Archive for December 7, 2015

more nonsense …

nonsensical lines of a scribble …

unknotting, woven words,
stitched between folds of unseeing eyes,

glimpses, here and there,

stranded on islands of desolation,
stung by panic,

gasping for breath,
marooned on a sliver,
razored, sharp,

tearing you from the inside out,
and it won’t matter how loudly you holler,

cry, wail,

slipping into worn shades,
of yesterdays souls, worn thin and weary,

these enslaved moments,
of claustrophobic pain,

real sorrow,
today, real,
really now,
not some faroff morrow,

of having worn too many masks,
with nowhere left to hide,

except between the lines of a scribble

Ludwig & Vincent again …

‘what inspired you to write your 9th?’, Vincent asks Ludwig.

‘madness, dear Vincent. Distilled, concentrated madness’.

‘wasn’t it madness that drove you to sketch starry nights above a sea of Irises?’, Ludwig asks Vincent.

‘madness it was, Ludwig. A madness of the soul. Restless, frantic, maddening madness’, whispers Vincent.

‘what does that make us, my dear Vincent?’, Ludwig murmurs, leaning close to Vincent.

‘sane’, says Vincent.

‘yes, Vincent. Sane’, responds Ludwig.

Vincent reaches up and feels around for his phantom ear,

Ludwig smiles, touching his ear that once could hear.

Vincent and Ludwig …

“Do you know, my dear Ludwig, that I’ve sold just one of my paintings?”

“Yes, Vincent, do not despair, my friend, they cannot, will not, fathom the flower that reveals its petals before their eyes”

“I suppose you are right, old friend. They cannot, will not, hear your ‘Ode to Joy’, though it is you who are deaf!”

“But my dear Vincent, you do hear my ‘Ode to Joy’, deep in your soul”

“Yes, I hear it, I feel it, Ludwig, flowing like liquid paint through the canvas of my veins”

“My dear Vincent, I too feel your brush-strokes, and in each swirl of colour I hear your joy, and I can touch your pain”

“What does that make us, my friend? Two men cast adrift on the bluest seas, leaving nothing behind, yet heading nowhere. What does that make us then?”, asks Vincent.

“Human”, replies Ludwig, smiling.

“Human, yes, dear Ludwig”.

“And that is enough”, says Ludwig, almost to himself.

“It is enough”, smiles Vincent.

“To be human. It is enough.”

Vincent laughs, as Ludwig watches a gentle wave caress their toes, through their tattered shoes.

passion in d-major …

ragged, splintered,
velveteen gentleness,

swirling tongues of fire,
serenading sensuous brushstrokes,

on canvas,

whirling, afloat,
on an old bridge not far from where she used to live,

rising, imbued with life,
a symphonic crescendo,
of shared heartbeats,

fading between notes,

an orchestral rising,

conducting passion,
electric sparks flaming into musical echoes,

at the precipice,
beyond the rains,
of dazzling rainbow hues,

lost in void,

scalding the depths of rhyme,
ravaged by the endless song and dance and mime,


for a prolonged
bouquet of shared time … …

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