I think that when you ask someone what they go through to make a piece of art, literature and music, they often discuss stimulates like social situation, or moments that they want to put to paper, or even it can come at an unlikely time. I think when i wrote these two poems, i was in-between different emotions, and couldn’t really express how i was feeling, so i decided to sit down with a pen and paper to see where it went. This is the result and apologise if it looks like its all over the place, but i think that this reflects my mindset at that particular time, and i even think now the spontaneous write in the moment poems have minds of they’re own. I hope you find something there that makes you think something you wouldn’t normally think of. I always aim to write my poems so they imitate all the background noise, and maybe simulate thinking that makes you think outside of the normal ideas that we all share.
A conversation (worth dreaming of)
Religions and war
that was all that was said here
a wall bigger than you and I
stood large above an open case
paste this into my own image and send it
my scaly old skin
and my tiresome old laugh and bones that could not go on anymore
that was all i was intended for
try this and that
a cravat made of steel is weighing me down
torn above God or Jesus
who has to exist but Darwin
hypocrisy into what was real or fake
intent as hard as you and i
what is clear is i will never be truer to myself
always so tiresome with steam, i had to make some changes
redeem, express, repel and replace
that is all that thy could offer oneself. What do i know or believe in, as god is dead to me, and what is true can never be told to those few
its too old and mask-full to tell thy otherwise
oh i hated my own skin too much it was an affair to behold
what i can conclude is that flowers were not made to express peace from within
instead i am just a clown with nothing said nearer to my withering heart
room to room, all the ripped up wombs that were set up to die
i want to cry inside, i could not tell why
is this the end?
i hope not as i’m too near death to be alive
redeem, express, repel and replace
this is all i can hope for now
not a crumby bastard that writes for likes, or reads classics that remind oneself that such creatures do exist
we are not alone with these fantasies
just lost in an open world.
Lower into the valley of blackness
Ovid paths became enriched with sadness
a medicine is most effective at night.
Where the night creatures roam in tight thickened communities
hierarchy showed there was no animal at heightened ability.
The act to cry, moan, whimper and plea endlessly
for in times of interventions there were gallon hats full of tea
yet you don’t listen nor do you speak
you feel sinking is the only imagined curse word in existence
the liquid connection just isn’t there.
There are those who understand, who sleep too much like you, and try to comprehend.
like a rose in the garden of evil
whatever line is most convenient to escape defeat.
water droplets of satin look divvy into the umbrella
thoughts of todays dinner plans
is meat on the agenda?
If we thought we were boring that would make our juxtaposition much more questionable.
this is a story of you, so why do you think so lavishly?
Its hard to hold onto something that isn’t there
that is a concise definition of sadness, picking from an oval tree full of pears, which seemed oblong, full of holes.
Until you reach the shore and tore out chunks of hair, they tied you down to the sea
everything up to your appearance baffles some me’s
but all they understand is that you are no completely free.