I could see the necessity in wishing to know, The love I’ve come to commit to my own atrocity. My beauty, you have exquisiteness in every breath, And a mark upon your shoulder has been to count, Each subtle sigh under morning light, In before I come to share my place near your death.
Love at my left hand, and my hope in the right. I am a man of many angles, And many divides to count for too many. There has been desertion staining our hearts, And now I find myself wanting. “For what?” I ask, and then I comprehend it:
I am in awe for the woman who hasn’t rested, Has been afield in the work of too many men, Too many droplets of salt, have played a part on your stress, Come to me, dear woman, when you’ll feel yourself Wanting to fall, and create an imprint Of yourself in the soil.
A devil had made this world, And there is indeed purpose among it. But, to find myself more wanting, For the angelic tears that make a journey, Across your withered cheeks, Makes me find more meaning.
“The artist has a singular vision of reality. Such a vision provokes reality to move. Although, the artist has a liking to pick up reality to perhaps drag it. As well, the artist has a liking to make reality writhe in pain, or echo some cry of thrill. Nothing prevents the artist from showing movement.
And for what purpose does this movement conceive its own definition? That definition is the purpose of evil. Art is not evil. It is merely an interpretation of life. Of all what stays inside life, it is the birth of potential. Had Hitler’s mother known of what evil she’d birth? Had Caesar’s mother known of what power she held in her womb?
Art does not convey love. It conveys truth. It conveys the reality made into truth. For reality is nothing more than a stagnant image, and perhaps the blank canvas, before the artist makes life from it. It is the empty womb, the darkened hallway, before there is a child nestled within, or torches lit upon the walls.
Love is a stagnation. Death is a stagnation. And the artist does not convey these things, for these things do not display movement. We are contented in these two things. We want for no more, when either in love or dead, or close to death. For love, we willingly submit. For death, we are forced to submit. And for both, life has no hold upon us.
What is life? It has been said to hold the definition of ‘worth’ or ‘value’ and such things are only ever measured through age. The ‘existence of time’ becomes an existence, when we are able to see life for its truth.
When we speak of evil, we speak of that life, and its discontinuance. We speak of the constant discontent. For a human can only ever be contented when willingly content, or when in love, or when forced to be content, or when near death.
Truth is a middling. Love is a higher. Death is a lower.
We, as humans, are always middling, no matter our ambitions.
It is because when love interferes with the dictator, he is no longer a dictator. He soon renounces his ambitions, and settles in with a wife, while people still pound on his door to murder him.”
Fancy yourself dressed, In the fanciest gown, Decked with the rubies of a life once loved, In all your aromatic kisses, And eyes that glow in the haze of a summer’s night. Beauty! Now, dance for me.
Find me in the garden, With thy roses plucked, And thy breasts revealed, I find your loneliness a thwarting thing, I find no pleasure, From the previous day.
Give me imagery, dear one. Give me wine, dear one. Bend at my feet, and I’ll see into thine eyes, Made like pearls, embedded in thy skull. Oh, love. We have been made holy, Upon God’s temple.
I desire no one else, but thy face upon mine, No one else, but your kisses I smear. You have a face, colored by ivory, And tears that I drink, drained from cheeks That seem to quiver in the dark. My dear, have we come to be?
Find me in the garden, Where the grass caresses my toes, For I will see thee married, To me, for me, upon me.
“There is nothing so deforming of a man’s features, than guilt. Encourage guilt, and you encourage the remaining existence of the masculine man. His instinct is guilt.
What does a man see in a woman’s eyes?
Why, it is all he’s been avoiding. The forgiveness he cannot ever place upon his own actions. Upon himself, it comes hard for forgiveness to douse the dictator’s or psychopath’s actions. Pride only comes as approval. Shame comes as disapproval.
A man’s guilt is as prominent as his infinite opportunity to achieve. His infinite craving, that is, and his only motive behind his desire to achieve, is to compensate for that feeling of guilt. Encourage guilt, and again, you encourage the masculine man. Reveal opportunity, either of sexual desire or monetary gain, and you exploit his guilt, and create his fall.
There is nothing so vengeful as exploitation, and nothing so much the exploit than the exploitation of fear. It is always a cruel gesture to reveal weakness, and it is any enemy to a human’s tool to exploit it.
Within a woman’s eyes, is where he sees the avoidance of God. He’s claimed himself to be God, and yet, the forgiveness for his actions of domination comes from a woman. He will deny God for as long as possible. Perhaps a man will see God as too bright. And to love, of which the ‘modern day’ has found to be ‘obsolete’, it is more proof than ever else proof was made, that forgiveness, nor love, does not dominate, but subdues.”
“It is not enough that ‘plainness’ makes the face beam with natural radiance, but to a man and his not liking to place a mask over his features when at home, he will see that stark plainness; before the mirror, he will see it. Whereas, a woman will apply the cosmetic, and she will say that the natural beauty lies in the mask not put on the features of her; and I will say that this encourages ugliness from the woman; and why is this, other than knowing what ‘plainness’ represents? The ‘plainness’ of guilt, when should a woman commit to the same enactments of a man, make such ‘plainness’ honest and direct. The mirror now sees no likeness of careful image, for a woman, as such guilt hails from the sameness in action from the woman envious of a man’s opportunity. It is only an additional corruption. An added bonus to the stockpile of bones.
Why is this? It is because that same repeated word called ‘plainness’ is why a man was never known to apply the cosmetic. It is why a man, never known to apply the cosmetic, is most truthful to himself without the mask. It is how guilt and shame is felt, by seeing enactments too barbaric and sinister to imply any gentleness that a woman would naturally emit.
For a man craves achievement and receives infinite opportunity for only one reason. That reason is compensation. A man needs no reminder of his guilt. A man needs no movement for that remembrance. It is objectively a cruel gesture to rub salt in the wound, the eternal wound, of a man’s instinct in guilt. His guilt is known, by that plainness, when revealed in the mirror. By no cosmetic, he sees it, and he turns away. By all plainness, and naturalism, he sees it, and sees stark hideousness. Are we taking a liking to choice, to Individualism, to subjectivity? Then, only comprehend that action is what purifies or corrupts the individual soul, after such a ‘logical’ mind of a man makes him the most guilty.”
Beloved, With scars so engraved, Am I able to dig them out?
Am I am able to see, That which has muddled thee, By the sin we both breathe, In bitter misery?
Bandage these sores, For they’ve accumulated, Vast swarms of flies, Longing to feast.
I have failed my own God, The woman I adored, And now see tragedy, Upon my doorstep. He calls himself, “Death”, And fails to see mercy, Unless that is his wish, One I am too blinded to see.
Females in their term of turmoil, Enemies have betrayed them. I feast and dine upon wine, Upon the blood of a youthful swine, One of which I call “mine”. Until bones are ashes under the guise of time.
Berate me, now and forever, The wickedness, now and forever. Scold me, now to forever, Be unkind, now to the ever.
I am no man, Just a feeble form, Grown old by his bones, And broken by stones.
“We live in a world where the word ‘misanthrope’ is something to be admired, adored, and still… where do we find such people? They end up as psychopaths, as people who wouldn’t feel pain when they hear their loved ones who cry in pain. We dislike faith. We dislike religion. And for what purpose has this created? I prove now that the question is opposite from the answer, and the ‘power of reason’ falls on the former. We once placed God as ‘high’, and now we place Science as ‘high’. Why is this? I prove now that it is because those who never received answers, never received bread, now rule us; though, they govern us by what once afflicted them. The question of, ‘When?’ has turned upon the whole of the Earth. And faith, no longer unites us. Question divides us. Faith unites us. Those who never received their answers, now rule us. Those who never provide answers, now rule us. And to what extent does this last? I prove now that when polarities reverse themselves, we turn answer down to its lowest point. That is, we bury truth. And as question and Science is ‘high’, God becomes merely a truth to leave in the past, like any dead thing. Faith, too. Wisdom, too.”
Oh, love; without the work required, would make it mere dust.
Beauty is the flesh, the molded clay, and the truth that is
continually spun into a different shape. Whoever is the political leader of the
day, becomes society’s sculptor, and the sculptor of every piece of flesh.
A neck must turn a head upwards.
A face must see a God, when looking upwards in that direction
towards a light.
Oh, science; it holds fields, and only fields, of such named studies,
where the researchers will only face their eyes upon the ground. When one peers
ahead, one sees the future. When one peers at their feet, they do feel
miserable by seeing the past. History is not merely recorded, but also dug up,
explored and discovered.
Love has two hands, and they both tremble in the fear and worries
of a past.
A man now explores a woman, in what we see before us. A man of ragged
appearance, with death on the edges to his fingertips; he explores with a
shovel; no, not a shovel, but a dagger that is shaped smallest it could ever be,
in possibility. No one had shaped its smallness but the frail mind of this
withered man. He is a rapist. His mind is terrible, while his instincts are
ever-so worse the cause for destruction. Death is his music; and where he makes
marks, they are not stayed with the feet upon a woman’s ground.
He moves as the boat that rocks atop the waves.
He runs his face over her fearful eyes and runs his mouth over her
quivering lips.
He moves his hands at her hips, to turn such round curves into
jagged edges, so they no longer appear as the Earth with its same curvature.
Love; and why do we speak of love, through such a scene?
It is due to one detail.
Fragments.
A woman raped, is the woman removed of her modesty, of her warmth,
and one can guess she’d feel the same “loss” as when she is removed of love. A
lover, that is, to be removed from her life, makes the woman unprotected.
And what had been her protector, this woman named Lucia who now
lays on her back in some dusty back-alley, besides what is now that same word?
Fragments. Torn flesh, is the ragged flesh, is the bleeding wound, the same
wound from everything lost. Of flesh, of virginity, of any mark that touches something
made to be warm, from protection. Clothing would protect from the cold. An
embrace would protect from the coldness of loneliness.
“Does one understand how history repeats itself? Look upon life to see that life is criticized, and only sometimes praised. Look upon the dead, and see how the dead are only praised, and never criticized. As well, look upon the very possible situation of someone dying, with a friend who had known the dying someone for many years, had much time to speak their mind, and when the person has died, it is too late. Fear held them back, and the one with thoughts was the one with the life, afraid of criticism. How can one be afraid of criticism, when one is alive? Criticism betters life, and criticism can do no good for a dead person. We will call Adolf Hitler a genius, say his mind and his words were something phenomenal and interesting; that they create insight into a modern world; that they enlighten or inspire; though, this is only a reaction to the effect of what death has upon life. An absence of life is an absence of criticism. Only praise remains, and that praise is shot towards the dead, because one would waste their breath were they to berate the dead.
History repeats itself, due to that lack of criticism, due to that lack of life. We inevitably praise life, praise success, because we cannot praise the failure that killed the once-living human.”
Fill me with the energy, To attack a traitor. I saw her playing with power, Under the sun. Under her round moon, A face of many. Ovular as eggs, To plant creation into a nest, A bosom white, Dropping the hued-red apples.
Though, she’s betrayed all of love, All of the safety from a ruler. She faces the wrath of God. The downpour from His hand; The Hand of God constructs decimation, Among the fertile land. Love, I would, but I strike the fever, And lash it from existence.
What beauty to lift, When now, strips of flesh? What flesh to bury, Beneath soil and bone, When now, she’ll be scattered? The wrath of God is all-honest, All devoted to the disconnection. My misery starts when unfurled.
I come upon her with a frenzy, A makeshift testimony, An unparalleled ceremony, Of bloodied tides and powdered teeth. A loveliness! I hold a body covered in crimson sheets.
I held a power, The wrath of God. And now is held a guilt, All too natural. For my death, Will be by hands of my own.
