The stuff of
Saturday mornings
coffee and
drunk spirits
they are made for us
we wear
pajamas in
the afternoon
you might not deserve me
but I’ll
smile at the
memory
you left
your smell
on the pillow
it's death by
headache
the aftermath
is painful
but water in a
wine glass
heals
I take a
shower for my
insecurities
droplets
down
my
back
don’t want to be empty
but alone.
I am in a half dream
half awake
I haven't
decided
which way
I will
fall
if at all
aware of both
dimensions
but bright
in the beauty
of my
imagination
I make angels
in the white
snow so
numb
staring
at the sky
in the stars
sound does
not exist
but in
solitude
the bed of
twisted sheets
will break
the silence
I will wake
remembering
everything
is better
from the ground
looking
up.
Walking
home from 89th
it was only
10 p.m.
but there was
power in the
cold
33 degrees
of stronger
red cheeks
and my breath
I can see
myself
for the very
first time
seeking an
answer
in the faces
of others
the streets
run dry
am I something
am I only
in the dark
I see it in
their stares
blank
I mouth
the words
the song
plays
in my head
"Am I going crazy,
crazy for you,
am I going crazy,
crazy for you"
for you.
Weird Whitney, I saw you on the weekend. Only made it to one floor. She was sick, and so was I. By bright lights, technicolor. I don't understand you. Thank God for gift shops, raindrops, things that stop. And my membership, now what?
But the MoMA, I will let you in. Seven years and now I see. What I was missing. I really feel like kissing. French boys in the afternoon, when it's dark. And we're wandering, wandering downtown, wandering west. You are learning to hug. It is the American way. The freckles on your face, like constellations, make me smile. It's like looking at the sky. So high. So high.
Francis Picabia, Conversation I
Francis Picabia
Stanton Macdonald-Wright, Synchromy
Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes
We are Sylvia
Plath stuck our
heads in the
oven
no time for
last words
lost
but lonely in
the warm
desperation
falling in
and
falling
out
disillusioned
so very we
are all
by sexuality
blinded
the advances
hypnotize us
left
right with our
self-importance
feeding bodies with
aggression
ourselves,
harmed only with
regression.
accidents is
just a word
more than cause
and
culpability
in cynicism,
darkness turns to ash
but we know not
nothing.
twisting beautiful
perspective
into tragedy,
perceived as
glorified creativity
ourselves,
reminding us that
replication
does not flatter
in stupidity
that way.
Heart attack
you killed William S.
Burroughs and my aunt
on a boat, it wasn’t
even windy. I bet
Allen Ginsberg cried,
and now I feel quite
sad to think
about that movie with
James Franco and
the blonde from Gossip
Girl. What was his
name? So poorly
made I haven’t even
seen it, but Les
Misérables most likely more
acclaimed, who knew
that boy could sing?
You see, my sister
made me watch it
twice, she knows I
don’t like musicals but
saving me, the popcorn,
so salty and
so sweet.
I use them
in blue and
you can’t
understand, but
the ink
always
stains.
lacking comprehension,
but, with
notes you
astound me
the music, it
surrounds me.
lost
in the sheets
tied-up,
tongue-tangled
tears
your thigh
and mine
forgotten
as you are
in no time
any
at all
the skies won't wait
nor I.
Love
handles
it's easy to
handle
love
not being
alone
not being won
or owned
independence
is the
sincerest form
of flattery
to me,
these things
matter
most.
mooning on the moon
the earth moans
when the book says goodnight
the stars like what they see
Adam Ferriss, top and bottom
I saw you
on the corner.
you are all
freckles
and fresh grass—I
wonder how far
they've spread.
Distracted by Carol
King on the radio,
I don’t have a car,
I am at ease on my feet
with a pen in
my grip, blue
ink on the
tip
of
my
tongue
and yours, your
lips are good
at drinking coffee,
kissing,
coffee kisses
are my favorite kind.
Still,
for the million-
millionth time
the abandonment
tastes sour, like
lemon drops and
sleeping alone. Always,
it leads to self-
destruction, such
a pain it’s more
painful than
failure
and rejection.
With soap I
smell your
resignation. Too
much weight in
the conclusion,
wounded in
anticipation, the
ache it moves in
waves and runs
in circles, you rush
to wash your hands
but you cannot
rinse me off. I’m
soaking through.
Ferdinando Scianna
by Charles Bukowski
There is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
a space
and even during the
best moments
and
the greatest times
times
we will know it
we will know it
more than
ever
there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
and
we will wait
and
wait
in that space.
the loneliness
is not
when
you are
alone.
we have come
so far
and gone
nowhere
we have lived
so long
and
hardly
at all.
Anticipating
repetition
it's
not so
sincere
when you
feel bound
like velcro to
more of the
same but you
can
forgo
the presentation
in favor
of the present
situation
expectation
is a choice
to lower
is it really
better
than higher
and greater
to satisfy
your obsession
with future
affliction
the moment is
never late
but later
there is
satisfaction
in action
and reaction
it’s physics
it's five o’clock
and you pull my hair
and you pull my hair
but I am
empty
and you,
are careless
not caring or careful
your breath is
burning
and I,
want to scratch
my eyes
from the inside
out
blood
made to taste
of rust and
bad decisions
but you
hold my arms
hold them tight
behind my ears
I’ll let you keep them
because
I am not
fear
I am not pain
my past is only a dream
not mine.
@osamuyokonami
there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it's too late
and there's nothing worse
than
too late.
they say that
nothing is wasted:
either that
or
it all is.
-Charles Bukowski
@paolo.fortades
When it rains, and you love the rain, but you're alone inside, and you don't want to get out of bed. You can't. You are stuck with your thoughts, falling out of consciousness, picturing what has been lost, wondering if it will find you again. When you don't know what it takes to be happy, you look for it in your dreams.
The strength
was nothing
next to power
needing
not meaningless
validation
in seeking the
inane
as you are
forgotten
you don't deserve me
my solitude is simple
complications
only in forgiveness
but perfectly pale
I am inspired
by the tragically
imperfect
I am the scars on my side
I am
my intuitions
progressing towards
aggression
anger
not internalized
is intellect
acceptance is its own admission
of your under
appreciation
the affections
are nothing
next to presence
of being
growth
I am led to mine
and you are full.
Anna Malagrida
Eric Koch
I am my own lover
I'm allergic
to my depression
self-obsessive
my feet
keep me grounded
words,
they keep me
balanced
I will walk on the lines of a page.
Osamu Yokonami
unimpressed
by progress
but superstition,
reliant on
unsteady
obsession
in others
it does not exist
trust breeds only disappointment
and optimism, defeat
nonexistent
the reality
is infatuated with
deeply overrated
simplicity
the truth is
not complexity
but emotions are
saturated
in unresolved
affections
fueled by
creativity
in the other
your hand will warm
itself.
Self-worth
I don't need
your investment
savings for my
self-respect
definition:
undefined
underdeveloped
he is unsatisfying
in bed
status—
insubstantially benign
borderline
volatile
never been
more juvenile
namely someone
him and
social
security
is an illusion
actions mean
everything
and nothing
words are your own
anxiety
confusion is empowering
talking in my
sleep he is
stuck in a
shadow, but
all I see
is light.
"Empire of Light" (1953-54), René Magritte
Stagnation
never growing
up but moving
towards
perpetually
empty faces
blankly bridging
backwards
motions to
presence
existing
is precious when
nothing is driven by
security
the foundation
flat, in essence
so statically
stuck
in obsolete.
Approaching Shadow, Fan Ho (1954)
Someone told me that there are two types of people in the world: doers (sowers) versus thinkers (growers).
I am a thinker, constantly working to better understand myself. To think and feel so deeply, it moves me forward and pushes me past obstruction. I am a grower. I work towards the future, yet sometimes forget to savor the present. Perhaps relishing too acutely in the past. I am nostalgic by nature.
Grateful for moments of descent, as my depression and sensitivity have driven me towards introspection. The risk is getting caught up in my emotions and internalizing them. It is fuel for my creativity.