Surrealist gesture

To become yourself again. What can nurture this natural disaster? Do you need to tear every old, yellowed and brittle frame down to see the pictures in a new way, with new eyes? What of consequence,

what of method?

Say, just for argument’s sake, that only the answers should be questioned. Where does that leave this symbol: ? ? Across the table from an irate ape? Do these threads weave a larger and much more dangerous tapestry that has the capacity to engulf thought? Cover up the sleeping body on the artificially warmed floor? Or does it simply hang in a once great, but currently abandoned hall, gathering dust, insults and age? Ignored not because of its content, not because of its craftsmanship, but due simply to man’s self absorbed indifference? Indulgent and excessive narcissism! DESPERATE, this pontificating animal of LUST. Strange creatures with even stranger dreams. Wide open spaces, reptiles and sores.

All the spiders come to hatch here, most the spiders hatch deformed.

 Let me deny with my ashes and my hairpins.

            Cut right to the bone (again).

With a wry smile, leaping from your lips. I can’t remember the day of my perfect night. Eyes that sting the disregard of sleep. Falling so gently, breaking completely. Curling like smoke, all shifting and graceful. My mouth waters discreetly. Painting on the shadows, a painful aesthetic sense.

 So delicate, small and weak. Your hands, voice and feet. There’s a hole in me that you fill perfectly. Drown in your eyes, collapse on your lips. Straight black thread sewn through your head. Everything worth doing is worth doing right away. This eloquent power, a constant, ferocious punch. There are tears in your eyes and you’re falling back in love again, your back aches like a freshly opened sore.

Bury your fears like fallen stars and empty your dreams into my arms.

Running through these tender woods like rain-soaked kindling.

Let me survive on simple seductions, endearing completely.

Late December when both our hearts stop together. 

A filthy and monotonous way to die, this constant crippling suicide.

Falling asleep to a silent film. Barely able to stand anymore. To smile, to gesture.

Disgusted and simultaneously disgusting.

Then suddenly, and without warning all was revealed to me as truth. Language is just sound with very specific association. Riddles and the sharp splinters of verse, thousands of disguises, slightly different shades of grey.