As the passim drink chi upon a desperate corner, ordering the world by those daily events from which we all subscribe our voice from what indelicate
renderings the headlines descry our merciless, yet tender, vanities-- I can be that Brother Hyde to your Dr. Jeckyl.
If I had another picture to show you today, you would think me a post modern realist.
Soul: I remember being a younger man entranced by what mysticisms we collect in these volumes that are our lives. I became a surrealist purely upon the devotion of ideas over syntax. I am not a true believer. Bataille used the voice of a boy to create a pantheon of purely sensitive heathens, Sachs had want of a confessor; and Rimbaud his vampires prone to its sensate season frenzies. All I had then were my angry stone madonnas, benign yet ecstatic. It has always been easier to topple the idols than to find a more genuine faith to adore with breath and laughter.
Heart: There are only a wash of colors and hues that nature really never intended there.
Body: My dear sweet Satanic rebel that I practiced my spells upon her body only to learn that a love of pleasure does not heal the guilty mind. She loved my fertile alchemies, to transpose rage to passions that would not bear long the light of day and I had become silent inside of her. Night, how she would move to feel me, a shuddering boy overwhelmed with the world and release a mere embrace of my suffocation all my Bacchanal emptiness... until there was nothing else.
Mind: The bastard of reason, I did not fight for my fictions over my want of a naked world. Horror-- the whimpering dogs caged by psycho-emotional masochisms of memorae. I had learned to love the freak through what contorted mirrors I might derange myself. Socio-mongrels and emotional phantasms played an elaborate shadow game upon every season that sanity had overplayed its hand. It came to me that perhaps you could really experience nothing without pain, so I became a loving sadist. Had I wanted anything more, it may as well have been the rainbows of the child.
Spirit: There is a night-train elliptic revolution that I know the dawn is near round every bend. I had lost and found every part of me, so that I do not really fear losing them again as much that I am haunted by my own foolish ghosts.
As the passim drink chi upon a desperate corner, ordering the world by those daily events from which we all subscribe our voice from what indelicate renderings the headlines descry our merciless, yet tender, vanities-- I can be Dr. Jeckyl to your Brother Hyde.
If I had another picture to show you today, you would think me a romantique.
Po
If I had another picture to show you today, you would think me a post modern realist.
Soul: I remember being a younger man entranced by what mysticisms we collect in these volumes that are our lives. I became a surrealist purely upon the devotion of ideas over syntax. I am not a true believer. Bataille used the voice of a boy to create a pantheon of purely sensitive heathens, Sachs had want of a confessor; and Rimbaud his vampires prone to its sensate season frenzies. All I had then were my angry stone madonnas, benign yet ecstatic. It has always been easier to topple the idols than to find a more genuine faith to adore with breath and laughter.
Heart: There are only a wash of colors and hues that nature really never intended there.
Body: My dear sweet Satanic rebel that I practiced my spells upon her body only to learn that a love of pleasure does not heal the guilty mind. She loved my fertile alchemies, to transpose rage to passions that would not bear long the light of day and I had become silent inside of her. Night, how she would move to feel me, a shuddering boy overwhelmed with the world and release a mere embrace of my suffocation all my Bacchanal emptiness... until there was nothing else.
Mind: The bastard of reason, I did not fight for my fictions over my want of a naked world. Horror-- the whimpering dogs caged by psycho-emotional masochisms of memorae. I had learned to love the freak through what contorted mirrors I might derange myself. Socio-mongrels and emotional phantasms played an elaborate shadow game upon every season that sanity had overplayed its hand. It came to me that perhaps you could really experience nothing without pain, so I became a loving sadist. Had I wanted anything more, it may as well have been the rainbows of the child.
Spirit: There is a night-train elliptic revolution that I know the dawn is near round every bend. I had lost and found every part of me, so that I do not really fear losing them again as much that I am haunted by my own foolish ghosts.
As the passim drink chi upon a desperate corner, ordering the world by those daily events from which we all subscribe our voice from what indelicate renderings the headlines descry our merciless, yet tender, vanities-- I can be Dr. Jeckyl to your Brother Hyde.
If I had another picture to show you today, you would think me a romantique.
Po
