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Tentacle curtains
twin twilled intertwined branchlets to assist in modesty of the obscene fracking and phosphorous mining. Equally as awful expunging the Earth of its nutrients, while sinking in our fangs and injecting it with venom. Only to make matters worse for our obdurate selves. Shortsighted counting chromosomes to align on our golden tinseled garland. In such a pompous perspective of perfection that no other matters comprehended are taken to consideration. Disillusioned While the green everyone is after becomes increasingly erroneous, still it takes precedence over the green that grants succor. Forsaken and negated to disparage and deprave the provision of nature. Why must we poison the poise before we learn that it is but our own mothers milk?
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Spent so long seeking through the static
finally tuning in to clarity. Sounds so crisp the vibrations emanate for days. Open as a lotus and absorb the divine. To see stars of smiles and people as planets. Chartreuse me in a majorve way. An asteroid human thrusts inside as lava blood flows hot cool sweat swims down smooth flesh. Tangible tax and toppings are a layer of fog to cloud life's truths. No wonder people pay others to forget about their morals. but we are merely mortal morsels after all. Glibs and globs of matter and energy slices of spirit seeking proactive patience. Sometimes the static has something to say. Is the anticipation killing me
or am I just approaching new breath with each death? Every moment a vehicle to carry me closer but I'm crammed in the boot along with all the baggage of the human race. The symmetrical face split by power and greed. Who agreed that a creed was the only way to get us all on board? To transport our preferences just so we may wheel and deal the societal day. No wonder I see them trudging so ignorantly through the underbelly of the cyclical, spiralesque nature of time where all of the material filth and bile collect. But how appreciative am I of past soul sprucing vessels who have assuredly done their part. While we all share the same start, will we eventually grow together, not apart? The sum of everything else outside of the permeable membrane that is myself- does it equate to who I am? Or does the view of any who don’t agree with the lemon and honey in my coffee? And with a desire to ensue too much my mouth gapes open in a vocal-less scream from a reoccurring dream, pervading reality. While piles and piles of cluttered thoughts, pondering knowledge collected since existence, become buried in the landfill of my mind. Engulfed by an excess of everything in this material age. It’s just a matter of time till mine is lost or thrown away. What is tomorrow if not for today? My ephemera, like the flame of a candle which burns and flickers in the night as the stars do. Even those holes in the black velvet have a volatile core, susceptible to their own gravity and liable to spontaneously combust; an implosion outwardly creating proximate damage. I am not immortal, and do not wish to be it seems, though, that neither does my species. On the cathedral's roof is a desert where I paint naked on occasion. Sky's roots grow from cloudy objectives with nimbus nipples. Eyes link to reality with as much of a blur as memories themselves. Sticky surface gathers sand, under a shade tree, after a kiss, typical robot tentacles emerge from my abdomen, causing convulsions. Rubber lady, why is your hand in the hippopotamus’ eye? I leaped from up high but was caught by the spider’s web. The elderly man walking through forest trees is my best friend explaining the peaceful path to Nara on a white board with interesting trinkets inside. As the hedge turns red and engulfs me death becomes another answer to the question of life. To question life, in the loss of an instinctual fear. The absence of sight, indicating affection for the moon feeling female, forever tainted by lust, with cheese between my legs. And you, with almost vegan seeds, inside of little bottle cap planter babies. We were throwing them, stomping them, breaking them in our bare hands hyperaware of the things that make us human. Where are the cages of kidnapped giants now? On the back of the centipede cow; coming over the hill and passing for some time, as the little drone rests above my head and playfully licks my hairline. A portal to my imagination Luring me through the threshold of my own thought. Sometimes grasping me, seducing me, staring directly into my eyes and screaming a sensation. Not just paint on a substrate, but a compilation of marks charged by human intent. With the ability to reveal whatever persona I declare reflecting an image of my own projection. The language of color, line, and texture. Spoken so clearly to me though she has translated something else and he hasn’t bothered to listen. This flat universe was born by a pursuit of interest. The preservation of a thought moment capturing what it means to be human. If you were able to separate yourself from Time viewing it as a single point in existence that point would be called art. The painting on my wall is art. Passing pastures of green, spotted with cows where magic mushrooms pop from manure, roadside wildflowers grow pink, purple, and yellow while their roots permeate the aquifer below. The clock on my wrist tick ticks as my thoughts unravel, unraveling as my tires turn. For a universe as interconnected as my crochet sweater, it seems rather difficult to feel cozy inside. Outside brings better weather atop the one and only town hill. There the sun rests royal every evening dressed in clouds of clementine. Standard sinkholes serve as inverted jungle gyms for kids like I was; climbing rocks, roots, trunks, and branches with the bark of a bugs back, being careful to keep balance. Partnering in crime with nature was living on the edge back then. Time passes and the sun slips down from his throne to sleep. The two lanes bend and wind round. I pullover once his indigo blanket is draped overhead. I lie down on the warm engine hood while crickets and cicadas sound in my ear. They whisper secrets of comfort as I gaze up to the astronomical eyes of homey night skies. Awakening to an unusual bed seemingly circadian. A distinguishing scent to the unfamiliar sheets, specifically chosen to coordinate with the four walls surrounding me in this particular ephemeral existence. Living as a foreigner, fending for survival. Through immersion quickly discovering each culture comprising a certain complexity. So easily lost in the distended dystopia. Upon apprehension of the convolution eyes opened to be blinded by overexposure. Uprooted and wilting fast Overwhelmed by the unknown. In transit, triggering thoughts captivated in emotional locomotion. Each experience posing a new question Why am I here? How did I get here? I believed in a specific God then, he rarely returned any answers. Finally finding contentment in the confusion. Focusing on the finite. Learning to smile at the small simplicities. If only to turn the wheel once more; If only to ascertain how little I understand. |
AuthorMostly in a state of existential crisis, wrapped up in my own mind and in the thoughts that weigh heavy through cyclical depression. Thoughts consisting of anxiety and unhappiness about school, society, humanity, the world, the waste, the ignorance, and my own inner conflicts of knowledge and memory cause constant yearning to exist in a more positive and productive state. My writing through this time has reflected the tendencies I have to think too much, my resolution being through doing art and through connecting with nature. My writing process is usually different every time. Sometimes by compiling small phrases I’ve jotted down in my notes, other times by writing stream of consciousness, and others are more about what word sounds intrigue me. I have found that my writing reads best when I utilize all of these tactics together. Archives
March 2018
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