Bow and Arrow

Straight for the heart, striking it, pushing it, tearing it from the body. A sucker punch. Unexpected, like so many glorious and tragic things. I watched you line me up, take aim and then with pinpoint love and hurt and golden focus you took the greatest part of me, all for yourself. I wouldn't allow it if it weren't for art, for the pain and the wonder of every beating second that pushes us to the post.

I contemplate the way so many stars blinking upon us celebrate the sky together and so many people can see nothing. The way a bow and an arrow combine, make love, crucify the very air, a split second of perfect trajectory and motion. All is everything, cutting us to pieces, like some exquisite musical cacophony. It never seemed lovelier. Like her, like the eyes of everything, like her. A bow, an arrow, a woman for eternity.

Communication Breakdown

Oh, everything is a battleground. You try and I fail. I put my heart in and you watch in amusement, from the sides, with a whole audience. Spectator sports. Neglect, the breakdown of all words. Language, evolving as we use it. The walls of the city were never built to last an eternity, and words as we use them have no everlasting fortress of meaning either. At least not as we regard each other from a distance. Not as we spell our thoughts out to each other. Someone isn't open, another knows not honest, some have hidden agendas, some just can't force the nature of expression. I know those who struggle and get lost down endless avenues, dead ends and nooks. God, the breakdown of everything, communication kicking out, all falls apart. I want my only words, truest of all, to leap out from a computer screen, to shake you, grab a hold of you, suck your face then body into the screen, and take you with them, take you apart, take you everywhere they choose to go. Nothing is ever gonna happen for no reason, nobody can get across what they mean and the sinking plunges ever deeper. We know we fail, we never stop trying, glued to the other side, watching as we do.

Take me with you. Break me. Teach me. Love me. Cross me like two swords. Defender, oh, useless bodyguard. You can stop nowhere and it ends up complete. A castle in ruins. A communication breakdown. Repetition. No solution. We see it take place. She wonders...

The Brick Wall Treatment

She was made out of stone. She was beautiful. She was a building. She was unfathomable. No question about it, she didn’t understand things. I guess maybe that was what would stand the test of time. She was probably broken, just in different ways, but she was something; something to look at, to tick in unusual ways, to observe and to just accept, in all her confused and hypocritical glory. Always on the edge, feeding off both sides, never falling off. I could wonder or just let it all slip away, write about it, put it to bed. Yeah, that was it.

If you ever come up against a brick wall, don’t take it on, perhaps. All it can do is dwarf you, all it can do is bounce your words right back at you, maybe even break you; stop you in your tracks. Completely. Oh, and it towers over me, and I can do nothing. I can storm its shadow to keep me from the brutal sun, painting the streets, around every single corner. I finger the puzzle, the pieces in my paws, it makes no sense. Some puzzles were not meant to be finished.

I could bang my head on you, I could knock myself silly, really put myself amongst the tortured ones. But, to be frank, this treatment is educational for me. Everything that rolls my way, whether I see it coming towards me or not, is designed to help shape me, just like those jigsaw pieces, so that one day it all fits, so it all just fits, someday, maybe. 

Invisible Forces

Do I lead myself nowhere? It is all in the eyes. What lives behind? Oh, we try to see. Get lost in the magic. My darling, I know it isn't real, I know it isn't dream. I know nothing. Sometimes we break, and never know why.

I can't find answers when my heart is dripping from the shelf, when the clock still doesn't tick, and it seems as never ending as some of the seconds that once sounded upon it.

I could want to give myself wholly. To you. It wouldn't matter, I think. Invisible forces come into play. Animals capture moments and swallow them forever. Like they never even existed. We wash away, into the past, just memories, some rotten history, some golden curse. So much beauty, it never even seems it was here. Inside some eyes, maybe just two, silent answers, vanished parts of us. Swimming, in the sea, never coming back. Dearest times of our lives, we never even knew we had. You.

That Clock

Maybe it's when it all goes calm and I stop and think about it that I realise. I miss that clock. That damn ticking sound. Infuriating as it was, driving me mad at times, it was a comfort. A constant warmth to my flat in those cold months, a guide through my days, a reassuring presence, though at times it just became too loud for my thoughts. I didn't want the battle. I wanted the clock to make it easy. Yet, right now, strangely, I miss it. I cannot fathom what I am saying really. I miss the sound of my days. The sound of them marching and departing my present in favour of my past. For each time it ticked that moment slipped from my view, over my shoulder. Gone. Time. The more of it that passes the closer each of us is to our own deaths and the death of those we love. Somehow, it feels like more of a friend though. It has brought me this far, so I can trust it to take me where I am destined to go. That clock, deceased, waiting in the wings for a new incarnation.

These Two Women II

One turned out to be a liar

One turned out to be true

She was the one who stood the test of time

The other was emotionally blue

The Guerrilla Writer

Write. Don't think. Treat it like a war. Dive in. Battle with the world and empty your emotions. On to the blank space in front of you. Spontaneous and passionate. Let it flow through the pen. Whatever you believe. In ink. On paper. Forever etched into the grain of the page. From a spark in the mind. The stem, the root, the beginning. Birth. Beautiful baby. Don't make a plan. The execution of a plan is never the success you would hope for.

Write for you soul. For cathartic waves. For the exorcism of it all. To repair past pain. To justify yourself to nobody. This existence. That summons so many questions. To mind. Free yourself of all the reasons and write. Just write. For a song, for a poem, for a world, for nothing at all. All is just a dream.

I want to be a guerrilla writer. Write in the eye of a storm, survive. Then disappear. Fight and demonstrate what I believe in. Some things, worth fighting for. Worth spilling blood for, for the eventual value. The meaning. How symbolic. The struggle, the tragedy, the result, the history of events. The turmoil. To write. With a pen in a hand and a connection with the paper. Sparks. The greatest battle. To make some sense out of everything and nothing. To love and show compassion at every single moment. The impossible. Time and again. A guerrilla heart. Never stops, never undoes itself, never truly sleeps.

The nucleus and the vanishing trick.