they sing
our SONG —–
Y & es
(all from the e
ter.

 nal.  Universe.

KEEPSUMMERGROWINGBEAUTIFULFLOWERS
OFLOVE

:: 11.21.2020 :


CANDELABRUM

MY body floats within effervescent veins
and blooms of fields by gold to fullest
fields of flowers;
by consciousness barely touching
the art of your essences
; i have only known a radiance of
this smile you project toward me–
it is the shimmering vision of
your lips and the softness of curves
that you are brighter than the
moon tonight; to hear the song
of your quiet tongue to taste the
tone of your beating heart dear:
and wreathed by the blossoms of
your tender breasts.
A LOVE SONG.
WHEN i meet you here; away from the
busy sound of life — when i vibrate
that no darkness can find it is of
one mind//ours\ that touches you
and me\
who can fathom the mystery ;?
no words no song no thoughts
just veiled eyes and unwritten
poetry is sent.
a high candelabrum held by our
hands and fingers: bent inward
in a passion of growing fields.

:: 10.11.2020 ::


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 ::


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 ::


DEVOURED BY THIS NIGHT

THE other day i was passing a certain gate as rain fell as it will in spring ropes of silver gliding from sunny thunder into freshness; as if god’s flowers were pulling upon bells of gold.

i looked up and thought to myself:

Death.

And will you with elaborate fingers possibly touch the pink hollyhock existence whose pansy eyes look from morning till night into the street unchangingly? The always old lady sitting in her gentle window like a reminiscence partaken softly at whose gate smiles always as the chosen flowers of reminding me?

And it felt as if life as a curtain caressing the bottom and i realized that the back of my head was already the red rose but i laughed aloud and when i looked behind i saw a horrid twin with red hair from some diseased shade: who was standing watching us from the wood side until she saw her wayward twin and from the trees spring a golden fruit made of bitumen with hair whiter and flowing like ravens feathers whose bright eyes saw exactly what they looked at.

And one nagged black beauty who had apparently lost her black beauty as soon as the white back of my head turned white then all black beauty fell in sync with the waning sun devoured by the night.

:: 10.17.2020 ::


MADRIGAL AS BABY FEET

IN the depths of thoughts we go as we are in night
of long lists, in the night like a pisces; your slient
silence-sign screams — come // lodge me in your back
\  in your mirror, suddenly, memories, solitary,
nocturnal pane: bleeding from the knife in  the dark
behind you.

  Flower of sweet summer wind
total light bring my calling
upward to your mouth of kisses,
  bleeding from separation
(silent private) words.

  Now, then I breathe your breath
as though we made sex catching our
heartbeats.  It is what the dark night preserves.
  Welcome me, broken hammock in a threadlike evening
when at dusk the sun surprises a sky star eye
within my skull — twinkles filled with win.
  No surprise.  Substance glues my eyes.
Madrigal thoughts inside music — an invitation
what the last breath of Love preserves//inside
a cedar box\ deep substance down to me,
smothering my eyes, your hyperExistence cuts
across me, wondering if my human heart is destroyed.
   Little baby feet patter across the garden of
your Highness \ and an exiled mouth bites the flesh
and the grape, i lick the blood from the cuts of
baby breath:  my hair made of madness and from sun’s
depth — the tick-tock clock face, of systematic
madness.  
              sings the fallen angels:
 
“Madrigal as baby Feet.”

   within a cedar box.

:: 10.20.2020 ::


GOGH’S FIELDS OF GOLD

IT is dark down here & this awful reality
satisfies the ego and frightens the soul
but makes a state of distraction
; an abomination –an abhorrence
for all that it implies -a living organism
as a leaf or a particle.

There is no non-life only emptiness & this filth
whose existence is temporary– a first-trimester pregnancy
in an animal –a rejected spiritual soul, it is real-
life in simple terms– the personal growth we are
so ignorant of the brave face of existence –a thing
we will ‘never’ ever come to terms
with –the vagaries of Time which call to us
‘cross the bridge’ & walk the Yellow Streets
of Van Gogh.

Hav you never ever walked the edge of fields of
so yellow they smell of gold — the wheat fields
of Vincent Van Gogh: he was a bastard
to most but greatly to ‘self’ –> killed the personality
but never the Art
nor the Soul

:: 04.29.2020 ::
rev: 0-10.3.2020 ::


MANY TIMES, MORE THAN TWICE

MANY times, more than twice have I seen the ghosts of family, friends and then some whose faces that I did not know.
Quaintly, with ethereal elegance they are silky touch, feather breath, and opal eye, outside of the tick-tock of father time. It is most inappropriate to ask of them to state their business or intended pleasure
extend your politeness over scorn I say. But if I may make a brief apparatus is there a paper in the room, a hall-cabinet or a desk on which a white sheet is available? Might I do with the sheet as a summons?
The respect that one owes one’s guests becomes tested with boredom, oft times probed with practicality of thrift for there is nothing useful to be erected in the holder of the sheet.
Only when it is needful to be done is the one supposed to write in it. The space for writing is too limited.
Must the words be in black to be read? Must they belong to make any good or neither would it do to pay homage to the white sheets anymore? Might I pour out some ink, some thread to fashion myself a gnomon of sorts. Searching the paper to be free from ink might I try another opal eye, like my mother and the razors my grandfather used?
To groom his hair, and his kinks, each time they wore them down, but never ending. Might I even fawn over a ghost. Might I shed a tear for no other reason than it would be distasteful, and uncivil, to not do so. The wrong that is done to ghosts, which is, who has time for them when there is death’s work that need be done?
It is said the uncle, being thin, frail with a rasping voice, would sit silent and tired; sleep nearly all day, never greeting the other relatives, as the family has dwindled to once, two at most.
That he would be found some hours before sunset, with no water and no food beside his dead little cousin. Who was his spitting image when his lips would open he would tarry another moment?
Recline again, only to open them and wander the empty halls, awaiting. Someone who could help him with his chores, is the scene I imagine. A half asleep and suffering ghost who will never rest as long as
he continues to obey the order of his keeper, waiting until someone pays his due respect.
Now the spirit, like some phantom to the nighthawks of the wind and the greens of the apple trees.
He moves as lightly as the wind.
He dances like the light of an airplane.
He looks to live yet again.
In a white sheet, with a black script which could read nothing.

:: 09.26.2020 ::
/maj. Rev.\