I come to you in smiling evanescence
at the behest of cobbled streets now
six-lane highways, of men and women
made love to a thousand times in
ten-thousand different ways, of shadows
and silhouettes, of roses upon blue walls,
I come to you somewhat mendacious, hoping
to become your explicit insatiable fetish,
let me be your vindication, you can be mine as well,
let's intertwine in magnanimous indiscreetness, and
finally diffuse in lusty osmosis, a confluence of ecstasy
in wanton veracity,
Dewdrops of perspiration cleanse my soul. >>
Untitled
<< < < << When is the world not the world? Can seemingly dumb questions
have a meaning?
When is life not life (excluding the possibility of death)? When
things seem to lose their meaning-obscured by clouds of nothingness-always the
possibility of non-being, a lack, a failure, the thwarting of a will-the
abortion of a dream, an accident-a fluke-a mishap, a tree sappling-roots
ripped from the nourishment of soil ("good clean dirt") by a tornado, a dog
neutred-a "dream deferred"-not to mention the facticity of mortality and the
probability of a plane crash, auto accident, the framework of a disaster is
always somewhere out there (though probably not looming at every moment)-
The point is rather roundabout, that is, once upon a time a living
being dreamed of death and it terrified him more than a dirty-brown-shagged
carpet, white walls blemished by dirt, and overabundance of objects and
building projects, cold-unfeeling machines,
sitcomtalkshowcommercialbillboardadvertising, the pain that comes from looking
at concrete, the sickly smell of exhaust, the lie of artificial light, the
unclean feel of money, the forclosure of a house, dissolution of "the family
unit", the destruction of development, austerity measures and IMF dictates,
hypocrisy and lies, the betrayal of that which would bring people together,
i.e. working class solidarity, the needless suffering caused by those who
essentially have the same dreams that I do, but pursue them in repugnant
unconcionable ways-
Are these things worse than death?
But now 'tis time for a paradigm shift, allow my praxis to drift
toward a different point of view-it seems death no longer represents the
centralization of fear, but rather an absurd life, a life devoid of meaning, a
life without any possibility of there-being a meaning-that is precisely what I
fear, that is something I must keep in check at all costs-not to be confused
with the "a priori" lack of purpose that preserves the potential for action,
action leading to a project, project leading to an identity, identity leading
to meaning, meaning-an end in itself...
Shall we prance to another level?
Diving into Van Gough's deep, cool, meaningful blues-
a
splash
of
being-
bubbles of creativity and inspiration, a pool of becoming-preserving
a multiplicity of becomings-(but we've strayed from the blue a bit which is
entirely the point)-no admission fee, one only needs to be aware of being
aware, withold judgement, question the question and jump in- every blue
movement-
an
act
of
creation-
take the blue in your mouth, one may even splash another with blue
(that's what love is all about)-let the blue be playful, let the blue be, do
as you will within the blue, will nothing within the blue, drift within the
blue-if I must drown-let it be in blue, let me be
in shades and hues of blue- we are
blue
within
blue
within
blue-
But someone is calling us from another room, another room in "the
house of being"-
a room of magnificent sunsets-a plethora of setting suns in purple-
pink-peach-orange-wonderness-making known-proclaiming in subtle brilliance
that the beauty of blue is that it can be purple, or pink, or peach, or
orange-green-yellow-brown etc.. One can be blue and yet purple, proclaim and
confirm blueness but remain essentially pink-(this should not be confusing
unless of course you've never been exposed to blue)-
and Van Gough would approve, BEAUTY IS MULTIPLICITY...>>