Natural bodies technically do not ask for forgiveness. They demand nothing but a series of replenishments. If you deny me sorrow, I will deny you joy; raise our tweaked, tawdry pennon elsewhere but between our distinctive beliefs. Partition! Take shelter, take shelter– in our grand quiet while I run my hands through the grass then through a soul. Do not disturb the foul at any cost. Perhaps my admiration shall recoil. We do not do confessions when we’re hatching in the dark. Believe me, I’ll sing you praises when you finally break my heart.
On Areas and Ideas of Self-Preservation
The narrow-minded are always so horny for purity! How utterly disgusting! What wastes of life– never having known the truths in pleasure, only the allure of it… They are afraid of the theoretical things that will happen after death, they forget that there is only the living.
I guess I have to be at peace with the purification of the self through action, but that does not mean I can tolerate the foibles easier. It just means it now presents itself easier– the handling of the daunting fears that take up so much space that they prevent you from accomplishing anything else. No thought is free. All words and flinches are allocated. If I could lie, as lie to myself I had always decided, it is that I would present my ego as that without a single scar– that I am modest; that I am tame; that I am generous and grounded and that I do not, with choice, relate exclusively to useless works of art.
I swear to you that the fruits of my work will always be gliding. They will never truly impact the heads and hearts of those I intend them to be with. In that sense, I do spare them… This is how I elect myself a saint of no pleasure and all pleasures. This is how I was not built, but have built myself. I am all feelings and no dignity. I am all pose, simply existing for the unrefined plows and presses of self-scrutiny. How convincingly easy it is for the artist to pretend that they had known not delight when they are then dragged to the sun. But, then, isn’t that true for everybody?
On Promises and Mutable Darlings
I do miss the congregation of the bees. (They are now flatlining.) They were modest, honest, so well-put in a place where Love blossomed in an extended manner that have yet to learn of cowardice. They housed diversions from originators, progenitors of expositions. They stocked piledrivers, over-distillations, opera, housework, tidiness, dutifulness, chaos, sheet-music. They snubbed, directly, the sight of the scythe. They offered words without loyalty to those who spoke; only intent of clearing out and making out who were in front of them. It were refreshing, to be dominated so clearly after swearing never to be diminished and demolished as the last year’s victorious run where all my bodies piled under the liquid grave of Love’s first real injustice. I graduated from loving an older stranger who have not become a master of his tongue, only to fall into the arms of a clumsy coward who would throw at me their desires of conflicted asceticism; as if their soul were pustulent, their tongue exhibiting the same. It were a symptom of the soul, therefore a symptom of the tongue, same. My words are as shrill as your unabridged divinity; shrill as you are.
A selfish part of my self longs truly of a man who does not speak well, for words become his increasing struggle as I educate him with every passing thought actualized by my brown mouth only shushed by cigarettes. I am not saying that I would want to talk to some body whose soul is as active as a nothing, with exactly nothingness of thoughts. I am, with all the shame in the world below, used to my own fits of hysteria. I had been raised to never hold back and zip my self… O’, but just how crucial it would be, the be with the friend destined to be with me, when he stumbles just easily and perfectly in moving a face that his brown mouth completely shuts, derails, and arranges me!… But this is childish. I am no longer a child. I need and want and require complete men with thoughts and words. I need a steady diplomat to foot the frenzied artist in me. Perhaps, I shall become a diplomat next. Funny how we administer ourselves to others! How horrid in the candid!
Vacationing love, vacationing boy, go git and gargle in gondolas and gaffe. Drama is only worth nil without an adversary, and the greatest of them all is Timing. When in the face of it, I am humorless.
Diplomacy had never been my thing. When I write about love that exposes me, it feels like vandalism. My mouth still cannot pronounce the names of my exes to anyone. If I tell others of my love, then that love is clearly failing, or maturing. It is always impossible to tell. There is much for no one to know. There is much for no one to re-conquer.
The truth is that I had written about myself but, as a practice, had hid myself, therefore hiding my love of my lovers. I had made bold statements that sounded like the loudest promises, as if the louder before me had made louder promises. And I laugh at them. And I laugh at myself. I laugh at my then-pain, now. I betray and leave my then-quite-loud promises, now. There is only evolution and withdrawals. The words of today only exist to be later retracted.
I wonder who I will be next, and how quick I would be to retract myself. I wonder if my buzzing would ever be so loud, or if being loud were only an extract from youths.
On The Loudest Obsession
Obsession is only good enough if you never come close that you can draw a sword, stunted, and lay it next to the un-baptized necks of theirs. Offer yourself up to artists, only; to humanitarians, only. Love the folk who are easy to shift. If they become permanent, their beauty is ruined a bit. If they did not give themselves fully– the pleasures of the body alongside the pleasures of the talks and shows and chows– their beauty is ruined in large sums.
I had once been undone by my own beauty, by youth and by me giving in to my youth. Trust; I will trample myself all over again, and in different ways and exchanging folds, if only to barricade my spirit from the glare of thinning away’s stranger promise and be running around with red eyes, even if they leave me, again, even more blind. When I yell of temptation is when the temptation go away. When I keep it idle, it creeps in, an unwanted bedfellow, and I could never be too careful of the pastorals and proverbs I whisper as if I were part of the apostles. I had been sleeping too long and, for a longer time ahead, I will be sleeping some more. But beauty never truly rests. Beauty will always be aware of itself, and others aware of it, even when it attracts to itself the boredom we then slowly accumulate as we prepare ourselves by enriching ourselves with other materials of life.
The water drum fills, yet never overflows. When we are not prepared to retire, we are then forced, always so hastily, to retire. What good are they, the materials waning, unwanted, gold bars and jewels and land and career and relaxation, later then I cannot feed myself energy from my own build? If I am halfway through life, I will be halfway through every mystery that had crossed every living being. So, as the water drum empties, I will have to inquire of another sense of beauty, which is the beauty of poetry, and peace, and poetry, and the soul, and poetry and peace of the soul, And I will tell myself today to remember to be terrified if the beauty of my soul then, slowly, escapes, for I will have come, again, undone and unmanned.
How unlucky it will be, to be both unmanned both in our sleep and in the waking time! At least, I can say, that I had cattlemarked my image in my own mind and in the mind of many others whose memory and beauty and soul and sleep are failing them by every thrifty drip.
When a fellow is young, their main purpose it to be young. Damned be the always seemingly charitable ocean that draws in without forgiveness. The ocean doesn’t mind itself being flooded or reflooded. Only those who study the margins of the sand, those who keep track of the the should-be margins, are cursed. These are our crones. How unfortunate and uncharitable and unforgiving it is, to triple the age of the soul compared to its body and vicinity. The drum, then, fails, even at its best, efforts and intentions and all. The drum, then, gets replaced with another beauty set to be emptied later– love and diplomacy and vandalism and all.
On Everybody Leaving
There it is! I hear it– the ugly sense of stability. It had always shown its face quite peculiar but never once something to meditate upon. It is walking. It is sharp. It hollows out a home that is already weary, granting the children in all of us chances and promises that never quite live up to what we had always wanted to lasso in.
It doesn’t fool me, this sense. I know of it, and I’ve spent time and tears and laughter with it… My dear, it is not only tragedy that forces the maturation of the spirit. Some are born with it, simply– a sort of greed towards simplicity– rustling, justifiable, knocking down all of the evasives. And, in every case, there are the people who head away because of tragedy or the default sense… Common men, powerful men, titans and cowards and the readily growing… Dream it is not my fault if they leave or if I have to learn how to live without them, casing the every tinges and aspects and edges of my dreams de-armed; because we all dream of varying things set in varying places, some times even time periods. We do not tear the same as we do not laugh the same. And it is difficult, having to put things behind.
I have learned peace with communicating from afar. It is an art, truly. It is, by far, the most handsome quality, letting others pursue their true nature or, in some cases, results of nurture. that their later-accomplishments would come first over an unsturdy fusillade of years to be exhausted, set beside my own selfishness, collecting resentment at every turn like aimless men.
If I tell you about my gateway lover, would you hate me for it? Would you consider me inconsiderate if I told you I pleaded for him to stay? Because I did no such thing or, at least, I didn’t try well enough for it to really weigh… There were moments, of course, when I promised my gateway lover that we should house together, but they were more meaningful in those tiny moments than they were when I prepare my honeyed drink at night. When I am about to adjust myself to the grandness of rest, I do not carry their weight on my right pec and am exonerated for it by matters of relief. I said good bye to him as the alarm buzzes by the way of the sun being rude to my face. What gleam! What fantasy! What hope in the night!
You were a quick study, a product of marionette and man. I didn’t try and pull well enough because I know very much about their dreams and mine never intersecting, and how easily distracted I am by time and tears and laughter, and how capricious I get when the bell rings to save us all from those three… They had not always defined our courses but have made them more solid-looking. How I flinch at every over-sapped sentence reveals to me how I would observe myself the next month, though its affect isn’t the most satisfactory nor the most convincing. The way they inch their head away when I try to rest my mouth on theirs tell me they are readying to pack. Yet, I would still want to dine with them, and laugh about the triviality of the past three days when we felt best to not interlock our footprints. I would still want to give them the book I highlighted with the yellow marker. I would still want to test them by showing them which words have made me gasp, or cringe, or carpeted, or alleviated; because I want to not see their eyes if either they do or do not believe.
When I kiss you, and you turn your head away, I know what you mean. When I ask you if you love me, don’t roll into me the statement of how you’re here. I know, darling, what you mean… I do not hold a grudge against adversaries, tho. Not on anniversaries. I do not hold their dreams against them, their stillness… I am smitten for a time, then abandon for the rest. I am sure all our fears do, too. It is just natural, primal. It is just what’s best.
On Everybody Coming In
How loud, the chorus of writers! How annoying, the broken hearts, all begging for time to be aired!
If time ever stood still, if every flower stopped mid-bloom, every tide not continuing their push, then I could make today, which is to say probably the best day of my anecdotal figure, eternal. And what an uninterpretable waste that would be! The world will always be bettered by the next world. If not, for it had the habit of skipping goodness, then the world after that, all even grander, even softer, all made more vibrant and cheap and affordable to all. And all comforts of love and diplomacy and vandalism will be pushed to museums as things to be half-admired. New life always amazes, for the unexpected things really are thrown from the mouths and the hands of the unexpected people. I would very much like to listen to them, the later chorus, to complain and be annoyed and be undone; for, before that, deliver, they will a soft beauty I have never realized were fortunate to ever exist… How horrid. How awfully, beautifully, soulfully, dreamingly candid!
I am dormant, night and day, destined to make wild claims. Honeyed drink, how bizarre! I still haven’t kissed you with my full name!