Silly Lily

​She turns exhausted

Black streaks face me

I am struck by heavy

Fears. Unmade,  dizzy. 

She threatens words

But unchains me

Goodbye.  Goodnight.  

Love, pain, pity 

take her to bed.  

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Art I Persephone? 

White hot,  the world blinks

I am awake and aware and I

Climb.  Beyond the dark well

Of eternity.  Into a world gone

White entirely.  Holy.  Brevity

Of purpose.  Hold
On to me.  I will show thee,

The sleep within,  the sight and

Light and pieces of me.  And

When you find yourself adrift

Call to me,  call my name

Call from darkness,  from the

Night’s morning mourning
Me and I ask that you trust me,

Fall off the ledge of reality and

Let me break your body,  shatter

Your mind AGAINST the sea.

And I – I am reassuring you,

Only then will you be free.

After all art I not Persephone?
Art I Persephone?

Purple

Sadness is coloured purple. The purple is soft like velvet and silvery, and it hangs heavy there. I find it with my eyes, find there the weight of it, the feel of it, the way it breathes. I see it in his blue eyes, they stare, and I am there. Reflect me yet again, I am reborn in pain within those staring eyes. And I am gone when they close and look away, to stare, for he turns inward to his own mind and sees yet another version of me, the one which ticks mechanical, which speaks a color over my parts and makes and unmakes me. I am segregated within myself within his mind behind his eyes. I am apart, yet whole in outline, only in outline, and the rest of me pools into colored segments which only make sense to him.

I sense purple within my own mind’s eyes, when I close my eyes and think of him on the off chance. I see his purple shirt which he wore today, and I see the way all the times I have seen him before coalesce into the single being I imagine him to be. I see the way purple colours the scene, the whole scene, separate and apart a thing then coloured, separate and apart a thing we see. The purple rather is my mind’s interpretation of a sense which makes none, and is feather-light, and oft and almost imaginary.

He asks me questions and don’t ask me what was said, or what he asked, or my answer for I don’t remember. In fact I forgot even as he said it. I forgot before he said it. I forgot timeless ages ago. I never know, and when he asks and I answer I see I make no sense and neither does he, for we speak the same language but hear different meanings, and I am forever stuck in translation, in inability. He asks and I try, but my mind merely scatters in a million directions all desperate to run away, and when I latch on to something solid he bats it away, from me, and I am scattered once again.

It is like a cage, this room, but not for my body, or my sense of freedom, or my mind. It is like a cage for my fear. Let it run itself out inside here, let it exhaust itself chasing its own tail and howling at the moon; the invisible, elusive, ephemeral moon, lazy and unchanged, illusion, disillusion, personified. It is like a place for my fear to exist in the here-time, and I am lost within the storm of What-Is-But-Never-Manifests, until it fills this cage with it’s trembling carriage and oscillates wildly inside my mind. My mind separates, and I am purple, and I am the storm, and I am, I become them, the separate parts of me. And I am all I was, there, at that point I’m time. And he directs me, behind his eyes, directs and pigeon holes me, neat little boxes in which parts of me reach out between slammed lids. And I am purple no more, once again I am me and we are me and he and I am free. I breathe.

I feel the purple calm as we draw to a close, the purple dissipates into ether and then dream, the silence fills with reality, the space it once was fills with noise and emotions more real than the ones which are. And I fall back to myself, back to the one I want to be, a nice kind generous me, which offers comfort that I would have myself but is never for me. And then I leave and I am safe again.

My emotions ebb and wane with the weather.

When it is hot

I rage, I melt,

I am a puddle inside a lava-pit.

I am literally ire incarnate,

disappointment

charred to despair.

 

And when the day dawns cool

I am at rest.

I feel as if alone in a forest,

with only the animals

and trees

and wind for company.

I hear the drums,

breathe in life, prana

and I am peace incarnate then.

 

My emotions ebb and wane

with the weather,

and I am free to express

my sadness with the rain.

Let it fall and express

my horror at the heat,

my hate at the humidity,

my hollow heartbeat

in between the raindrops.

 

Let it fall and shed

my tears on the world.

And let me know

more of myself in it,

in between the raindrops

let me find my thoughts,

my light and darkness,

my tragedy and idols.

 

Let me tie myself to myself,

and not myself to the weather,

or the weather to myself.

Let me know

my inside thoughts

before they reflect themselves

in the mirror

of my world window.

 

Let me wrap myself

in the gauze

of self adoration,

hold the wounds themselves,

stave off the blood,

and wash away the sorrows

whenever they are free

to let go.

 

Let me ebb and flow

with my emotions,

let me never wane.

I am pain, sorrow, sadness,

misery, rebuttal, fear,

rage, and gratitude for it all.

 

I am peace and reflection,

nostalgia and admiration,

acceptance and appreciation,

and regret.

 

I am all that I am,

not the good or bad days

respectively,

not that which I choose

to only see,

but all I feel

right now.

 

I am myself,

all that I feel, be, see,

and what you see.

I walk the dusky land of embittered snow; scattered like tear dust upon this barren landscape, wind whipping white about me, and eyes the only dark spot in this storm. I walk across the winter land as if warm, the cold doesn’t touch me. The cold feel like home hearth. And when I fall in the embrace of the grateful ground, I scatter the snow, like confetti, or feathers, and they bloom out about me like bomb smoke. And I am still warm.

Do you taste it yet? The taste of the warm snow in your mouth? Is the nonsense finally making sense, or do you sense but inanity and pride? I am pride. I am pride and prejudice against the world made of consequential things like mice wings and catalogs about blogs and whining sugar pane. And among the fluff of snow like glitter I am home among the wide eyed litter of human smiles and plushies wiles and know there is nothing more important than this. This, this kiss of death a brush your breath. Kiss me. Kill logic. Embrace the strange.

And when you are done, do it again. And you shall never be the same. And I shall never be the same. For when you do it again, nothing and everything will change.

Prurient

I want you to know that I am free.

I wear the shackles willingly.

In fact I put them on myself.

 

I, who locked this infinite

presence into a devil’s shell,

a wind up toy. Twist twist and

let it dance to the drums,

making merry on a flute

which creates worlds,

don’t let it die,

don’t let it stop,

don’t let it go,

just make it play for eternity

for your prurient entertainment.

 

If the drums stop

you will die.

 

And when he comes to wind you up,

the one who doesn’t know you,

but cares so much

about not letting you die,

don’t let him for he can’t break you free,

neither can I.

Only you, little rabbit,

only you can twist tune into rainbow

and ride it high.

And when you die,

you never did,

just the shell turned to stone of man

shape and countenance,

not devil, not pan,

any longer.

 

And then, he reaches into me,

tears off the scabs from my heart center,

pulls off the shutters,  

pulls open the stained glass

and bades me see.

A tree.

In the middle of me.

She is dry, not enough

wet to the soil, which remains

far too light a hue,

and not enough light,

from divinity.

Clearly the dry brittle tree

Is me.

And so add water, darker soil,

expand the cage,

open the crown

and let in such bright.

 

And then you’ll see the chains,

they wrap round my wrists in shackles,

On my left: knowledge,

On my right: perception,

And on my ankles,

The right: attachments,

and the left: my soul.

So beautiful I could die to see

Shake them off, they aren’t locked tight,

indeed hang loose and then

I am free.

 

To know

I know

nothing. Yet.

 

Bade me back,

rehang the chains.

Shackle me again.

Willingly.

 

It’s all about vulnerability.

And curiosity.

 

I am willing. I am eternal. I am free.

Ease

Ugly duckling–in my way,

Let I, let thee go far astray?

Belay, Belay!! The Way of Pay,

Bestay, Bestay!! Off and away!!

To take, and trust, all difficulty’s bay–

Sheer madness, stubbornness–masochistic I say!

Let off, let off!! Idiotish martyr you may,

Simply walk the easy road.

Upon A Morning

I dreamed of a thing I’d call lover.

I dreamed but awake I could not manifest.

I dreamed of a beloved, of a spirit other,

Of subject worthy of contemporary geste.

I woke this morning in wanting,

To feel female breath, all rhythmic in sleep,

On my arm, but I woke, reality broke,

My dream tide’s a waning neap.

I opened mine eyes to a lambency,

Then declining the dawning, shuttered lids.

Then I indulged in fascination; I lazed in imagery,

Her chirrup of laughter; a divert, a fancy,

Her smile in dreaming, drawing softly,

And lived this reality a while I did.

Dated: October 26th, 2015.

Written in rhyming scheme: ABAB/ABAB/ABAAAB