Artistic Differences is a project that aims to showcase the wonderful variety of artistic expression. Every art form has found innovative and provocative ways to express life in all its forms. This project aims to bring as many art forms as possible into conversation with each other through the expression of a unifying theme.
The plan is essentially to publish a prompt and collect as many different responses to the prompt in as many different art forms as possible. This means that you can respond with a short story, a poem, a painting, a photograph, an etching, a song, an audiovisual work, a performance, whatever form you choose it to take. Then, we will compile these into a single blog post to show the wonderful similarities and differences between each artists’ response.
Now that I have emerged from lockdown and I’m back to work, ADP is going to be published every second week. On Monday evening I’ll post the prompt which gives you till Sunday two weeks after that at midnight to submit your pieces to firstname.lastname@example.org which will be compiled and submitted the following Sunday morning.
Get creative and I look forward to seeing what we can make together while we’re forced apart.
Holding what some consider to be of knowledge and wisdom he judges those seeking the secret words as if they were gifts for he is aware, that if it's free, it's not freedom thus they came with us, they did it seems like all nations are entangled in the web of sin and we are getting older still does it ever end, and how many words are to be lent from suns to moons back to nil, as a cure that never really saves, and was never meant
He received a letter from afar from an ancient in scholastic clothes, I claim antidotes, holy affairs and other things bound to fail “shortness of life is a punishment,” all he said after all so what are we to do with our wings, if we stand earthbound forevermore? don't question it! a joke from the one who forced this fall - not quite, the note said; the one is us and we are the one freedom is to suffer for what a creative mind wants
As the years go by, pilgrimages come to an end the library of wisdom now in ruins of ash and soot no one to come for the gifts, there's nothing to mend for it has all come to an end, as no one dares to look - now, there’s a proposal! it may be that life lies in the letters of polytheists confused by nature's illusion, those cosmic enthusiasts though all nations are entangled in the web of sin all the way from moons to suns back to nil, here we are getting older still - "I receive no soul which forsakes the body against my will. A foolish philosophy may boast of martyrs of this kind; it may boast of a Zeno, a Cleombrotus, or a Cato."
shackles of words keep the martyrs awake it is a praise, that's what it is, nothing for nothing's sake
– – –
– – –
"In the Park" by S.J. Delaney
Around, ensnared by iron and paint,
A green among the concrete grey.
Left stood, surrounded by cars a-going,
Respite to life on this warm day.
Too short the grass, too clean the line
a figure of uniformity.
How strange the meander, the careless freedom
of weeds and streams
not pulled into line by blocks and rods
or RoundUp or clawing hands.
Away from the traffic, the grass must be growing
within the confines of gates and paths
Away from this park, the grass must be growing
without the hands?
– – –
"Free" by Vian Borchert
Free as a bird I aim to be in a world that puts you in a cage
Free as a bird I want to be spread my wings Fly above the clouds while the children play freely on the swings
Free as a bird I want to breathe the air so fresh clean in my lungs Free Free I aim to be.
From both sides, eight heads rush to the stage all for him or her or the rest of the spectating beings to weird delights, dance and play depicting weirder fate
And the motion flows like water from left to right from right to left, and there is a gap in the centre and they sing! beautiful voices welcoming the light
Suddenly, the dancers retreat to the corners, staring in and they smile, and the give a peek of their teeth like wolves waiting for a feast, they’d rather mock than kill
Stationary bodies with faces carved from mannequins can’t do much to the static condition of mortality yet proudly channel hell into me
The leader of this pact is nothing but a green light green overrule, arrives from the curtains of the mind it proposes things, I think, but we may only glare and sink
It's the glowing heart of the play, it's the heart of all it pumps blood of Puphluns, Turso, Irra, and the like disease, growth, health, decay of everything in our sight
It has to be burned, but nature triumphs in a disciplined world chaotic ordeals become the norm the outliers will find it clear and transparent, though sour
In a debate between the green revelation and a trigger beneath our legs, they perform for stolen years making sure time is unwoven, disarmed from its heat
I was never among them, never could. It’s obvious by now a circus sure enough, just not for this clown discreet and taxonomical, infecting souls from afar
"Whatever it is, keep being you" - but what is the you in me, it is asked - was it a bait for this theatre of shame? In a Vindexian plot, coward’s end recalls only one tale
It has chosen me, has it not? you too, in the room next door? In this sickening blur what if admitted, with great regret, that for my part it was never an act eight heads but actually a solo; merely a fool to the script, to a history subdued
So to the cyclical snake, or the beast dwelling in the seas: bring us into a quiet dream and let us be nothing in peace.
– – –
– – –
"Green Acres" by Vian Borchert
Green acres I run in green fields I smell the flowers the jasmine, the roses, the lavender fields the birds sing in green acres the soft wind breeze over the wheat fields the sun shines happily over green acres
Green acres I imagine running happily in green acres Green acres as far as the eyes can see green green green
Looking out, it is all skewed and tilted the flatlands approach, as I feared still it's like a dream, stuck in a loop ...inside there's a lost man in a hood
When the green-hooded man rings the bell, we lose ourselves to some totality our lessons supressed by the knell cornered by reoriented morality
When the green-hooded man rings the bell, we scatter, scavenge, spread out in the fell we ruin and create, come together flock like sheep, and summon thunder
And negotiating with the man of the fell is impossible, for when his fearful eyes meet a pair in kind no one speaks, mouths are woven shut he sheds a tear and rings the bell and nothing remains of us, so it becomes apparent then that we are indeed entertained
At some point it feels like all has been said, and then nothing will ever make sense again, as our dear ghost knows, to be calm and free of truths to give all for nothing and empty one’s lungs, what comes echoes of nightmare hums
– – –
– – –
– – –
– – –
– – –
"Friends" by Jacob van Buiten
my Otherness is welcome here: between the old wooden wardrobe and yesterday's feelings
and we-as-places move carefully freely toward each other
with childlike fear of
germs on fingers words on tongues flapping of eyelashes in which moments escape
an Otherness where one runs for the hills a gift of calligraphy -
"I long so much for something great and true, and I hope to find it with you."
a ghost-like person of the urban wilds a shapeshifter in his crooked eyes
retreating spring of unearthed songs voices the anger in our moans blindfolded, back to the thorns
let us exchange tropes of fens in the regions of men who by dreaming make themselves attend
slave island’s shortcomings - racing from the mist as Europe signed a pact with all the thieves we take easy steps but move swift
those words lacking essence are the ruins of our being for they invite the scrouge of the East
up above they hide what they want to consume down below, we don't mind
seeking shelter from the wilds we would build greater signs
– – –
“Facing Away” by Conal Gilliland
When you look at a photo, often you don’t realise that the act of looking has already been done. Behind every camera is a face, a focal point directing you into the photograph. There is never only one viewer of a photograph, there are two faces engaged in looking. These were taken while out cycling with a friend, her facing away from the viewer demonstrates the presence of the other phantasmal face that looks at the image with you.
– – –
"On Watching Him Read" by S.J. Delaney
Upon his face, careless pleasure Below his eyes and on the mouth. Upon this you could watch forever; Sustained on only this, no doubt. To watch his eyes play down the page, eager for the next encounter, A joy unsullied by weary age: His love is yours, it shall not fade.
– – –
"Defaced!" by Vian Borchert
Nothing to see here but my face face to face lost in space somehow feeling replaced I really hate this chase but somehow I long for your embrace and my life is nothing but a rat race to get to your face. Yet, for you, I am much like a vase pretty, standing still with no trace somehow feeling displaced definitely feeling like third place in an air space in a tight suitcase filed up in a briefcase and you continually choose to put me in my place...
I feel defaced partially erased hiding in a corner within my space! Definitely this is a strange case!
I made myself sick For days In a row And little did you know
The bitter aftertaste wasn’t the vomit It was the comments And the constant Need to remind me that I’m not all I think I am
I made myself sick In ways I didn’t know Some I couldn’t show
Festering inside my brain A subliminal illness Thinking of ways that I could kill this Constant narrative in my head that argued with itself Whilst doing my best to try and expel The thoughts and reasons in my head that were the obvious truth, But if I couldn’t bare them, How could you?
I made myself sick With nothing to say I let go Of all the promises I made to myself all that time ago
It comes to a day where there’s nothing to puke Your body is empty but you have had your fill And with the simple concentrated power of will You muster up what ever energy you have left And you wipe up your face and your eyes that had wept
I made myself sick In place Of letting you know Of all the things you said to me of which I couldn’t let go
– – –
– – –
"Osiris is a black god" by M.A.A.
To this fortress of emptiness - this citadel of snow climbing from the well rejecting oneself - all thieves, but this one was a loan
Candles signalling the fire for the rats, head so far under the desk - it may all be in the dark, life of a floor dweller a joke to know, but a pain to live; perpetual sting, poison that caresses the well antidote to the external, sickness within a sentiment beyond the thickest skin they wait behind the Sun whether you will it or not - there's a sombre blush of green in these hills of greed for affection, they'll climb up to finish the deed - As the ground turns upside down, towards the towers of discord one falls up the mountains, towards the castle of errands nature inversed, throwing out the fields of marigold it is the same vain along the nadir flowing with madman's aphorisms and with fear to live they knock on hidden windows whether you will it or not - there's a retreating moon above the air sweeping alone its giving up its rule, they'll see themselves in its grief and rue - And when the rats finally come they utter those damn sonnets it's all so wrong, one must admit but the boats never came back the well is flooded with the discreet and the morbid with what came out of the hatch bad lyricism kills the will (and yes) as ironic as it may be it is easier to believe than to see - they welcome the fires that keep the nights so swift and the air thinner, they'll find transcendence in calm apprehension - Now we crawl along the muddy floor like parasites and ask the distancing walls to eat what remains of hearts pretending to be alive a joke to know, but a pain to live; yet one should not say but merely feel prohibited to project, prohibited to inwardly reject what then? black with purple hue invites to see candle smoke to force the end, to cut us like reeds windows opened by the freezing winds every surface scribbled with our sins in this fortress of delirious kings upon the virtues of decaying things we crawl on - the fields are but mounds, now the watch has found the smoke the winds enraged, sudden and loud - they'll find no dignity in the coming dawn and they will crawl on
ignored but can’t look away.
– – –
“Healing” by Vian Borchert
In a sick world How can you fix me? Is it through love or, simply to kiss me?
I yearn for that touch that I like so much
Perhaps my soul will be consoled
A trip to the sea will make me see the beauty that surrounds me the beauty that is around me.
you want everyone to treat you with respect you do not give, treat everyone with disrespect and cruelty and have a superiority complex over anyone who disagrees with you or has a different opinion; you're not of the messiah you claim just another hell that everyone else has to endure— gave me religious trauma, made me sex-repulsed and had purity culture confuse me until i was older than i would like to say; told me that being queer was a sin so i buried that part of me so deep within that i was able to convince myself of the lie i was straight because i lived in fear of making a mistake so that i wouldn't be loved— woke up one morning realizing i wasn't straight, and i couldn't tell anyone out of fear for rejection; tried praying the pansexual out of me but it didn't work so maybe you're the ones going to the hell you damn others to.
– – –
– – –
– – –
– – –
"Holt's Shall Do" by M.A.A.
A cinnamon bun to accompany the black liquid shade of a figure or a figurine in shade a foreign citadel contesting but who's to blame it wasn't and now it is - its domain taking over my thing, comrades or friends, either way it gets tough eyeing the bored, looking at sea in a mug I can feel it coming - sneeze pulling up an earthquake fields go aflame as the tremor's splitting all in two, the damn mug releasing the sea of ooze here comes the worst pirate on the globe they think I'm here to rob but I'm merely bartering, dreaming of rum - no cannons to load, the dude up there has us on hold.
I may be mad, it's probably fine a proverb of Hell to add - "just be kind..."
Negotiations done, Mr. Beelzebub has the cure shurikens exchanged, I'm up for the lure and my faith is strong but still up for grabs buyable for a few little scraps, tricky to look around without going blind so many ropes to pull too, all alike inevitably, there are formulations the badlands provide better solutions - whiskey instead of water - anger instead of love for one another the badlands provided a better solution - I was left behind on evolution.
I may be mad, it's probably fine a proverb of Hell to add - "just be kind..."
From cigars to guns to booze poison in a bottle, story in a bag still drowning in depths of the ooze lad wondering what happened to his dad - it was difficult, doesn't taste too good but this one must do, what is there to lose? a list of things, a list of stuff, stolen from life we associate the most beautiful with the heart unique? we still have them quantified precious? haven't seen a single guard hundred wounds for a small correction the badlands provided a better solution death? too easy of a retribution.
Floating islands anchored down voluntary binds, a cursed sound may have made me mad, though I suppose it's all fine for there's only one rule to add: “just be kind...” ...and for that I must ponder, if you don’t mind: who knows what is there to be when one appears to deconstruct history? in a racing tube of moving scenes oblivion is in everything one ever sees.
– – –
"A Living Hell" by Vian Borchert
There was a time where Hell seemed like a dream comparing to the living hell I was living in.
The hell on earth is perhaps much worse than our idea of the biblical burning hell down below with the devil as a landlord and the sinners as the tenants A story like no other to make us behave and think of fluffy white clouds where heaven awaits.
Every now and then I remember those times and how hard they were even the memories terrify me to no end.
Two bodies in a single bed,
our sweat streaming up your
little window, cracked just
enough to let the summer breeze
run down my back. Tangled
in limbs and sheets, you slept
while I watched the shadows creep
across the ceiling and away
for another day.
– – –
– – –
"Tribunal" by M.A.A.
Mischaracterizations? indeed, not how it went - files reveal
all seemed so inanimate, though more talkative than any man
all seemed so intimate, but witnessed in every land
what can be concluded, then, in this tribunal
for these bastards, they all ran...
Defendants! let's hear it finally,
you, who are
always afoot, forever seek
with lessons that bite
condemned to a life
of a leech
Thief, I saw you on the shore,
standing cold next to an empty cargo
and I called your name, but you heard
another excuse to flee,
but don’t you see? your face
is melting! no more, is time taking
Tenant, what a mess you made
from joyful stories of childhood it came
the bitter foundation for an unjust fame
one faltering session
and the rest are all the same
-so the tribal order in young hearts
drags along its hardened paths
Trapper, chased through the swamps,
the darkening green whistling
across its surroundings
covering the edges of empathy
and we thought we saw your form
fleeing from our newly made lore,
but you were merely one of the acts
a haphazard shade, a move made sore
over ethereal fights
over recollections so precise
for this world of mine
which sees none of that,
from dreams to life
and back again
by an impostor guide-
but in an endless night
what does it matter
what is real and
what is not?
– – –
"Sleep" by Vian Borchert
In the stillness of the night
all I hear is sleep
There in the distance the dogs barking
so bitter sweet
Me, in my bed
rolling around from left to right
while I hear the snores
and the sighs
of the night
so restfully sleeping till the morning light.
How much I yearn to sleep
I would love to go to sleep!
– – –
“Wake-Up Call” by O.A.K.
Somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, Sandra picked up the phone.
“Uhh?” She fell out of bed to rest against it, the sheets dragged along with her, flowing around in a cascade. Through the gap the closed blinds left at their sides, she could see the sky. From this angle it she could only see white overcast, too much of angle to see any rooftops.
“It’s cloudy over here.” She mumbled, still not registering who it was.
“Cloudy? Really? When I left for work the sun was still shining. It’s shining here.” Her mother. She worked out of town. Leixlip. Was driving over there now, probably.
“Well, don’t know what to tell you.” Sandra got up, and stumbled across the piles of laundry out of her room to the kitchen. She tried to one-handedly tie her tangled hair back but was unsuccessful and left it to block her vision.
“You better not jinx it, dear.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” The fridge droned in empty fluorescent light. There was a can of coke on the top shelf that she took. As she turned back almost tripped on the cardboard box for the new cat tree she’d ordered two weeks back that she hadn’t yet assembled or even taken out of the box. Charlie was perched up, napping on the windowsill. He hadn’t stirred. Upon finding her way to the sofa, she pushed aside an assortment of clothes and slouched down, opening the can. She tried to think what she’d been dreaming about, but it didn’t come to her.
“This bloody traffic is driving me up the wall.”
“The sorts of people they let onto these roads, I swear to Christ.”
“You do, do you?”
“Sandra, you won’t believe it when I tell you, dear, but someone just cut me off, again.”
“I do.” She opened the can with a snap and let the liquid fall onto the desert she had for a tongue. She’d woken up incredibly thirsty just about every morning (midday) this month, without even going drinking once. She wondered if it was a sign, and if the sign meant anything, or if it was just another part of her mid-twenties that no one had warned her about, like constantly feeling tired or inexplicable backpain. Or never losing your innate fear of teenage boys.
She hadn’t turned on any of her lamps, the ambient light coming through the blinds was enough. It felt to her an adequate representation of her mood, the dull greyness of it. She felt whatever the more intense version of groggy was.
Her dream. It had been on a boat. A cruise. It had at some point smoothly transformed into a trip at the Tayto park, which was six summers ago but also right now. Everything had been assumed contemporary. She had been herself, her own age. She’d had friends there, all her friend groups mixed up, from her childhood friends from Athy to the college friends she hadn’t seen for a year, mixed ages, all between 12 and 23 at the same time. There was some sort of chase. Some sort of dilemma, had been, that was vague enough but still felt threatening. Like just the idea of a threat. Of something that needed getting away from.
Something that needed getting away from.
“So, dear, how are you? ‘What’s up’, as they say?”
“Absolutely nothing. As usual.” Sandra said, sinking further down into the cushions’ embrace, and taking another swig of what felt like the nectar of the gods. It was the only positive feeling going on in her entire body, as the liquid danced on her tongue. She sighed with pleasure. But the thirst didn’t go away, didn’t leave with the liquid down her throat. And she realised she was desperately hungry. What time was it? Did she dare check?
“It can’t be nothing.”
“Surprise, surprise, mother, it is.”
“I hate it when you call me ‘mother’.”
“Well you’re not my father, are you.”
“Whatever happened to good old ‘mam’”
“I don’t know, she disappeared in a storm twenty years ago. It’s a big mystery.”
“Don’t be funny with me.” She said, and Sandra could feel her mother’s eyes roll a town over.
“Can’t help you raising me this way.”
“This part was mostly your father.”
“How is he?”
“He’s fine. Stressed.”
“We’re all stressed.”
“Are you okay?”
“Good. I don’t want you thinking I’m not here to chat.”
“Oh, mother, I would never think that.” Sandra’s mother chuckled meanly.
“God there is a lot of your father in you isn’t there.”
“I think the problem arose from there being a lot of my father in you.”
“I can pinpoint the start of all my troubles to the moment of my birth.”
“I could say the same.” Her mother said with a sigh and Sandra’s cough of a laugh surprised even her. She spat out some coke onto her pyjamas.
“Mam! What the hell?” Neither of them could speak for a while from laughing. It seemed the comment had surprised Sandra’s mother just as much.
“I’m sorry dear.” She said in an entirely unapologetic tone.
“That was harsh.”
They were both silent for a while, Sandra noticed she was absently smiling at the conversation. It was rare her mother was funny like this. But the hunger was creeping up on her. She’d have to get some clothes on, and sneak over to the shops to get something to eat. Anything.
“Look, mam, I’m sorry for the short call but I have to go. Was just about to eat.”
“No worries. Are you coming to Mikey’s birthday Thursday coming?”
“I’ll try. I don’t have a gift.”
“You don’t need to have a gift. We can put your name down for ours.”
“Thanks, ma’. Really.”
“You’re welcome dear. What are you going to do today?”
Classically she was continuing the call after it was supposed to end.
“Stuff. Bit of work.”
“How’s your project coming?” Sandra looked over at the sticker-laden laptop, precariously sitting on the edge of the desk. She’d barely opened it for a month to any actual work. Hadn’t dared to touch those files. It was mostly used to store her Sims saves these days.
<fascinating what this person says about faith, presenting something so applicable as merely a set of practice, fixed yet varied, forming patters in vain like loops on a textile - but was it not inevitable, then, our metaphysical exile?>
a wish written on a soiled flag waiving along the border polearms towards the heat a hole in the corner grabbing onto the rim my hands sliding away what a failure of your theory ridiculous, meaningless, but fiery
there may be a way out for us all but it certainly isn't here there maybe a revolving portal but behind a wandering mythos some leper knew, wished 'so long' and left without a trace now we try every way every meter every material every moment to see them one more time
there may be something essential for us but certainly not here amidst this earnest fear innocently plaintive quietly defeatist, at the end of the pike worn by its fight; if we told you to stare into irrelevance now it's only for perseverance and if there is something so strange even a gnostic loses their mind there must be something so obvious we cannot tell it from a lie
yes, the world already ended and it made its point clear; peregrination foiled - what a failure of your theory ridiculous, meaningless, but fiery
– – –
– – –
"Verses Written on a Play" by S.J. Saighead
Like you man in the play with two names, Leading inevitable to confusion comedy Leading two lives, one here, one there; A life married and of course, sodomy.
You could pass on the street and not know, So well the mask covers, though who Earnest is Remains the topic of speculation, idle gossip, The Truth forever and endlessly his.
The dramatic irony, how important this name And the virtue it points to, classically comical. Behind the curtain of course, a man with a name Playing a man with two, and all of them hiding something
– – –
"Missing Earnest" by Vian Borchert
When I was young I read the novel by Oscar Wilde The Importance of Being Earnest, I loved the writings of Wilde and how deeply they delved in their study of the human character I wondered though how many people are sincerely Earnest in this world around us. This made me ponder the question Are there any earnest people out there? I hope so For humanity's sake.
dust propelling into the air of haste what you are looking for
I must have run out a long time ago the deal cannot go on, surveying the place out of boredom or disappointment
or both - as we tend to like it-
takes a small toll, as we call it
a nocturnal pact won't do manuscripts switched
a slight disturbance race to brainwash each other in the seas
(a knower is he who’s dry in them all...)
- not necessarily cruel or that tender first a bit of magic
to raise the mood
what's in the cup? a wormhole where does it lead? no clue I swear I closed it once at least deep deep deep hole into so so distant yet familiar space, winds full of rhymes a little regret lesson learned, future has a dangerous lure
we are only in text it seems - sharply observed,
not sure how to feel, certain style in adapting to alien temples were we to lose
these papers there's one more
for the reserve, even with the guns we are manning every discussion ends in a hanging
how difficult it is,
to brush the fields
with bright tone with a hue of Sun upset the palette embarrass it, there is admittance; - what would we not do, to mask our time
out of the gates? how important it is to mute the aesthetics,
this weighting sound; rattling of sticks between those
who can't afford sabers, so meagre is the being of a toothless beast
even if it's a call-to-arms it's actually a hoax falsely advertised risk covered in foam and as such no clear canvas,
washed with a tint of absurd glaring into mystery
standing together aren't we both aware under a reliquary, of the order of things, hand in hand should we not with something close but far peer behind the boredom I know what it is - and learn our forefathers' past from fiction?
– – –
– – –
"Blind Lust" by S.J. Saighead
You know he knows you know but still you watch it grow and grow it does you know you know you watched him sow
the seeds of needs and want through sordid deeds he'd taunt but stop it you did not
for deeds of needs and want
are deeds of which the heart can carry, watch them start to grow you know it's wrong
to love the boy so, so write it in a song.
You know he knows you know but still you watch it grow till he came, salt in hand and turned oasis into sand.
– – –
– – –
"Stylish!" by Vian Borchert
I saw him that day we went for coffee he always looked dashing with his dapper sense of style he observed mine carefully I had made sure to make an effort to dress up for him to be extra stylish since I knew he’ll notice... He did! He remarked on one my lemon colored shirt and how it compliments my honey colored eyes I must have been clever that day I got him to notice the little details that looked so effortless.
carving scripture on the bark
the next moment it's gone
from a lonely son
Why does it tilt like that? Sky bent, like to cover it from rain.
Underneath lies a pitch-black hold, communion of hooded folk
as confused as I. They look at newcomers and ask
"why does it tilt like that?"
hovering around the glimmering stone, man-made tool,
what use for those wordings?
it calls each of us one by one, a pyre in the eyes of a fool,
what use for those telltales?
gentle curses at the whims of the steppe winds,
what use for those empirics?
tragedy, I tell you, that it only speaks to us in looks,
what use for those hooks?
gossiping hearsay of mountain leaves,
how come it's dead, yet it moves?
mammothing visions of burned stone and scythe,
dialog with oneself, as large as life
as wildly immense, each breath wheezes a sigh
walls gasping for air in this house of maniacs
they retreat as I approach,
I tell them a few things
This globe too, is but a thing sometimes told. Narrators urgently needed,
lest we lose the core. A melted continent stood behind the gates.
Drank it, hear it, reject the approaching Fall - tell it begone!
is there a world after symbols? what happens when they shatter?
what can one do to make it all matter?
only after the end, honor enters the frame
those poems of a failure, now from a legend's pen
the greatest magic trick to behold - ramblings turn into wisdom
when the body's no longer around, fleeing mind’s fiefdom
it pumps blood like it pushes the soul, I've had enough of its stare
passionate glow, yet smells fowl... old and worn out,
flailing like reeds, hidden in plain sight, nothing leaks -
no matter how much I feed the machine
it serves no purpose, yet we all stand around and wait
expect it to provide some comfort, but tell me,
what sort of pitiful daemon takes no offering,
promises affection but merely banishes words
into hells under the tongue; orders a pause,
lasting so long, as if there was more to it?
I looked at them, and they looked at me
while hovering around the glimmering stone,
what is this, then, and why does it care to be,
wanting to hear stories but remain alone?
how come nothing that goes by
is foreseen? one replied:
well, this too,
is but a man-made tool
Ultimately there are only two things to live for:
curiosity and love. When slipping way, must they be projected
into something called art. No one tells you to get back from the woods;
make your stay there pleasant. No beacons nor direction,
but exposure and errands. Cover your grounds well,
beware the old inhabitants of the soul -
hide your heart from them.
I carve scripture on the bark
it disappears with the same touch
but must it hurt so much,
– – –
– – –
"O Heart Do Stop!" by S.J. Saighead
O heart do stop! I know it's the end
I embrace this sure dark as a good friend.
My vision is fading, my breath escapes,
My Body embraces what the mind shapes.
A car on the road or some sudden sound
Will jolt this life from where it's bound.
Each hand is shaked, as though fond of a drop
My heart is sore, always threatening to stop.
Just leave me to rot in my fort polyester
a shell of a human, taken to fester.
There is nothing to see, nothing to be found
simply a mind untethered, stranger to the ground.
– – –
– – –
"The Shape of My Heart" by Vian Borchert
The shape of my heart
had fallen into a square
a box of a square
since your departure
My poor heart was hurting
I felt it failing
for a second, I even thought
I’ll have a heart attack
from a broken heart
how can this heart
from such a shock, a hit to the heart
How this heart has endured
and the scissors you took
to cut up shapes in my heart
I felt it shredded
my beating heart
with every beat
since we fell apart
How much this heart
Yet, in its every bit of a frailing state
It stood strong
and always open for love
this open heart!
– – –
– – –
"Flaming Canopy" by Eric Ryan
Twisted gold tears through my heart,
Digits shudder, sapphires dart.
Those sounds cut steel as out they pour,
A legion of utterings through red door.
Sparks roll round in graves of stone
And ashen cloths on frames of bone.
When beacon's lit and all was done,
I juggled your fears 'till rose harsh sun.