Should I have known to slow the funeral
Upon arriving to it?
When seeing your form, in a state of no tomorrow,
I breathed a sigh that revealed the cold,
And gave my grief my hat to hold.
Your form is as lifeless as the winter, with no shadow to show.
Because, the sun has bled its last into the final petal.
Life has won me over, by a selfish expression
Of miserable gratitude.
And beauty has saw itself fit to leave me behind.
I confuse, at times, love with beauty.
And say to myself,
“I am not beautiful,”
When I should say,
“I am no longer loved.”
I reveal myself,
As easily as I despise myself.
My face, it aches,
My heart, it breaks.
“Honesty is only ever triumphant, through insanity. Laughter, therefore, is never to be attributed to the cold logic, and only the cold logic that floods through the political world, at its philosophical core.
To reveal a heart, to reveal character and not to ever build it, becomes the nature of politics.
A man within politics has darkness robed about himself. Darkness, is the place of such a world, and a world that attracts a man, because the male mind is ever-so suited to be lusted after it. For the political world is never controlled by the man, as much as the political world controls the man. As much as a man is attracted to the darkness of this world, is for the same reason as a man will pull a woman away from it. He is as much attracted to her darkness to save, as he is pulled by the strings as a puppet to it.
A woman within politics has her mind educated, not by the education granted of it through higher education, though by always exposing her heart to open penetration. That is to say that a woman will have her whole character revealed, exposed to the public, as though nude before the world, so that temptation and charm becomes a state in the political world.
Character is a place where the heart is located. A man is allured, while a woman allures.
Laughter is an attribute to insanity. It must be. We laugh, to show expression, for something ‘funny’. As much as we laugh at someone getting hurt, as much as we laugh at someone else laughing, as much as we laugh at the one who is humiliated, we laugh to show our character.
Broad daylight, is as bold as laughter.
For it is the sun that releases the warmth, as well as laughter that lights up the face.
What is leadership, then, other than the honesty directed, with laughter upon one’s enemies, and the laughter during victory? Doubt should never be targeted at the self, as a leader. External doubt comes from children, laughing at the leader who will do well.
A man who is laughed upon, as a leader, will see children to discipline.
A woman who is laughed upon, as a leader, will see children to console and reassure.
Insanity is the prize of leadership, because one never holds a stable mind in it. And, to look upon the political senator, or the political congressman, and see them with stone-like faces, would they laugh, in an instant upon realizing a wrong of themselves? What training must such a person endure, to never laugh, in the open? And, when they return home, do they burst into tears of laughter, before a mirror?
More than all else, laughter through honesty seems to be criminal behavior, in today’s world.
A world, that is, known as the ‘politically correct’ world has seen fit to shun many types of humor. For what reason, is this?
It is only to disregard honesty.
Honesty does not fail.
When we reveal, we cannot fail. It is an impossible task.
Honesty is the importance to a character that brims from a life full of expression, to a world that will always shun it.
Beautiful, becomes the character, when honest in the ways the world despises. Bright, does it become, when we know we cannot stare directly at the sun, without feeling burned.
The sun blinds, though does not deafen.
As well, with the honest character, we are still aware enough to hear it. But, our eyes will stare somewhere else.”
As though the ground beneath my feet
Saw itself fit
To open up, and spill forth the salivation,
From a mouth,
And from the longing
That had granted itself, openly.
You knelt there, upon the surface of the soil,
Upon the pavement,
And breathed a smile into my hands.
A little treat for your erotic soul,
For a face that has come to know
Itself, for nothing it truly knew.
Love is now a grind
During when your lips lay themselves down
To kiss my hands,
For all the gifts I offer in the form of white,
The bread, it is, that you’ve been starved of
To turn your mind towards the world of spite.
And now lust lies clinging to your shoulders,
Little beauty of modern times.
Being offered bread of white, for yourself,
Wide open and spread,
With hands upon your groin,
Soft touches to the sight of honey
That drains between your legs,
Because, your eyes knew when to feel.
However, they are closed,
And upon the sight of focus.
And, as an eruption comes to run your body into reverberation,
I’ll see splendid temptation
Coming from a new glance, from a heart of amorous dedication.
As I’ll say,
“All the bread I offer, shall not decay.”
When Hell cannot be quelled
Of its shaping design, to forge a fire in my mind,
There are the eyes, I always follow
To where they point,
Upon my bosom, where a bruised heart, burns black.
A little woman with her hair in tangles,
And suffering as a stain upon only her skin,
Because, she has tasted flame,
The flame of deprivation, to her core,
The flame that whips the amorous words,
“I desire more!”
My little woman
With beauty so much in detail,
There is, yet, a single place I put my gaze,
That are the eyes of yours, with your glance over curved
I desire no more, upon when I am singed by pain
Than to see that stare, among tangles in your hair.
Little woman of much beauty,
Have we given all to else, the world and its thirst?
Place us both at the next moment in our wonders.
We are beautiful,
As we are meant to be.
And nestled beside ourselves,
In the Heaven of our belief.
With few promises to keep,
As desires unfolded, for ourselves to see.
We will continue to believe,
As I continue to witness,
Those two eyes demanding kisses,
Staring upon my heart, to make it once more
Flutter with a start.
Like the pauper, sideways upon the roadways.
Like the pauper’s eyes, with no stare that enters backwards
To the trailing mind, like the road before him.
Like the pauper’s mind, imagined to be Hellish
In whatever dream he’s conjured to pursue,
Because the sun seems too hot, and unreachable,
As the gold he’s longed to breathe,
It is us.
A nothingness, in what we hold,
To live within it,
And to savor it.
Is the love that we behold, before ourselves,
In our mire, in our filth?
We are still standing sideways, like the pauper
Before the roadways.
With our mouth, we weep, instead of with our eyes.
We speak words of solemn attitude,
And attempt to drown them in our hands,
Upon when we shield our lips.
Death stands before us, offering a rose
To you, the mightiest of us two.
Our promise has become alike the pauper,
Without his mind, ever fixated
Upon something real,
Because he faces the sun, in the summer,
As easily as he does, for the winter.
As unreachable as the sun is,
So is our love,
Because, our hunger is still uneven as our lips.
“There is a madness, not simply within the thing one has witnessed, though with the reaction to it, and then, the scarring. We remember, even when we close our eyes to no longer look upon the traumatizing sight.
I am unable to offer back what I have seen, in this world, for my empathy runs too great, far too great, to ever want to un-see everything that is engendered in my mind. Such memories are tomes, and I am unable to return them to their library. It is because I am the library. Their pages are merely looked upon whenever I release them from whatever confinement encased them.
I have a madness in knowing, and so, there is an insatiable craving to keep these memories, close and near, for me to hear them when they whisper. There was a madness in what I’ve seen, so as to know exactly what I’ve memorized, to know that it still exists, upon this withered world.
Everything that I’ve seen, I cannot return to its original carrier. Everything that I know, I cannot simply bury to forget, for that brings pain.
A memory buried, is a memory that will sting beneath the surface, like some parasite that has burrowed itself beneath the skin, and now begins to create a sickness. For that sickness, is the pain I describe.
Those memories are loud, and will not stop screaming in the basement I have stored them.”
“Coming death has its way of marking upon life, the reflection of it, as though the dying one stares always into a puddle. As though the remaining minutes are draining blood from the veins to make that puddle at the person’s feet, there is reflection from a reflection. Death creates history. Pages are never completely torn from books, for a keepsake in a storage, because many details are always lost to the time of a life. Secrets, not shared with life, when the person was well-enough to speak, are left to be scattered as ashes among the soil. As though the headstone raises itself from the brow of the dead individual. As though the headstone were the sight of the dead, only raised halfway to the height of them. Six feet below and three feet above… the dead are submerged, and their headstone may as well be a periscope.”
“Expression is a blankness, should it only reflect itself as flesh, as the clay buried beneath the Earth. Expression is that blankness, without the time when each thing rises to meet the stars, nor should it be buried further, out of reach to be risen. We are humans, able to be loved, to be healed, or able to die, to be harmed. We face healing in perfection, and we face death in imperfection. A wound creates the possibility of death should an infection begin. When the wound is healed, a memory in the form of a scar, is there for the world to see.
And how does all this relate to art, besides what is within the center of love and death, which is life? Life, vulnerable life, has but two choices: to be protected, or to be non-existent and invisible.
What gives life meaning?
The bones are the giver to flesh the meaning that states that form can surround death, that death supports life. Earth, that is the representation of death, the identical aspect to bones and the grave, the structure that is formed the minerals to construct a building, and the area upon where our feet walk. A meaning, like all meaning, is merely changed for another person’s tale, another story as a book upon the shelf… although, the bookshelf stands, and does not float. Upon the Earth, that is, like a human who walks.
Art is, therefore, the choice, itself, of life. To be lazy and decrepit, or to love and be loved.
An emotion, of life, is nothing without the sight of whatever caused the spark to raise the wrath, or the boulder to loosen to release the current.
Life is vulnerable.
Death is never exposed, until we experience it.
Art is the clay without the refinement, the mere possibility of a something to form, making the meaning of life as the ‘possible occurrence’.
From the prophecy to the mere uncertainty. Life is fearful, when it drops itself, and strong when it raises itself.
Could art, therefore, be built up-side down? No.”
I blew a sigh in the direction I knew a kiss would follow from my own mouth, decorated in the red from another pair of lips. Her grace and simple smile. It was a memory I grew for, to a future I was terrified would sprout to multiple, curious directions, because what is certain?
I was in this same room, as I stand within it, now. I notice the keeping of a certain bed, with its headboard and sheets. I notice how a certain detail, being those sheets, move with a flapping motion, in response to a wind that intrudes in, from an open window. What I also have witnessed, upon my mind in the heat of memories, is the spot to where I see what was once many nights in passion.
Still an area entrenched, as though a hole to be dug out from a bed of soil, made as a impression in the worn mattress.
Now the keepers are tending to it, like an artifact from history. They know not of the history that encases itself upon the shelves, in my mind. Would they ever be intrigued, such maids with their brooms and other sweepers? I am eager to know, but not so eager to jump into the seduction of one such maid, for the torment would wring me, not entice me.
Is love ever-so simple as the poets claim? It is, because it is life that becomes the villain for love.
We will forever name God to be non-existent when we are alive, as victims in love, and never Him, a being of no life.
I see such a memory before myself, when I have noticed that the curtain to the open window has been blown slightly further, than usual. I have envisioned my beauty as she used to be, before me, in the central part of this room. During when seduction was a passion to her person, she waves loose clothing about herself, as though she guided the wind to make it move. Like a dancer of flamenco, women with their loose garbs, as well, guiding them to draw faces of no more than smiles, upon observers to what a scene they create; and, she did the same, with her eyes upon me in the corner of her vision, and then upon the dress in her hands.
A train to trail another path before itself. She, too, smiled with all the dashes that could make up such resplendent beauty. I was in love with a woman of elegance, by whatever that word represents.
I denied nothing in the mood offered, when her right hand touched my chin, and spoke the words aloud, “There is nothing so wonderful as your presence, before me, in this room of rooms, while we shall share in our grand seduction.”
I took her in arms, held her close, and brought down great kisses, like a barrage of arrows upon her sweet skin. I kissed and tasted, and tasted and kissed, all over herself, until she spilled out adorable laughter. It was music, simply music, and I could not deign myself to let her go.
Something ever-more powerful, took her from me.
When I sink into these memories, to the nights of passion, I wondered if I had penetrated too deeply to strike the heart, and compose a brutal song upon the strings to that organ. Would a church and its nunnery hear it, the music of solemness and angst? I detest myself.
I feel I have defamed my own self.
Winter now buries its presence upon my two shoulders, and I recede back into my ambitions, alike she never existed.
“Where else would time take us?”
Said the man, disavowed.
The little child at his feet, wished it could see,
For with blinded eyes, it only groped,
And was seen no different
By that man.
Because, the child was poor.
A woman full of buttons to her cloak,
Garbed in elegant modesty,
Swam in the hatred from a man’s disgrace.
Her child, singing with pain, like a flute to his lips,
Her child, as well, threw arms to swim,
In the grayness of a father’s negligence,
Because her man was the blind one.
“Where is there a future, for me, and for my little one?”
Cried the feeble woman, disowned.
She broke against his own horrors,
The ones, the crafted ones, by his hands soaked in grime.
His own face, elegant in crafted selfishness,
A little lake formed at his feet, by the blood of two broken hearts,
A child and one woman.
Where was God, upon this day,
Besides absent from all the dismay?
He was seated upon the highest throne,
And called for bread to be thrown.
A little current of wine,
When dominance is shared,
As this man neglected what was always bared.
Chaos drifted down the walkways
Of every new tomorrow,
And made newer puddles,
From everyone’s tears.