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.
Pleasure me with the face of roses, And feed me your graces, Long, was your tresses, made of ebony. Stone-like, is your heart, and made of the same. Find me next to nectar, Let us leave the sacred altar, And play nude in the mud. Children are ignorant, while question is their infinity.
My beauty with stains of descent, Upon soil, where your ragged flesh lies loose, And a heart burdened in heaviness. I toss more soil to silence whatever flame Is still left to light the Earth, And all its failing dwellers.
Name yourself upon the shape of my arm, Twist yourself about the beautiful objects that stone me, Make me warm, and make me wild, Find me as a man of nothingness.
I feel fame as easily as pleasure, Death and denial go as well As the evening to strife upon life, When we said to ourselves, “We are meant to be, Pleasured by pain, so evenly.”
We are the workers of a plentiful tomorrow, The roses you bring are the tears you’ve shed. As I am in love with the dead, And I will play with the sand, To share our story with those well-read, To finally feel my heart enclosed in this hand.
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“Among work, no equality. Among work, only competition and the endless discontent that is in life. It is not to say that work should be extinguished, for then life would be extinguished. Take away work, and one can only fall or wish to rise; and that means, wishing to rise, makes the pauper the one with the broken wings. Life is beautiful, as it is said, and this is true. Although, as life, and like truth, both can be shaped, through deceit or the truth that is the same as deceit, into anything.
Among love, and among death, there is vulnerability. There is the only equality a human has ever known. Upon the lowest end, one can see where one has leveled themselves; closest to the grave, that is, and one is indeed at the same height as another, close to death. When one is in love, this is a vulnerability also at the same height. An infinite height.
The infinite height of love is where truth has been lifted.
We yearn to rise, as paupers, or die, as paupers.
We yearn for more and more, as discontented people of life.
And we should yearn for nothing else when dead, or when in love.”
“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.”
Breathe one more time, For the wretched thief, Whom you’ve loved, and who steals away The purity that you’ve locked away.
I fall in beckoning to your form and life, In witnessing your eyes in bright light, In breathing your scent of the widest sea, Of who you are, the woman of my eternal dreams.
Am I to make to make love with emptiness? You have such vivid details to explore: So beautiful, are the marks made upon your neck, Made by me, in our kisses of roaring pleasure; I breathe into you, the much needed fulfillment, To how your heart once was shattered.
I so love you, among all the fairest angels, Death clings upon your tresses, And love upon your lips. Beautiful eyes of vivid gleam, And arms that trail the longest paths, Upwards to Heaven, and never to Hell.
I face you, in our reckoning, Beaming with scarlet, from words cast from a reddened mouth. I am plain in my simplest task, to undertake a love from a bold world, Come find me, if you dare to undergo the same. I will be in gardens of lust, Making poetry of love.
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.
How can weeping be a benefit, During when hope lies fruitful and hale? You continue to see tears like raining sapphires, Like raining blood, like raining rubies. Like the emerald between your fingers, Like grass that has been taken.
Oh, when you’ve begun to weep in the sickness Of your unending pain. What embrace can I offer, Different from the last? What kiss may I give, More compassionate than the former?
You have tears still hanging loosely On that forlorn stare of yours. It burns holes in my mountain of pride, And makes the forests crumble to ash. Love holds its doors open, For us to walk through its gates, And you’ll weep, merely weep, Despite our hopes, despite our wishes.
Has faith been lost in you? Under the many doubtful turns, Have you come to quake In the fear, Because of my doings, Of my lack of them?
Upon the floor, you crawl with eyes streaming such sadness, Above my arms, I attempt to let you see, the Heavens for their blue, And you stream sadness, Upon Hell and its washed hues to make shades.
I feel strong, only when faith is an occurrence, Never weak, and never faltering, when there’s no doubt, From you, my wicked beauty.
Make me want you, more than the highest angels, I am no monster, my love, no devil of danger.
