I start wondering if tears are good for the skin…i suffer from eczema. The kind above the lip, the kind that’s hard to miss. Yet i’m missing something—-if it happens to be good for the skin i might be in luck as the trajectory for these streams fall into place with the patch of dry skin that’s almost a perfect resemblance to callus growing a gift wrap around my heart for the next one in line. 6 months and i’ve managed to change the sheets.To grasp another lose grip, it plays on repeat.These games are meant for losing, though I guess that’s the way it’s played, a one way game and it stays the same..it’s rigged. I read my thoughts aloud and realize i never meant to rearrange this way—- but i’ve come too far for i’ve done ten fold that cum is to have came. You look around and you find yourself relating with sentiments you use to argue, but how do you argue with foundations so agreeable? .
"J: It was about this time that a dramatic change happened inside of me. I could suddenly see a kind of order in the mess. It was all very very wrong. I wanted to be one of Jerome’s things. I wanted to be picked up and put down again and again. I wanted to be treated by his hands, according to some sophisticated principle that i didn’t understand.
S: His strong hands?
J: Yes, but now it was no longer just about his hands. It was as if everything about him was different—which of course, it wasn’t, i knew that in my head. And i scolded myself for seeing him in this new light.
S: Love is blind.
J: No no no, it’s worse. Love distorts things. Or even worse, Love is something you’ve never asked for. The erotic was something i asked for or even demanded of men. But this idiotic love…I felt humiliated by it…and all the dishonesty that follows. The erotic is about saying yes. Love appeals to the lowest instincts, wrapped up in lies. How do you say yes when you mean no and vise versa? I’m ashamed of what i became, but it was beyond my control.
S: You know what you’re doing now?
J: No, what am i doing?
S:You’re defending your personality, I thought the point was to reveal it.
J: At this time i took up walking again. I walked in the forest…the forest of my childhood. I took the same walk again and again. Right turn after the gatehouse, and right again by the ash tree ( which has the most beautiful leaves in the forrest.) And further on past the lady with her poodle, and the old man on the bench. I couldn’t free myself of the image of Jerome and his careless elegance. And during this time when i was with other men, i forbade them to touch my body with their hands…and soon i stopped having sex altogether. “
-Lars Von Trier
the feeling of first forgetting how to say hello, forgetting as in i’ll just avoid it. no eye contact and a soft breath tempo. i do remember when you were easy to let go.
There’s more than a tactile resemblance when you spit into your cup to that of when your mother fed you crushed carrots. Fast forward to when you feel a sense of warmth brush upon your pelvic bone, like when you’re about to cum and you want to hold it off a bit longer…there’s familiarity with teasing, with control and learning to pace yourself. The thinest of ice can trip the tallest of men, the smallest of sparks ignite the largest fires. I can’t remember being so humble but it’s always been there. My small yet supple breasts hide the biggest of hearts and my loud speech defending my poor posture, my good posture relieving my body fat..etc. There’s control, there’s awareness…but i’m missing something.
there are things you could hold onto.there are things you could accept and let go…when you cross the street you do both.
poetry just doesn’t spell out for this particular subject, it is far too blunt a sentiment and a far too real a feeling, yet there are things…there are things about me that don’t spell out to this subject..there are things seemingly within my control but ultimately out, if to find the essence of the search, the root of the genuine pitter patter has never been there at all for this subject…I digress. I’ll do me, as always, and if these pitter patters sync, wonderful. if not, i’m sure it’ll be wonderful either way.
i go places when i’m sitting still. stuck inside when i walk around and it’s headlights with pupils.
pool tables of pupils, all in line in a shape of a triangle over greener pastures with frames of silver, the taste of silver and sulfur in time and a reefer set to sublime.
there’s a heavy stare in his kick and a light smile with a dimmer, never thought i’d see the light
not the kind that’s bright but those finds of swollen thoughts, the plenty of thinkers…
it’s not the talkers you should fear but the plenty of thinkers.
every time there’s doubt in my mind sprouted from one deeply nestled in another, i remember how little humans know but how insatiably we feel. To base ones foundations on that by no means makes someone impractical or by popular cross terms, an idealist. The unattainable does not exist here, metaphysical doctrines have lead cultures into enlightenments, into accomplishments, a renaissance for those casualties to the mother of doubt, practicality…someone’s reality is not your own, please don’t make it…and by all means, that includes mine.
somethings off…i don’t know why i am even writing on this..i figure if i often and generally sort out my mind on here then perhaps it will help..I fear i may be pregnant and i don’t know how most women react to this that feel abortion is okay…It’s not that I don’t think it is okay nor that I think it is..the judgement is beyond question, at least for my mind…I consider conceived to be that which it means and If I could be told I have then I have and I am carrying never the less, another life. There are moments that i could say truly have been the worst days or periods. Immediacy and the power of a moment feeling like days, merely a moment in your very large span of existence. A moment and It could impact you so greatly…Sometimes life likes to stand up and smack you on the face to make you realize how active a moment is….When Julio passed away, When my dad approached me at my bed sobbing and told me he feared to be dying describing my portion of his Will to me, when my heart was broken for the first time and the frog in my throat wouldn’t pass even with water, when I told my parents I wasn’t coming back, when my sister “threw me under the bus” in front of her friends to guard her prepubescent esteem in others of her, when I woke up that morning in my own bed sore ashamed and weak in knowing what I did not want to know…
I’ve always tried to take these moments and mold them into art, mold them into testaments that exorcize negative impact and realize a stronger me. I’ve tried to be a person that will not disregaurd hurt but will still harness empathy, a person that will not turn into stone or reverberate this hurt onto others…but rather, into work and maybe help others as it has helped me…to maintain this is a lifetime goal and I work at it everyday.
Then there are moments i fear that may falter this life that holds much good…god forbid, the day i am told that my sister ,brother or cousin has died. The day that will most likely arrive in knowing my Father, Mother, Godmother or Grandfather or aunts have passed. ….the day I am faced with the option to kill my child because I am foolish and wasn’t ready.
I fear these moments.
(I’ll post this after much contemplation only because it is my responsibility to as an artist…that wont make sense to some of you..that’s okay, maybe there is none.)
pretend parable tellers crossed their T’s dotted their I’s, their i me my’s and however holy their water was they still needed to quench the thirst of their own questions. the tired pundet at the alter, the sun kissed reverend doomed to falter, they. them. those.
stable mismemory is the sensory to the forgiven, that which was taken down by hand, made into a shrine, one to collapse in time and she forged her signature. What are ways left into ones hands these days, what are ways left into ones hands these days.
I fell back. pressed my hands, pressed them. searched for sand in the most familiar places. pardon me, searched for soil.
to remain with such disdain. the ash. taste of flame. a degree of remedy, a silly flask filled jamboree. what are ways left into ones hands these days, what are ways left into ones hands these days.
keep my hands cool and eyes warm, a distant face without words you just pace. discomfort from this seat, the unrelated body heat where the days are numbered. Let it go gently and recline. you must recline, pour your doubts away to refine your aether. weeds bellow, cement carried rows of discontent. a melody forgotten, outplayed value stored in volumes. Volume #1, Volume #2, become is to became.