The sun blazes it's beams like swords
Between two twin pines
Who stand like good soldiers
So resolute against the onslaught…
I am cut to the quick
My eyes cry out
My mouth groans
In pain and I am lost somewhere
In between it all
The handwriting is on the wall
While the black and white faces
Of the dead stare on and through
Gaudy red velvet striped wall paper
As if the world beyond has to be
More interesting,
Than this place.
“The Divine doesn't care what you believe, just that you believe.” – Manea
Slippery peaches
Crunched between my teeth
And paste of hidden gods
Slid down my throat.
I didn't know freckles could be naughty,
Until a dirty old man,
Laughed at the memory.
What is the value of a page
Or two of originality
When reproducing them
Is cheep?
Are we all really that
Shallow?
I can't shake the memory
Of her venom,
And try to remember
That the hatred
We have for others
Is only a reflection
Of what we loath
Within.
Flicker goes the flame
Flicker goes my mind
And I tap into
The collective consciousness
And I cannot tell anymore
Where I end and everyone else
Begins.
“No ideas but in things,”
reminds me of too
many ideas
that are naughty
because so are the
THINGS that come
To mind.
Silently he runs
Through the lines
Of meter and notes
High above the ground
Suspended
Living art
Expression watched
Like a voyeur
Who is intruding
On a private thought
Which is a run on
Sentence set
On repeat.
Three jazz men
Played in hell
And dreams
Bodies once
Three dimensions
Forced into two.
Ride me Eros.
Connect me
To the soul
Of my beloved
Who hasn't
Remembered me yet.
“Art is the Alchemy of my soul.” – Manea
What does it matter if every word
Can be read?
Obscurity is lost
In the sea of time.
The arrogance of the
“Deep” artists who are so
Lost in themselves
That nothing makes sense
Past their death,
When art becomes
Dated junk.
“I have always suffered from having too many ideas.” – Alicia Bailey
