Ben Gifaldi @bengifaldi - Tumblr Blog

from dance hall to broken bar, I should find myself all too soon--

however long we may linger in these bodies, walking

walking with the friction of an ego,

a fiction symbol simply single and separated;

a folded and fixed phenomenon of a united delusion--

every morning rolling out of bed in violence

we ponder deeply over this sometimes

with the absolute certainty of a bullet

the dancing illuminated letters of five dollar whiskeys on St. Claude

the parades set aside to march against the time of Trump

the indifferences of our afflictions

burried in the pocket of dirty jeans under opium and wine

the sky above, resting like an invisible Magician with the wise eyes of watching destiny

I lie to myself: "I'm not like the others."

with a thirtieth birthday approaching like a steamboat coming to take me across the mississippi

It's your individual soul I'd like to see

and your own unexampled version of a destiny.

#poem #spilled ink #words #writing

Somewhere in the Universe

I see Sabrina

She is alive for the moment-

I watch her standing on the corner of Bourbon Street

smiling at strangers and waiting for something to happen

her black and purple corset somehow glowing

in the dark below a hundred neon signs calling

our names—not half as bright though, incomparable even

to the three strands of golden hair

she let slip from her Dutch braid.

Her legs thin veined – the young blood

still slipping between their smooth

walls unhurried unstrung and

uninhibited by the strangling of

a 5 dollar Mexican skirt.

I can see into the two long alleys of her

light grey eyes, a flirty brick-lined

darkness swirling the drain

facedown in a puddle within my daydreams.

The street musician too—he plays

his part in the whole grand thing well—

picking his guitar like an itchy scab,

and I’m just here wearing black jeans with

dried bird shit punched into one folded cuff

the insomnia of November wearing me

like the cracked paved street buffed and polished

by a thousand drunken feet.

Somewhere in the Universe, there

must be a place for her

for him

there must be a place for me.

#poem #spilled ink #writing #neworleans

unnecessarily-- I always loved the way you felt inside, but your company has become something like the fingerprinted sands of some small strange desert I've already starved in before but left behind because I grew tired of your eyes screaming as I try to tell a story; "you're all alone, kiddo, you're all alone" and maybe with you I'll always be somewhat alone or at least hidden and tucked away like the secrets in the chest beneath your bedside table but there are other worlds with fresh water and other vermiliads growing in the morning windowsills-- not of Brooklyn there are kinder eyes and sweet soft voices so don't come and join me for another forlorn finger of cheap fernet don't come and join me at the worn down backyard gate between our love and your hate do not come and join me anymore-- the shadow of some strange black rainbow covering all the colours of my perfect princess I'd rather walk the road with smooth stones, and flowers growing on the edges of brook by our feet do not come and see me anymore; prejudicial pain blaming me for the scars you put across the softest parts of your own forearm and the problem was never that I disagreed with the things that you lived, the problem was that I saw you as something greater, something beautifully rare; something to be respected and held closely like the world's only butterfly able to see in the light of a 2am streetlight; able to swim flying with the moths inside the glow between a strawberry moon you never turned up to see and a gum-stained sidewalk you never needed to land on, but decided to anyway-- able to hurt me as I see all the ways you abuse yourself unnecessarily.--

#spilled ink

touch me; I will not sink like a finger in the sand or float like the thin mist over San Francisco's pink rimed fibbing independence you will not see all the blue and yellow secrets of me in an instant like balloons floating over all the gum-stained boardwalks of the Atlantic, the padlocked supermarkets of California, the porch-living sofa couches exhaling last night's fog, the half torn curtains in the window, the lost and wandering arms-- tattooed just like my older sister

Hit me; I will not ring like a finger flicking glass or shrink like an eyeball on the hot summer pavement I won't bow like the ocean's waves running toward your toes in single file or obey like a cushion under your ass, I won't draw into your mouth like the red tipped tendrils of another midnight cigarette smoked absently between empty conversation

You can work me 'till my shoes reduce to shreds, or sip my soul like a sweating bottle of malt concoro in the heat of a 3pm coastal sun You can fold and stuff me; like the fourteen hundred and forty dollars crammed inside your empty pack of Marlboro 27s-- I will not notice how purely I was once only an ovum of myself, unruffled quiet and encapsulated preserved inside a lightly polished chrysalis, hiding safely behind this prepubescent predilected polite pod of twenty six this twenty six year old placard skin is changing I am changing; this chrysalis is cracking I am hatching free to fly the nights within the powdered wings of my own Universe

#spilled ink

Suddenly, like last summer you fell asleep drunk on a couch with your shoes on and dreamt of walking with all the normal types all the people playing pop songs sipping popcicle punch and poison all the gossips, the false smiles, the pricetags, the greasy paper pinned to 6 dollar roses you were just another person paying 40 dollars for a plastic shirt

But you’ve always needed to find forgotten objects that trigger unknown emotions unfelt in a half a century, Chinese mushrooms, jellyfish in ethanol jars, stuffed two-headed bats pinned to velvet backdrops, old guitars with magic strings, wooden spectacles with secret lenses that let you spy in strangers souls.

And when you were a boy you walked into the woods alone to climb the tallest tree there are strange jaws on bulldogs and more honest people like you and ever since that day you’ve lived inside a spray of sparks accomplishing almost nothing, and everything but feeling that this was what was intended for you feeling that all this breeze and sun was never meant for you to touch you walk the streets at night beersoaked and horny, while a single day transforms into a year all the holes of light poked into a cave black sky flickering along and changing slowly– unaware of your existence. And for four years now you’ve watched a girl with thick black hair and a ring with a money symbol on it’s cap drink fire from the flowers only to spill it from her fingertips into anyone who was there It’s a good thing to have an alpha as your mayor and so too boardwalk carnival hustles behind blinking colored bulbs with mutated two~tailed snakes soaking in isopropyl some people get scared in thunderstorms while the rest draw power from the static in the air

You still smile at friends that don’t understand and you’ve weighed out your life into 12oz. cans just like a blackened and fattened raincloud passing over all the dried out withered gardens of lonely uptown ladies you’ve emptied yourself into another passing stream you’re grey around the edges, like the late night washed out shores of another cigarette smoked in solitude another bourbon sipped inside a protein bro bar another morning coffee shared with the neighbor’s dog and another roomate with an accent from ‘fuck-knows-where today you feel like the sky; changing it’s white fluff around in another random pattern never to be seen again after these 9:23 morning radio lines– at your socks, the ant crawls along the surfaces of this New Jersey pavement unaware of you and your world above it unaware of what it’s like to have a heart pumping warm blue blood unaware of the lies and the flies, the lacklove, footpain, heatlung, hotsweat, hipswings, heroes, even headaches in the end And although Time holds you you don’t need to be flipped over 24 times a day you don’t need to fear your death although when touching flowers– be careful of their thorns. Be careful in the afternoons, absently tearing labels from glass bottles daydreaming of how you came from playing with legos on a Vermont carpet to all the drunken three-sums and manipulations Be careful of your scarred hands, a scraped knee, all of your black chipped lighters, the bloodstained sheets, an old mother you haven’t seen, a cat staring at you from an unmarked street be careful not to forget what the world was like looking through your child eyes in the sun like coming along the web of a poisonous spider in the woods by a stream or a frightened first kiss behind a school bus in the rain you think back on all the times you played with the idea of suicide– (still do) and you wonder how sad it would have been to not have ever sat inside a laundromat 10 minutes before close, or never to have another broken shoelace, a broken windshield, or touched another broken heart, not to have another cup of coffee in the afternoon, or hear the noise of ninas speaking spanish on the boardwalk, never to lick another pussy, or write another shitty poem so what? you’re just another player passing through the passivity of an over populated snore be careful not to forget;

you have a girl with magic blood who has always needed secret streets of escape marked funny names that nobody else can read she has always needed the company of useless objects that trigger unknown memories of past lives, animal skulls, ornate copper birdcages, bloodletting kits, quack medicinal tonics in old glass jars, and secret spellbooks written by the old witches who turned her into a talking lynx.

#writing #spilled ink #poem

I'm standing outside, pressed against the side of a building in the rain I hear the song of a blackbird across the street and the beauty is that every drop has fallen before at my shoes, a cricket weaving through the cracking sidewalk across the lot, an old man smoking from a dirty cigar, and that exact red crinkled cigarette package next to that soggy match near those few dead flower petals.

I have stood here before, and thought this thought I've thought this thought and tried to remember-- I almost do remember what I'm seeing as I see it I remember what it felt like as I feel it now I remember what I'm forgetting, I remember when I'm going to stop and I remember when I will take a step, and change

It's impossible to lose your shape to anything but right now in all the Universe at once.

#poem #writing #spilled ink

We met on a side street somewhere between three whiskeys and a cigarette, and we walked-- you kept pushing hip and staring at my lips, as we talked-- the barlights glittered in our faces; pink and blue and yellow shining on our skin moving swiftly, while our minds were already halfway through those streets-- we traded thrusts, to rhythmic sounds at 3am, and fought together, with your mattress. Black lipstick bites on pillow cases, sexbruised and fingered places dark soft warm skin vicious and that room smelled like the lusted sex of prison visits-- Main Street Moaning slipping forceful, and smacking well lit hips-- gripping thigh, and clinging to a brief moment in time. We start forgetting-- and the settled sweat, and sunshine start peeking past dusty glass, and our dried bloodshot eyes-- they open to four strange walls-- and a thought: "Get dressed, and make an exit." Go on forgetting-- pants pulled sidewalk early with a strutted stride and a cock-- still half-throbbing and I can't tell if I'm in love, or just freshly fucked, and hungover

"What color were the curtains?"

I once met a Cat perched on a branch wth an old usless spider web dangling in the breeze and I didn't trust a word that she purrrrrd to me. so I am going away now back up through that old blue wave my blood blisters in my body like a shark on some small hook; her face, her city, these early morning dreams, I'm going away now

I have watched them all go--

old lovers, and friends, I have watched the bartender drink a drink long after his last call, I'm going away now,

all bulge in these black jeans,

rising

with them, with her, despite all these ancient cities taken by the wind, one by one, and burned under the sun forgotten this way, my legs like mountains, and mountains themselves waiting for something else to take them (the sea) and we are ashes, like nothing

we are like nothing

and the bartender drinks on, alone, as the streets fill with last night's crowd I am going back up through that old blue wave where no love lightning can reach keep me air and water keep me burn out the voices from faces that drink cheap beer and speak nothing but lies.

speak to me, as soon as you are able, sings Ben

as I take this pen in hand; an old plastic tool getting older and older in a world of screens, just like me. A decent day in the Universe, walking along the sides of streets

with brick and victorian trim, and cemented mediocre buildings winking at me. The clouds block the sun in a way they've never thought of before, and never will again.

come and touch with me, as soon as you are able sings Ben

on another seaside afternoon in a heartsick world

sad that it's beauty is fading, just like me.

I'm holding this glance into the illusion of it all, looking for something-- for something?

looking for the Moon? another purpose in the end?

I'm looking for your eyes, in a crowd again.

kiss me, as soon as you are able, sings Ben

below the shadow of a petaled tree, shedding for me

shedding it's secret into the street

I see it with an eye behind finger-greasy glasses,

I touch it with hands wrapped in latex, can I ever feel this circle we've made?

come to me, as soon as you are able, sings Ben

walking along another sidestreet plot of fauna soup-- circling the drain in a blue-green ship.

Colors fall, fall, fall right in front me. They fall from the edges of a blue-green ship, with clouds peeling in the wind of a dirty blue eye.

I will write to you again, sings Ben.

I will.

#thoughts #spilled ink #poem

I met you drinking under a 2pm sun bright end of summer glow above your chin sat two eyes like lips pressed into a microphone; they spoke from your heart and unto mine reflecting everything I've ever forgotten, but if we don't get it right this time I know our footsteps, if we tried would leave complimentary imprints in the snow.

#poem #love #spilled ink

i like to imagine you're writing all these poems to a person you are still in love with

;)

and so I'm here away from you in a small room with a torn shade and we have said 'goodbye' before it even started

#art #collage

the sun streams down the shades I have a pair of black pants and a pair of black shoes I can remember the smell of my first love and I miss her lips today in this idle unfilled room there is strange blood pumping through a hawk in the middle of fifth avenue there is strange blood pumping through me, and through her and through the crocodile, and the pimp I sit, stuck with unreasonable sorrow, and she looks just like a cherry tree fixed with white blossoms, in spring there's dried palm trees, and barred windows, and the snoring of my roommate there are businessmen outside sipping beers growing old under their ties there is the bartender with hands like rose petals sorrow, yes, it follows me I don't know why my feet walk in foolish dust and the blue sky is peeled bare I can play the blues with slow footsteps while streams of wine pour into my ears the homeless won't sing the leaves turn orange and cold the markets smell of excess food and the alleys fill with hunger I should have a whiskey gut I should have one eye, and yellow teeth, black lungs, and skinny legs I should have half a mind, half a body, half a soul while the sheep give wool while the cooks fill bellies while the surgeons fix hearts while the clocks keep working I sip on a brandy and fake immortality

I never went to Berlin to kiss you.

I sit here, all in black--and I think about that

#Old Poem #Renee Ruin #Poetry #Thoughts #words

I put my jealousy in a jar and hope it doesn't break tonight I know she's made of something more than me-- and all my bad days trapped behind another midnight wine red hopeless charming eye-shine smile, I should let her go. there, rest. no more risk of breaking you no more sweet girl, with red lips bitting no more close-friend introductions no more nervous nights, wondering if this feeling flows in both directions, no more hands held holding, sweaty in this 2am San Diego gaslight I've been here before, not as scared though; unaware of what was coming for me then-- stress head, dried palms, lipstick bites, and the growl of love, moaning in this bone-pain.

#Art #Collage #photomontage #Black and White #surrealism #vintage #Featured

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