and, truly, thou ART the hidden god. but i refuse to search every moment, every person and every corner to find proof of a thought. a thought that whispers in tongues and promises in stereo, maybe, but a thought nonetheless.
dwell on this with me. imagine fate staring down will until both begin to blur. until faces suffer sharp angles and the room starts to warp. walls melting. floor tilting.
not again.
fate and will locked in some eternal staring competition until their eyes leak out or it just seems that way. trick of the light. like saying a word over and over and over again until it completely forgets who it is or where it was going. what were you going to say?
you said it. there was just no definition to the words. and suddenly fate looks like karma and will is just a shrug. all because you stared too long. thought too hard.
live simple.
intellect gets in the way. it makes us forget that we decay just like our country. it allows us to call forth emotion that does not fit circumstance. instinct works. it is raw and crude and probably wrong but it feels good. i don't know if you've guessed this but art is instinct. when the poet begins to think he is not writing. when the painter sits back to consider his work, he will never again find the exact spot or posture he assumed when the painting was first born. it will never be complete, because everything has changed. the original portait is ruined. heart trickles out of the cracks that thoughtful pause caused.
do you see?
live simple.
Monday, May 29, 2006
where words dissolve one by one into other words. where sentiment is eaten by thought and everything comes apart at the seams. where satan says fuck the pearly gates, fuck jesus, fuck you guys i am making this place heaven. different strokes.
whatever.
where i am walking left and the world is spinning right but like amanda says gravity plays favourites. just let me sit upon my throne gravitron, i have no beef with you. don't make this a vendetta because i can't help it when my tactics turn dirty. leave me spinning on my axis. on your axis. the sun is an axis because we're at that place where words dissolve like rice paper, one by one they weep and bleed into each other. a trail of ink dying halfway across a page. an omen if you ever saw one. leaves me spinning on my axis.
satan is making a heaven of his hell and it's time for you to choose. are you a god or a peasant? it's time for you to choose.
i'm with satan.
whatever.
where i am walking left and the world is spinning right but like amanda says gravity plays favourites. just let me sit upon my throne gravitron, i have no beef with you. don't make this a vendetta because i can't help it when my tactics turn dirty. leave me spinning on my axis. on your axis. the sun is an axis because we're at that place where words dissolve like rice paper, one by one they weep and bleed into each other. a trail of ink dying halfway across a page. an omen if you ever saw one. leaves me spinning on my axis.
satan is making a heaven of his hell and it's time for you to choose. are you a god or a peasant? it's time for you to choose.
i'm with satan.
what's up buk?
i have a secret blog for my secret blog. i have aliases covering aliases covering alter egos. my paranoia is wrapped so tightly around itself that it's starting to suspect some sort of internal mutiny.
and what then?
reality check.
what's up sydney. what's up canada. welcome to the masquerade.
reality check.
what's in a name anyway? what are we running from, buck? larry? jack? what pursues the non-extant?
what's in a name? a face. a tone. has it changed, has it altered? can you pick the buck from the larry or is it all one uniform blur of pixels that don't matter to you? mislabelled self-indulgence.
who knows. maybe i'll get a barcode tattooed to my neck. what's in a name anyway?
pssh. what's up william. you are forgiven.
so my secret blog from my secret blog. it is not so much. some words hidden from some eyes that probably don't exist. paranoia i am done with you. i will talk to you until you recede.
what colour is your fear? my fear is red. my fear is one night of extended scrutiny and a contact so tenuous it barely exists. my fear is ten weeks of your misery for my pleasure. my fear is white hot and getting closer every day. my fear you say. my fear doesn't exist, lady. back off.
my favourite game involves rum and smoke and bars and pretending i'm bukowski. only to other people. i only pretend on the outside. on the inside i'm larry and buck and jack and a whole page of worlds and words spinning in the palm of my hand. names and faces. all one. all me. pretending. just pretending.
but on the outside i'm communing with rum and cigarettes. i'm frowning. thinking. creating.
on the outside i'm bukowski.
what's in a name anyway?
reality check.
what's up buk?
yeah. reality check.
and what then?
reality check.
what's up sydney. what's up canada. welcome to the masquerade.
reality check.
what's in a name anyway? what are we running from, buck? larry? jack? what pursues the non-extant?
what's in a name? a face. a tone. has it changed, has it altered? can you pick the buck from the larry or is it all one uniform blur of pixels that don't matter to you? mislabelled self-indulgence.
who knows. maybe i'll get a barcode tattooed to my neck. what's in a name anyway?
pssh. what's up william. you are forgiven.
so my secret blog from my secret blog. it is not so much. some words hidden from some eyes that probably don't exist. paranoia i am done with you. i will talk to you until you recede.
what colour is your fear? my fear is red. my fear is one night of extended scrutiny and a contact so tenuous it barely exists. my fear is ten weeks of your misery for my pleasure. my fear is white hot and getting closer every day. my fear you say. my fear doesn't exist, lady. back off.
my favourite game involves rum and smoke and bars and pretending i'm bukowski. only to other people. i only pretend on the outside. on the inside i'm larry and buck and jack and a whole page of worlds and words spinning in the palm of my hand. names and faces. all one. all me. pretending. just pretending.
but on the outside i'm communing with rum and cigarettes. i'm frowning. thinking. creating.
on the outside i'm bukowski.
what's in a name anyway?
reality check.
what's up buk?
yeah. reality check.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
love: part the second
HOWEVER, love: the verb. the doing. love: the doing. love that leaves marks and scratches? that bruises and bleeds? love you can watch in hallways and on trains?
that kind of love. love the verb the doing i'm glowing type love, well.. that is worth giving your words up for. that is worth giving my words up for. that is worth pretending the other love is not so bad after all.
i'm glowing. you'll do.
that kind of love. love the verb the doing i'm glowing type love, well.. that is worth giving your words up for. that is worth giving my words up for. that is worth pretending the other love is not so bad after all.
i'm glowing. you'll do.
Monday, May 22, 2006
laborare est orare
today
and here's a name,
nothing but a name
written across my clenched
fist
love
real love isn't beautiful or tragic like
hollywood tells
it does not conquer mountains
or heal wounds
it does not resurrect the dead.
tears don't turn to blood when it's
love
love is not beyond words
or sentiment
it is not the greatest of all
emotion
and it does not write poetry
as it unfolds
naked between the sheets
love sounds like hope
like the religion of the old world
where work was worship and
it was faith and fear we believed in
love has no colour
beyond hurt
or the sound of lies as they fall
hot across our pillows
it is not the cancer
that blinds men
at its
climax
love is too easily confused
excused
with lust and
cowardice
it is too easily the name
given to need
and melodrama
love is failure
it is guilt,
sorrow;
the flaws of a lifetime
forgiven in an hour
love is belied by wisdom
and terror
love is the song sung in trenches
across history's wrinkled palm
it is carrying what is
too heavy to bear
because there is no other choice
but burden
love is a poet's fingers
stained with the ink that grieves
a face;
a familiar scent
left in the seams of your favourite shirt
love is the trust shared between two people
with no future
it is the ugliest,
lowest
way
to wake up:
in love,
breath sour with regret
and a name,
nothing but a name
written across your clenched
fist
today.
and here's a name,
nothing but a name
written across my clenched
fist
love
real love isn't beautiful or tragic like
hollywood tells
it does not conquer mountains
or heal wounds
it does not resurrect the dead.
tears don't turn to blood when it's
love
love is not beyond words
or sentiment
it is not the greatest of all
emotion
and it does not write poetry
as it unfolds
naked between the sheets
love sounds like hope
like the religion of the old world
where work was worship and
it was faith and fear we believed in
love has no colour
beyond hurt
or the sound of lies as they fall
hot across our pillows
it is not the cancer
that blinds men
at its
climax
love is too easily confused
excused
with lust and
cowardice
it is too easily the name
given to need
and melodrama
love is failure
it is guilt,
sorrow;
the flaws of a lifetime
forgiven in an hour
love is belied by wisdom
and terror
love is the song sung in trenches
across history's wrinkled palm
it is carrying what is
too heavy to bear
because there is no other choice
but burden
love is a poet's fingers
stained with the ink that grieves
a face;
a familiar scent
left in the seams of your favourite shirt
love is the trust shared between two people
with no future
it is the ugliest,
lowest
way
to wake up:
in love,
breath sour with regret
and a name,
nothing but a name
written across your clenched
fist
today.