It is known
You can never hold on to
an adventurer
and she was one
And she was gone
and he stood by the window
and smelled the
guitar she left behind,
not knowing how to play it
A girl like her
travels around the world
like a sailor and
loves many boys and men
and they never forget her
The one mistake
they all share is
trying to lock her in their
world
It’s like trying to
capture the sun’s light in
a bag and take it
into your dark house
Women like her
are responsible for
men who call themselves
romantics and write love poems
and dream
He struck the cords
of the guitar
once. Looked out
the window. Warm, sunny day.
Streets busy with children
running fast, passing by
adults who walked slow
sunny day outside streets full of people seeking water and cold beers
overcast day inside the cold, irregular walls of the basement in the abandoned building The clouds are alive and very annoying
She slaps his forehead with a sloppy hand soaked in vomit
“Ouch!” he screams
And she says, “I can’t stand these fucking fruit flies. Why must they follow everywhere we go?”
He turns around on the wool blanket and shoves away a few empty bottles of cheap wine and drops his head onto her naked lap. “Because, baby, we’re putrid. You and I, we’re both dead on the inside and out. And the fruit flies love the smell and taste of our bodies. Especially when they come together and sweat a lot.”
His hand grabs at her upper thigh and the fingers tap playfully along the piano-key-like cut marks that adorn it
she looks up at me with
eyes hidden, almost locked,
behind
thick bars of hair
that reaches all the way to
her small nose
Hair discolored like
dry straw,
second in paleness only
to her ghostly face
She doesn’t stare too much
because there
are other things to see
in the room
She moves
on. Not
knowing that I also stared
at her. Into her soul
I’ve spotted an unquenched
cry there
The easiest to
recognize is the cry of loss
and that’s what I saw there
paired with
the cry of want
She wants to get away
from here
Far, far away. She wants to go
and never stop. Wants
to travel into
forever
and I’d like to
take her
there
But alas,
I am stuck here onto
this wall
frozen in time
I'm a static
painting
And my cold
words
void of any vibration
will never reach her
I have to make my peace
with it. Yeah, some
people just don’t read
poetry. And even if
they do, what are the chances
they’d read mine?
Wow, what a fool I can be at times
But, well, at least
I have my dreams
and myself to laugh at
You don’t need much else
in eternity
A lone ant crawled into his hair and went across his forehead to his eyelid He woke up Sand all about him and wood above But this was so far from hell Hell was a thing of the past now Now he had her by his side She was still sleeping in her rugged sleeping bag For the past few days they slept under the cabin to avoid being ambushed inside He knew she wouldn’t be by his side for long. The infection in her mouth was really getting out of control putting her one outrageous fever away from death This was the world today A warm wasteland full of predators and no medical help of any kind. Kill or be killed. Law of the jungle. And so on He liked to believe he adapted Too many didn’t His luck stood in not having that much of a fine life…
Image Source: Snappa “I tried to hire my mentally ill brother,” he said. “I gave him a knife. He’s forbidden to touch them but I gave him one anyways and told him to use it on me. That was my strategy for productive writing. My brother would stand by the door and I told him […]
well it’s been about four days of fasting Four days of eating nothing but smoke from his cigarettes so it was difficult to tell whether the woman who sat in his bathtub and smoked some of his cigarettes and watched him writing on his desk was real or not “Of course I’m real, you dumbass!” […]
“You need help,” they told him. “Get some therapy, some counseling, something. Reach out, man, you need help.” He would raise his glass at such advice and say, “Oh, hell yeah, I need all the help I can get. Thanks.” But he would never actually reach for it He’d reach for the closest bottle and pour himself another drink and maybe reach for some leg or breast or ass By this time the ladies knew he wasn’t a bum, even though he looked like one with his ragged, soiled green suit and his worn out shoes his cobweb-like greasy hair and the unkempt beard that looked like he was chewing on a dead, rotting octopus He was loaded with cash despite all that And the explanation was simple He was a poet He laughed at all those well-meaning advisers and their concerns He would return to his home in the…
Daydreaming as a profession 