It came
and sat on the side of my bed,
It was poking me
and pulling my hair
laughing.
And then
left me
with crooked fingers over the keyboard.
Mad Bitch.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Artists
-I have learned to be an Artist, he said. I have learned to be unique.
-You've done the bigger part, now you only have to learn how to be just like everybody else, to really be one.
The conversation did not go smoothly. She was looking at him, wondering, how much will he shrink throughout the years. And he couldn't help to count those few years she will manage to maintain her youth.
They both wanted to prove something. Something that would leave one big, fat period... no exlamation sign in the life of the other.
What do you live for? - He implied that her life was empty and her lack of ambission was pityful.
He will probably not understand until the death-bed that pityful, was his pretend for greatness, and a life he deprived of meaning.
She've read somewhere that the key to a great life was simple. It was a life-long friend, love, and meaningful work.
She siped her wine and faked a defeated smile.
-You've done the bigger part, now you only have to learn how to be just like everybody else, to really be one.
The conversation did not go smoothly. She was looking at him, wondering, how much will he shrink throughout the years. And he couldn't help to count those few years she will manage to maintain her youth.
They both wanted to prove something. Something that would leave one big, fat period... no exlamation sign in the life of the other.
What do you live for? - He implied that her life was empty and her lack of ambission was pityful.
He will probably not understand until the death-bed that pityful, was his pretend for greatness, and a life he deprived of meaning.
She've read somewhere that the key to a great life was simple. It was a life-long friend, love, and meaningful work.
She siped her wine and faked a defeated smile.
Sheer illusion
The perfect crimes of the hearbroken...
Nobody is a better liar.
Nobody believes in thier lies so purely.
Unfortunate sadness of the sinking hearts.
She left the "deep blue" to write these words in her boring bedroom.
Nobody is a better liar.
Nobody believes in thier lies so purely.
Unfortunate sadness of the sinking hearts.
She left the "deep blue" to write these words in her boring bedroom.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
My little raft
On my little raft, away,
Through rainstorms,gales and blizzards,
With revirie and visions,
And with a childish dream
Unnoticed will I sail,
Once night creeps in the house,
To sate with rythms and rhymes,
The world of fancy I live in.
Though there are,
Hardships awaiting my raft,
SADNESS AND FORMER LOADS FAULT
Hamper my drift afloat
STILL my raft,
Weaved out of verses and songs,
Standing against all the wrongs,
Doesn't look all that bad.
I am not shunning those,
Who prophesised me troubles,
They are more at ease a-snuggle
Back on a solid shore.
They cannot understad
What's dirven me so sudden,
What's spurred my trip afar and,
What'll asauge me in the end.
Ties with the past I"ll break
Through rainstorms,gales and blizzards,
With revirie and visions,
And with a childish dream
Unnoticed will I sail,
Once night creeps in the house,
To sate with rythms and rhymes,
The world of fancy I live in.
Though there are,
Hardships awaiting my raft,
SADNESS AND FORMER LOADS FAULT
Hamper my drift afloat
STILL my raft,
Weaved out of verses and songs,
Standing against all the wrongs,
Doesn't look all that bad.
I am not shunning those,
Who prophesised me troubles,
They are more at ease a-snuggle
Back on a solid shore.
They cannot understad
What's dirven me so sudden,
What's spurred my trip afar and,
What'll asauge me in the end.
Ties with the past I"ll break
And come whatever will be
From mediocre humdrum.
Unnoticed will I sail
-Losa
(March, 2010 -- drunk, romantic, hopeful, open to)
Sunday, March 21, 2010
an almost made up poem
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
-C.Bukowski
of my almost happened ...
I am having a hard time letting go, diremembering, forgetting
ignoring, pretending
and breathing.
____
"Thought is real. Physical is the illusion. Ironic, huh ? "
-WHAT DREAMS MAY COME
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
-C.Bukowski
of my almost happened ...
I am having a hard time letting go, diremembering, forgetting
ignoring, pretending
and breathing.
____
"Thought is real. Physical is the illusion. Ironic, huh ? "
-WHAT DREAMS MAY COME
