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snowstice
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Name: E.
Location: Moscow, Russia
Interests: Naiad: cut your body into turquoise pieces, they will bloom resurrected in the kitchen. This is how you become everything that lives.
Occupation: cloud
Message: message me
Member Since:
9/27/2004
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| i am a very heavy shell
i'm full of very heavy air
i need to find what was inside
(before my scales grew and it died)
what flowers i have grown and lost
what flowers have i grown and lost?
i kind of move, i try to not
i lay in bed, and i smoke pot
my scales are seven inches thick
i think i'm sick
i must be sick
what gardens need to see the sun
there's more than one
how is it happening again
the trees want rain
the trees want rain
stale air needs wind
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| when you were young and not so smart,
you trusted demons with your heart,
and now you're acting so surprised
at suffering in paradise.
my glowing hands cradle your head,
but you're confused and think you're dead.
living with angels you can't start
you can't tell us and them apart
you think we're dark in holy light
and morning looks like fucking night.
'believe us,' flocks of us have wept
and still this love you won't accept.
remember when you came to me
and we went swimming in the sea
when stars made up most of the sky
and january was july?
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| i kept the gentle lion safe
he lay here, sleeping in our cave.
nobody comes, nobody goes
i whisper stories of our woes.
i said in winter, 'come july,
we will behold the buffali'
so yawning mightily said you,
'we'll feast on golden buffallloo'
i said 'indeed', you fell asleep,
i fell into a trance so deep
that summer slept through us my friend
and now is coming to an end
an end so torturous and dry
the earth trampled by buffali,
behind them swarm the biting flies
and many useless dirty lies.
they woke you up, you went away
you're sorry, i should really stay
for now, this cave is what i guard
and safe within the cave- your heart.
my love, come home, i drew for you
a picture of a buffaloo,
your favorite colors- green and blue
and i can turn those colors too.
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| how can a poet not know intimately the ultimate oneness of everything?
a true poet does not share words of what is broken, what is bleeding, all a poet knows is what is.
is everything.
what is broken can only be broken into a pattern. broken in alignment with the tao.
a poet should only write truth. this is a sacred duty.
if you can truly see, then you must not twist your gift for the sake of your ego.
if i am wrong then i am not a poet, nor do i want to be one.
'there are many paths to the top of a mountain but only one view.' | | |
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brother, silence and hear:
our raw cries
translated into little words.
a robotic hand distorting our breath,
musical but inaccurate.
what did we expect, trying to 'speak'
in such an existence based on patterns, repetition,
organization, mathematics, geometry
sacred, logical, infinite, but how it stifles our
HUMANITY.
unravel this pattern, brother
i need your skilled hands,
unwrap the equation, make everything one:
my sharp yells, my deep sighs,
learn my language.
bear with my cry, decipher it backwards
it leads to my heart
(out of alignment, far from
the universe's mystic logic.)
had i not been thus intercepted, my sound would echo,
earth would know me,
would certainly wail back.
only then will we begin to realize
the humility and honor of the human condition
something like:
shaking on the mountain, eyes burning,
howling at the moon.
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