Monday, November 22, 2010

Neruda

THE HEAVENLY POETS
Pablo Neruda

What have you done
you intellectualists?
you mystifiers?
you false existentialist sorcerers?
you surrealistic poppies shining on a tomb?
you pale grubs in the capitalist cheese?
What did you do
about the kingdom of anguish?
about this dark human being
kicked into submission?
about this head
submerged in manure?
about this essence
of harsh, trampled lives?
You didn't do anything but escape
you sold piles of debris
you looked for heavenly hairs
cowardly plants, broken fingernails
"pure beauty" "magic".
Your works were those of poor frightened folk
trying to keep your eyes from looking
trying to protect their delicate pupils
so you could make for your living
a plate of dirty scraps
which the masters flung to you.
Without seeing that the stones are in agony,
without defending, without conquering,
blinder than the wreaths
in the cemetery when the rain
falls on the motionless
rotten flowers on the tomb.

Detached

Disclaimer (lol): I was thinking it would be easy for him to stumble upon this and be hurt. The truth is, it was a purge, an angry, vile, silent rant...and it felt good. But it is not the whole truth, it was only a moment.


At the moment,
I have no hope that we can make it
No feelings of permanence
Only neglect, bitterness and solitude.
You’re ugly
You’re full of rage
Your victimized reality bores me.

At the moment,
I feel I put out more than is given
Stroking your ego,
Soothing my own hurt,
I constantly wonder who has your attention
Because its certainly not present here.
You’re absent
You’re guarded
Your lack of intimacy is stifling.

At the moment,
I am living with a stranger
Who avoids me.
The space between us is ravenous.

At the moment,
I am daydreaming about something new
Not pouring energy into repairing
Something of value.
Because the worth has faded
Time has passed it over
And left a sheen of fuck yous.

At the moment,
I am finding my alone happy
Not a single thought of who I once fell in love with
Not a single regret of how we used to be
Not one tiny grain of hope for us.
Alone I can do,
Misery with you,
Seems unbearable.

At the moment,
I don’t know if I love you.
I don’t know if I care if you don’t love me.
I don’t trust you.
Your secrecy has outworn its welcome.
Your distance has created havoc.
Your hollow excuses are cartoonish.

At the moment,
I feel bad for writing these things
It is difficult to contain
My hurt feelings popping up
Like heated kernels
of love lost.

At the moment,
I want to keep this all to myself
And watch you flounder
In this sea of bullshit.
I want to bide my time.
Sever my feelings.
And become detached
Like you.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

a nagging nag

Write me, write me, write me scream the words in my head
As I toil with the unimportant, the sarcastic and the hopeless
My will falls flat and leaves the words to remain disconnected to the greater whole of creativity.

Write what? Which thought? Which emotion? Which tricky piece of word play will tickle my inspiration?

Write about nothing, write lists about aspirations, write about your flaws, write about your guilt, write about your longing, your staccato, your ambivalent passion…

Write about where you want to be, who you want to be, write about your past, your secrets. Write about tomorrow that seriously may not come, write about your faith, your pessimism, your hopeful vibration.

Write about love you’ve lost, love you found and love that never touched your spirit but drew maps all over your body.

Write about your loneliness that exists everywhere no matter how many warm bodies fill up a room.

Write about the rapid changes, the flagrant fixed and the wildly wobbly nature that tortures you.

Write…Write…Write

Create a whole by piercing a hole in your protective bubble.

fly your flag...

No longer tethered to that corporate professional pole, my freak flag blossoms in the wind

No longer concerned about my slightly askew point of view, my peripheral experience is my strength

No longer embarrassed by my instinctive use of words, like poisonous flowers, harmonious and hard hitting

Camouflaged for so long in just trying to not be noticed, I forgot how different I am. Not that I ever wanted to be normal, but still, I was putting on a show to survive in an environment that is stifled. A world that considers different, crazy. I am definitely preoccupied with and afraid of crazy. Old friends, we often sit on the edge of sanity together. She lives in my bones, in the fat of my mother’s flesh and in the tears of my sister. But, I am starting to understand. If I repress my nature for the sake of others or for the sake of my own fear, I will go crazy. TO THYNE OWNSELF BE TRUE. I am unique. I am beautiful and ugly, forward thinking and repressed, compassionate and angry, mother and child. I do not hear they way others hear, or see, or feel…my perspective is colored by my emotions and my intuition. It could be said that there is nothing more pertinent, nothing more real, nothing more necessary in this world.