What is all this?
Interesting conclusion, thank you for letting me know
listen up
I can’t.. that feeling grabs me..
Please let me go.. sorry.
PLEASE.
this is new home
Filed under Uncategorized
don’t be so mean..
this is not how I feel..
not the way that it really should be, this night
I’m not myself, I’m someone else
there’s nothing right, it’s beyond me
my flesh is gone somehow I’m
wait.. what?
That scent is remarkable and unforgettable..
The moon shines and guides me,
yes, very narrow path,
much ache, much toil, many beasts and dangers,
multiple things in your way, including sexy women,
smoke, ale, cold nights,
lights shining overhead and off the lake,
where the fuck am I?
Save my heart, please, because winter is not good for it
and forever and ever I wonder where the warmth is
from you, at least, that’s a wish or a hope or a dream I will never let collapse.
That feeling will never leave me, I’d rather die than let it go. It will never be the same,
because we are meant to be as we are, and this is something that I see.
But I can look down a dark hallway and see your ghost already, even if you are in Manila, or Sydney
while I’m freezing in Toronto, or I’m dead in Tehran.
Why won’t you come home?
koala for dinner
Filed under Uncategorized
The way your light reflects
the grace is like braille
the way a hand can feel your face
and it’s so dark, but I don’t know that
so it doesn’t really matter to me, anymore..
But I did feel it, that strange passing of what I could not grasp.
Fine.. so be it.
Blood can evoke so many images, I just imagine
a circle drawn on the floor, with a strange glow,
and people chanting, waiting for their god..
like I’m waiting for you.
And I can imagine things darker, far darker..
darker than you, or I, or anything we could be..
Darker than the moons heart on a night where I am invisible,
just like you,
and thinking about why the weather seems perfect if we’re not there;
figures.
Forget about it, I suppose,
because it’s sinew that binds
bone to bone
and blood that makes sanguine
ribbons flow from between
the crevice to one to another,
until one day it just can’t grow.
Now? Forever I will remember the way it really was, shrouded forever in amber some scientist will find someday. More and more now I feel like a bug — awake, asleep and dreaming — three totally different things. When did things become so automatic? When did they become out of control? Or is it really that? Perhaps now things are starting to find their orbit in life. Perhaps things are solidifying — gelling, so to speak — but why is it so disconcerting? I’ve always been a thinking, feeling person. I’ve never questioned my intuition for more than a few hours at most, and that’s just me being realistic. Should I feel like I’m on the moon? Every day I do. Please tell me why this is.
Do I yearn for something different? Obviously — that’s the eternal question answered, so don’t play dumb — and tell me exactly what is different? The Metro is metro. The Suburb is suburb. Only language, culture and perception stand between the watercolour of human existance, yet it’s more like finger painting. We do have refined culture, according to us, and have for thousands of years, but where do you draw the line between pain and pleasure? Between thought and feeling? However, what about those sculptures made thousands of years ago in some idea image? The ones that have been around, been weathered, seen revolution and transport and more eyes than you could ever? Suffice it to say that those busts of warlords and generals, presidents and kings will eventually crumble and turn to sand, they will fall with the museums that they reside in. They will be mud of the heels of our boots. Eventually they will. This is very sad.
I don’t know how to elaborate any further, I don’t think I did a very good job: But I want you to know a few things about my life and our lives, and if you are willing to listen then I am willing to listen to you. I listen to you every day, and that’s really the only way this whole thing is gonna work out, I guess.
Take it easy, as always,
-RM
the wood of man
Filed under Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing
Hello again.. from far away
somewhere in the dark,
those lucid, lavish moments between sleep and dream,
between feeding and eating, between flesh and bone,
all those tiny moments, varicose like veins
running up a leg, or crumbling
a brick wall like ivy, over grown a thousand years.
White like ivory, or the whites of eyes
of soldiers, boys, men, felled
running towards a goal one hopes to never need,
but in order to survive
(and yes, there’s the rub)
they must.
Falling asleep in dreams is the worst thing that can happen,
for to awake two times, simply twice,
is disconcerting like a loved one slamming doors,
or cupboards slamming alone in the grip of night,
or wondering where you are on a long road,
or breathing your last breath, slipping under..
Do you dare, or do you dare?
To think that one day we shall be grand, if we survive,
and if the stars align — some intangible, superstitious force, a magnet? –
well, I won’t leave my fate up to something as stupid as that.
You’ll see, because I always bite off more than I can chew,
and sure, it seems gluttonous at first but then you realize,
the rhyme and reason for everything is there,
all you need to do is get through the bark, and with the flesh exposed –
feel free to feed on the forest for as long as you’re fit, god knows we won’t stop you..
Belch your smoke and cinders and smog and ash, feed my family to the fire alive or dead!
Those turgid fires inside the belly of the beast will eat forever, and they will eat you and me.
nothing
All I got is my family, my clique and my forefathers
and I only love blood, as it’s thicker than water
well, I’m the soul that god’s carried in for knowing that I got wondering depths,
because without zero no other numbers exist.
I’m coming from the abyss the deepest part of the flow,
go ahead and fuck around the reaper got what he sow
and profits will grow, someone speakin out for the dough
the real will hit you in the head like a sock filled with soap,
and there won’t be no rockin’ that ho, it’s time I’m refusin’ to waste
have you runnin’ for your life and still blue in the face
and until you’re losin’ the race, the do or die way
my Bredran, move one thousand miles on the highway to heaven,
if my day is endin’ I’m leavin’ my mark, of man who live life to believe in his heart.
I’m flesh, blood and spirit, I am a man;
though I know where I’m goin’
but don’t know where I am.
I gotta hold it down the world is mine
every second on the clock makes me swirl in time,
sometimes I’m bringin’ light to the dumb, the deaf and the blind
yet many hundreds will shine, but I be one of a kind.
Still, people are heated and show love some of the time,
tho I keep it more real than running around:
everyday is a test so I pray for the best, it’s an ongoing struggle till the day I rest,
got some weight on my chest that I just have to relieve
and if it gets any heavier, why bother to breathe?
All that I need to be is the wisest one
so I can live thru the night and see the rising sun,
I’ll be suprising some people as I’m sworn to try to live life
to the fullest except I’m born to die,
and then there’s more than “what?”,
and “when?”, “why?” and “how?” so I keep my head up
and stare at the clouds.
Distractions
Filed under Writing
Besides my good looks and charm, my dependence upon worldly possessions, my desires of the flesh and the horror that one day I’ll die, lies a cranny carved in some ediface of rock, undisturbed for what seems like a blink in the eye of an otherwise indifferent universe. The nook is not particularly interesting, but it is what is seeping from this which draws my attention: I can see in my minds-eye that there is almost no light that far down, yet there is a glow pouring out of the distance.
Through the murk and the mire, you have been swimming for far too long now, and your lungs are aching for air the way all those miners felt. But now you’re there.
When you wake up on a beach, soaking wet, you wonder how you got there. You are completely naked, except for a long gold necklace around you neck; the necklace is roughly interwoven, thick strands of solid wire, reminiscient of your mother’s hair.
Smoke drifts off in the distance as you drift off to sleep, only to wake up to a blizzard outside of your window. A blizzard of water, not snow, pouring in your open window. All that water? From the sky, not the ocean. That gasping for breath? The realization that you’re not really where you thought you were. That dream that faded so quickly into reality? We see reality the way we see blood seep through a bandage, or the way we see a cloud drift across the sky. Forget what you think about me, and you, and our ancestors, we are the important ones, the world is subject to our whims, because we dream a god, god does not dream man.
“The old soul lives in the dark night”
Hearts battered and hearts bend
and where’s my soul? Is it in my head?
That whole-life illusion, the sun
like so many chests, and deep breaths
observed by loved ones as you sleep
late at night –
raising and falling,
and that moon, and the stars,
nature, god, women and wine,
that illusion –
that dream precipitates,
forms a thick layer on your mind,
in your broken, battered heart.
Your soul never suffers! Never
is the question for suffering
in your soul to be brought up;
wrought up or dredged from some
black
miasmal
hole
you thought was long gone, long
covered up.
And you wake, with that flavour
in your mouth, that grit
in your teeth, the punch
of smoke, Cigarettes, countless Cigarettes,
flirting with you
and with Nausea, while
Desperation goes to the bar for a drink.
I failed already, and so did you,
I gave in; I didn’t go the whole way, I stepped back,
but you,
you stepped in.
Toes wet.
Wanna make a bet
that I am
the first person
to last for
ever?
My mind has as much to spin as my heart
has hot burning coals, smoking
and smoldering
and boiling everything
it sees. Why can’t I be
cool like all those gatos you see sleeping
in dark alleys? Drinking warm milk out of saucers,
stepping between the pillars of legs underneath
a glass ceiling, in a maw of shopping malls,
wrapped in highways and asphalt,
with a smog cough;
some grotesque Godmas present we are too scared to open.
Well, we sit and breathe smoke to the lake,
sing to the moon,
lift the bottle and try to sleep it away.
short update
Filed under Uncategorized
Well, I got a splash page up at least, thanks to my friend Jake. You can find his site at www.jakemakes.com
