Virtual Canvas

Image

Write again and again and again.

Write despite the doubt.

Write despite the ego.

The emotional times come and go, and it is coming again.

She thinks, “I would love me if I saw me in a corner.”

“I think I would come over and snuggle up under my chin, making me feel important to me.”

“I could do that.”

“I could see that happening. “

but the thoughts. . .

The thoughts rarely make it out of the brain without having strained its first intent through second and third thought.

These Ideas are not mine.

I have read them before same as I have read all ideas.

This day being the saints day,the saints that kill in order to worship day.

My day of worship to the  jumble of word.

Worship to the emotion.

The emotion that can perhaps escape every once in a while from the second and third thought of reality.

Let the liquid squirt and let it burn in your eye, carve a memory on your intestine of the giggle that rumbled up and escaped your grown up lips.

The thoughts become murky as you try to find a way to bust through the internet lulling you to the view you have craved your  whole life.

The view of you.

The view of your creation.

The virtual is now a canvas, now the out pouring of the soul, ink no longer needed.

And the fear that it will be gone forever is not needed. IT is always somewhere.

YOU may not always have it but someone will have it.

It will BE somewhere.

Even more so than paper and blood of earth.

Now it is in the mass webbing of portals you never knew existed just from pressing send.

So. . . send, and send, and send, and let the music rock you to your lulling place.

let the jive take out the broken blues that craved the big ten inch of life the kissing time that broke the sun into blue and purple pieces of self indulgence.Mmmmmmm…

The cock of the matter comes not near our mouth but our thoughts, the rooster roosts and left alone you feel partaken upon.

Given and withdrawn.

The red of the pillow makes you laugh. makes the smile creep.

You thought you would care more and give a shit less and it has worked out to be quite the opposite.

Crimson grace my lips, finger tips touch the smooth sides of me.

Look no further than the taste on your lips.

No further than the thoughts in your own head.

No one is guilty for creating you.

You are free, the thoughts are all you are.

The time is always passing and no longer are you relevant.

No longer are you needed nor disposed of.

You are nothing. and yet you are everything bendable and solid.

Water liquid contradiction.

Ramblings on the day that wine can feel free to come and take  away.

Like it or not this is we.

Clean You

You.

You will not come to my dreams and torment me,make me hate me,take me sexually.

Give me remorse in the color of lusting after you, while the groan you carry on your lips is as deep as a valley.

Non-penetrable by genuine caring.

Genuine art.

You.

You will not come to my dreams in the form of the ultimate love, the one I cannot win.

Craving me.

Delving into me.

Taking me.

Then leaving me.

Not leaving me in the sheets for that would be welcomed but leaving me in understanding .

Understanding the lust.

Understanding the artist.

Understanding the creative process and the yearning for more.

You will not come to me in my fucking dreams and then wake me to the idea of not good enough.

Your ass crippled from the life you chose to take place of your genuine questioning.

Glittered in the saliva of your childrens conquests while the chair you sit in folds in from the weight.

The blue that sparkles in the eyes of you will not take the bad taste you have left in my mouth out.

You.

You serve no purpose but to watch the show go on and detest the actors risking their sanity to bring you reality.

Normal.

Normal you will stay.

Untouched you will meet your grave.

Gentle.

Gentle existence.

Gentle exiting.

Harsh reality…

of all you didn’t try in order to cleanly survive.

Yellow

Third person, fourth person, none person…

Change inevitable.

Like the clouds changing from dog to tornado and ripping away the child from your arms.

Speak  freely of the liquor you ingested to tell you the truth of  all things out side of yourself.

I looked at you today and you looked ill for a man of 40.

Eyes yellow. Burnt yellow like the stains on  your finger tips from endless tobacco burn.

I wondered if you knew, that we know, you are an alcoholic.

I know you fear the inevitable grave or closet.

But I am here to free  you.

Step out into this air  I call, you.

I call it  you because all air is you.

All air is all things.

So simply complicated at the moment that you must drink to take it in.

If you are wanting to die, and you will, eventually, but if you are wanting to die from alcoholism then you are on your way.

You are allowed to choose to die this way.I will support you in all you choose.

I support you in all you have no control over.

I support  you even though you remind me of my father. Do you stick your dick in everything too? . . .I care not.

I judge not.

I only live to witness and to comfort the soul inside the ailed body.

I am  here for you.

I am here for  your yellow eyes and your nicotine stained hands and lips.

I am here for you while you sit in the basement alone  hating everything about yourself, wishing something would change, knowing it is you but wishing it weren’t.

I sit with  you and I let  you put your head on my shoulder. shhhhh, breathe. shhhhh, take your drink. or . . . don’t.

Either way I am here .

Only the eyes.

Only the story.

Only the poem.

Only the forgotten daughter.

Nothing more.

Nothing less. . . Just witness.

Mud

Let us not loose our minds.

Let us know we are the stars children, created to dance in the colors we choose to flail about.

Let us not let our eyes roll back in ecstasy only alone in the room of closet.

Let us release and love the outburst that is us.

Let it be more colorful than beige.

Bland.

All color taken out.

Let it sear the skin and make all things seem inevitable.

Let the pleasure dry the mouth and moisten the hips.

Allowing the swerve of the curve of your lip to rest on the knee.

Tickle the insides of me.

Let us not loose our minds in the desert of doubt the plantation more raped than pleasured.

Let us breathe in the sweet smell of delicate encounters chipped by desire.

Let us not reflect like glass yet soak up like earth.

Allowing the moisture to turn us to mud.

Feet swollen with ache in fun.

Ache in romance.

Ache in acting.

Ache in painting.

Ache in laughter.

No ache in heart. Leave ache of heart in the land of bland.

Give in.

Give stand and. . . well. . . dance.