Archive for the ‘meloncholia’ Category

loud visions, quiet transitions

Thursday, February 4th, 2016

i swore i loved her once

when the lights of the canyon brought forth redemption from the aching of the glass shattered from the perfume you left on my duskwood chair

darling, you were quite the disaster

you tapped the floor in your lilac pirouettes and you kissed me softly and spoke in those bitter rhymes of strangers in past times

you spoke of Picasso as the paint of your own troubles ran dry and you took some of my own

but you asked ever so nicely

and the touch of your lullaby was the harmony in which i catered to the heart strings of the dead

it left musk on my fingers and lavender on the side of my tinted cheek

whether it was tinted in anger or in romance is the question

whether the sidewalk now is a savior of the suicidal or a mockery of the weak

i have felt the beckoning of the stars from it’s brothers on the gravel roads

and if i stood long enough to make love to the headlights of a passing stranger

i become a surrogate to a passion once felt long ago

 

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“well you should be content with yourself, why are you sad?”

Wednesday, January 14th, 2015

If there is a time for the big comedown to happen, this time is not the best of them.

Yet I ask myself whether I am content with my life, and ironicaly I can say I am. However, explain to me why I find myself too hostile, and times of sorrow become part of one’s routine far too often. Why do my mother’s screams feel directed to the dead centre of my body, even though she no longer looms over my bespeckled head? I stand on top of a mound of self accomplishment, and yet I find myself kicking the ground before me. I look too far ahead and I am hopelessly distraught. My heart feels like a chamber for some heavy lead that has replaced the functuality of the heart and has left it to the purpose of being deadweight. Constantly, on the hour, the tick and tock of a cry that I have yet to calm down sits inside of me. A meloncholia of the darkest sort, and I have begged for it to come away until a later time. But when do the tides of nature ever speak to the poor famrer who weeps at its shore? It seems that progression in age only summons up another and another worry that would make a poor man’s scientist look for a deity. Yet I have none, for I lost faith for the pendulum in the reminants of a childhood long ago. Is it of nature for the poet to be surrounded in circumstances of gratitiude and still find it plausible to stand at the edge of a well whose bottom has been reached by many other writers, in search of finding someone who can cause permanent sunshine of the mind. Or perhaps they were caught in their reflection, and threw themselves inside with vainful disposition and dying aspiration? Until that answer surfaces, I stare into a space where my teardrops become grand submarines in search of a purpose in their journey. Surely they have gone farther than their conjurer, at the stake for their own accusation of treason of the soul.