|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
April6 ComfortSome nights I
Find comfort in that
I am not
The only one
Who is a failure
In love, life
Friendships, art, speaking
And all else.
A sweating, weeping
Mess, I wake.
April5 TrystYour beautiful back
Billowing like summer clouds
Throws me in a trance.
I'm in love, but we
Have never met, and never
Will. Forget about me, I
April3 HeavyI am but
A heavy oil
That will never dry.
The paint is thick
But my mouth
April1 What Is This Dream? Qué es este sueño?
That I cannot
Awake from nor
A cat laying
Breath15 a minute, 900 an hour, 21,600 a day, 7,884,000 a year
This is how I breath.
In my 15 breaths, 20 children die.
And in a year I waste 7,884,00 breaths
Breaths that could save a life or a love or the world but instead I waste them.
I don't understand.
Because I don't stop there
I waste your breath as well.
And so I don't object when you take the breath from my lungs in a rush of passion
Neither of us comprehends, because it belongs to you anyways.
In my wasted 126,144,000 breaths, I have done nothing worthwhile,
But the future is a big place (supposedly)
StarsI found stars of tea this eve. They were almost beautiful.
I realized these stars held my future, and
Try as I might to arrange them into my desired constillations
They move no more than the dead.
My belly becomes the holder of my
Future, now that I've sipped half the tea away,
and all the stars are gone and because I took so long the tea is cold and I wonder, Like the night I sat with a girl I wasn't sure I loved by the river
I wasn't sure existed; I wonder
If this is what G-d feels like.
Does s/he stare into rivers of tea and stars and wonder about the future?
Does she want to catch a body whilst coming through the rye,
Or would she prefer to just meet and talk instead?
I've reached the pinnacle of my journey; the bottom of the cup.
I found the stars again, in tight-knit nebula emitting a
Kind of pure radiance only I can see.
Which is probably what love is like.
Unable to reach any conclusion I pour the last bit of tea out.
I find no answers to the questions I pose.
Tonight, I though
A Legacy of WisdomYou have scribed your words,
wealthy wreaths of wisdom,
on paper never torn or worn.
You have etched your passions
on my brow.
You have left this wallowed world
victorious; eyes resplendent
with the wisdom you wrote and wrought.
Your passions shall echo in my ears
And should I stray into some
sullen storm, or get caught in
the torrents of the monsoon, Ill know
that Lears been there before, and
Ill not swoon.
And if Hades doors open up
before my stranded soul, and scorch
it with the heat of hell, Ill recall that
I am not the first Dantes been down
there as well.
And if on my death-bed I mourn
the life I wasted on wine and stale
chocolate bars, Ill recall Wildes words and
hope that, though long in the gutter, I did
glimpse the stars.
NonexistenceI pray to a God I have never seen,
who lives in a world that has never been,
to save my heart that has never felt,
from eternity's failures, eternity's guilt.
My feet step on grounds no men stepped before,
my lips taste the poison, bitter and sore,
yet it does not kill me,
does that mean,
that I am immortal,
or that I've never been?
I pray to a God that may not exist,
while the iron shackle tears up my wrist,
to tell me the difference of being and not,
to show me the memories that I forgot.
My mind flies to places nobody has reached,
to learn that the stars are nothing but bleached,
spots on the dark, they're not even light,
I think that's 'cause real light brings nothing but fright:
It's bound to discover
all crimes, neatly covered.
I pray to a God because maybe he is,
unlike me and the world,
in them I miss
something to reach.
AnarchyScream the anthem of the anarchist!
What is it? Exactly.
I won't tell you; make it up.
Go away. Blow it up.
Burn it down. Deface the town.
But don't give in,
Never -- no.
That's the song we all love so.
Freedom past extremity.
Far away, in my backyard
I own the world; I am a bard.
I wear a beard and shave my head;
All the normals want me dead.
I won't give up; I ramble rave.
You'll never make me behave.
My brother, loser, freak, meek geek
You know-- the beatnick, hippy, punk--
The rock bands my parents debunk--
We treasure what we cannot have:
No allegiance to any flag.
out of Gardenwhat sea
how it is welling your eyes a wet mess
where urchins of the ocean will spill to howl their elegy
where mermaids will turn widows
once brine has swallowed whole their sailor babes
stewarding the land instead
is why i never set sail with you
but to lay in gardens, oh
a bed sheet rotten by the ultraviolet
and our laps full of stars
what black soil will pervert your knees there
where moonlight will mirror out from your teeth
to run fanatic toward cosmic space
after bathing in the space among us
where walking air pushes every dust
one of sun-dried butterflies
one of beaten rug with broom
one of honey bees minus harvest
one from sands of human crust
when traced is an orb monster, Jupiter
around your left breast, so that nipple
a blood storm just under the skin
and asking where you sowed the marigolds
is only to hear you choke the words time and water
in the same sentence
to hear you say there will be no rain for a week
while an ocean is
the plasticized quantum theory
une voleur honteux
slip of the tongue
in each saturated pore
spectrum rehearses its symphony
crooked whispers of a flute
a glimpse of blue infinitude
quiets the confines of los alamos
¿quién es él? eso piensa
paralysis in the peristalsis
jewel in the vitreous humor
until it watercolors
the poison of psyche
papillae the plagues
oxidizing ash and ember
a quivering effigy
splinters the moon
the mirrored hand exhales
swept the epileptic ceiling
dissolving tendrils of mahogany
detached from the retina
tranquil, the deception
the film frame fades
captured in the mercury
Perspectives of a Hallucino...Comfort. The softness of the basement couch. Misery loves company.
Trickling through my fingers. Whispering across my face, her disappearing
lips trace across my cheeks. The smell is sweet, but she is rough against
my throat. Her smell isn't so much intoxicating as it is suffocating, yet
the smoke paralyses my senses and touches my soul. Her street name is
undeserving of her effect on me. Forever, she shall be known to me as
Mary-Jane. I will never know her beauty.
Snowflakes fall, blood is in the air,
Covering white figure of pride,
Lying forceless on the ground,
Having no strength to fight with the snow,
Nor even with reality,
Which drifts down from the empty sky,
Where the moon cannot be seen,
Where birds cannot be heard,
At which wolves can only howl.
Keep in Touch!