Body of Art
Art is to man,
As the paintbrush is to the painter.
Some will claim
That art is beauty.
That art must represent the good,
The laughter, the soft repose.
But art is naught but
The melded shadows of the maker,
The sculptor, the writer.
Art is a creation
Known only to the creator
In the deep recesses of his being.
There lies true beauty,
In the unknown places of thought
And art is the bridge
From the flighty dream to the tangible.
Is it not acceptable for art
To be more than beauty?
A multifaceted pièce de résistance.
One of agony
And breathless terror
And hopeless, aching romance.
Art is the visceral, remarkable work of us.
Art is humanity.
And humanity is one writhing,
naked body of art.
Solacium
Sometimes he goes to his car to run errands - when the bus route won't take him far enough.
Sometimes he goes to his car to fetch a forgotten item, one of many taking occupancy in his littered backseat.
Sometimes he goes to his car just to think.
Sometimes he goes to his car to scream.
Right now I can see him as I open the front door of the flat; his hands are flying and his mouth is gaping wide and agonised and --
"Hey, hey."
I walk over to where the car is parked on the curb and press my palms against the glass.
I can feel his screams.
"Hey, listen to me."
He slams his fists into the steering wheel, over and over and over and over.
"Listen."
There's no way he can hear me over the muffled din inside the vehicle - raising my voice will make him panic more, so I wait until he pauses to gasp for breath and press his forehead against the door.
His face is twisted in pain.
I can see the tears dripping from the bridge of his nose.
"Listen to me, listen. Unlock the door."
He doesn't look up, but he shakes his head minutely and clasps his hands over his ears.
"I'm right here."
Only a glass window separates my palm from the rest of him.
Then a low sob in his throat evolves into a horrible screech.
"Oh God! Kill me! Please kill me!"
"I'm not going to leave you."
He twists his fingers in his hair and pulls savagely.
He's hyperventilating.
The sound is stifled by the vehicle, but I hear every word.
"I want to die!"
"I know. I know."
When he finally unlocks the door, several minutes later, after he remembers how to breathe, he's too exhausted to do anything more than stare at the windshield. So I gently push him across the seat and take the driver's place and shut the door again.
He leans against me, silent. Spent.
I gently rub his temples - he likely has a headache by now - and turn on the cassette player.
Safe.
Prose: |prōz| (n)
"Direct; without metrical structure."
There is beauty in nothing
in formless words like this
why structure
why rhythm
our hearts all beat differently
our minds are beset with different stones
my coal is your opal
and my emerald is your river pebble
I will change my prose to satisfy no one
but myself
Caedere
Don't you know
I have it planned already
I will stare at the cold blue mountains
As I lift that wine bottle to my lips
And beg the life to leave them
Just as cold and blue as the cordillera
Don't you know
I could only die in your arms tonight
And even if its the small things I have now
I'll cling to them like a stubborn sapling
Don't you know
The best dream I ever had
Was five bullets to the head
And a calm, quiet darkness
An overwhelming peace that took me up
and stilled my lungs.
Quiet.
quiet.
I am an icepack for a bruised lip
I am solitude
Comfort
When your friends strip you down
And leave you naked and cold
I'm the only one left
Because I was the only one who was ever there
But you don't see me
Unless its through your black eye
Because the moment
Your abusers take you back up in their wretched arms
You forget every wrong
And you leave me here
In my first aide kit until you get smashed to pieces again.
Loyalty is a double-edged sword
I'll never stop loving you
Even if you're conditional, and unkind, and sick.
Enjoy my perks while they last
Because while you suck the life from my lungs
The marrow out of my bones
You're too blind to see
Your security blanket is
ripping at the seams.
