JPage: Pied Beauty

Paintings completed; Inspiration for future works

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I Can't Lie

I still remember being that girl.

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You ever hear life and it's all

Delete! Delete! Delete!  ?

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How is it with you?

I am not what

I was certainly but I am more or less

exactly that.

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I

remember when you moved in me. I am so foreign, my nude not blue but anachronistic. The paths are all changed, the words all sewn down. Every breath is no more than

the one that came before it.

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Actively Nill

What more is there to say?

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This is my fight exactly, placed in terms better than I've yet formulated. 

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Landslides

Eve felt like clawing up, just that. She wanted to see over Adam's head. His head was always in her way. The rest is all Jack and Jill, which we know, but damn if I don't want to make precisely the same mistakes as these over and over. It's just hard to imagine that any one being can stop the disaster after disaster I'm always entangled in. Not that I don't think God is that powerful, just sometimes I'm sure that I'm just that fucked up.

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This is what it feels like

Song of Soren

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Pondering Typeface

When does typeface become just another default response, like what's your favorite color? With nothing stable in our existence, how can importance be placed on such a nominally important and transient concept like typeface choices. On the other hand how can choices such as how we represent our words when written not be a monstrously significant tell? Even if only signifying the state of a person's psyche in that one moment? I've wondered about this far too much. God, I'm such a late bloomer.

[jinspage]

Book List 1 - The Pure Novelty Works

Bellocq's Ophelia

Conversation Pieces

Blacked Out

Stop Pretending

???????????

???????????

[jinspage]

Bukowski? Vastly overrated or sadly underrated...I can't decide, at the moment.

[rarararambles]

I believe the woman sleeping beside me doesn’t care about what’s going on outside, and her body is warm with trust which is a great beginning.

Matthew Rohrer (via rarararambles)

[thisisseriouslytheworst-blog]

Poem

 by Matthew Rohrer

You called, you're on the train, on Sunday, I have just taken a shower and await you. Clouds are slipping in off the ocean, but the room is gently lit by the green shirt you gave me. I have been practicing a new way to say hello and it is fantastic. You were so sad: goodbye. I was so sad. All the shops were closed but the sky was high and blue. I tried to walk it off but I must have walked in the wrong direction.

[jinspage]

I have been practicing

a new way to say hello and it is fantastic.

[jinspage]

If I put it all away 

it would stay mine not yours

in no sway theirs but

I am Echo awhile until

I want above all

to be the thing

that casts shadows

against the wall. So if 

I tack myself on the 8in

signature space 

of the world in vivid aware

it is only 

because I tried

I can't

not be there.

[huggingthehorse-blog]

includes fascinating portrayals of casual drug use at house parties, how the author/protagonist had conversations about post-punk while seeing his mate’s band perform at some shitty small venue, internal monologues about consumerism while observing people in a mall and that time when the protagonist had an epiphany about living in the moment while walking in the rain

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Apparently, this Great Man also never sleeps. He believes that he will not die.

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In Mourning of The Incomplete and Non-Compelled

I'm dead at 34 in much the way that I was at 33 Considering, I am no longer 33 and will not be 34 tomorrow. The issue isn't the death however tough the consideration of the birth of today, more the gravid body preparing for another laborious night. It becomes hard, walking the floors with impending dues, deadlines and the like, to bury properly the sandbagged the sad the sickled 24 year old who simplistically felt some sense of genuine precious grandiosity at having lived Really lived to see one year per hour. As if. And the similarity between self and the average one year old lost in egoism in Braggadocio. The body rots beside the Between plans and ignored largess and lost here.

[jinspage]

Wherefore Art

is my bread and butter all of a sudden. I'm a writer, somewhere, I know this. Lately, it feels more like I am nothing. Isn't this what I want to be anyway? A shell, void of ambition and therefore void of worry, void of care.

And Good Night

 Today is new but plenty

old. Yesterday shook me

awake again. You promised,

but you are only a man.

We cannot keep our

  fragile bodies from failing 

and so promises must die 

too. They fade at the end

of the day as  light slips

through cupped fingers

  to the stream; just words

with icy hands wearing

rocks smooth over a string

of today's laying end

to end as continuances

  crowded and touching each

and all of the tomorrows.

Even they cannot escape

the days before lying

here in this bed all too quiet

  where nothing comes to

lay beside me but

wraith yesterdays,

indifferent tomorrows,

neither knowing

the words to Brahms Lullaby.