I’m an artist
My tool of choice
is my razor
my favorite medium
is my blood
is my thighs..
My work of art
is full of emotion
My work of art
always pleases me
I’m an artist
and this is my masterpiece.
Guten tag carusosします。
This isn't an apology.
Don't let the half empty bottle of wine
and partially living flowers fool you,
don't give me the time back,
because I don't regret not kissing you,
I'm glad someone else could do the chore for you
because we both know I was
insult away from your bedroom.
A beautiful face in a crowd,
lifeless like most of us.
Placed memories inside these boots
for the anticipation of winters violent ways
waiting for spring too fill the jam jar with sadness.
Or to create some art due to emptiness
but threw acid in my eyes so that I couldn't see
locked myself outside in the cold
making myself numb,
forced the feeling
denial a hole that keeps getting bigger in time
as it remains on my mind because i'll go to sleep alone tonight like every other
meanwhile one's with current lovers will find new ones
as will I,
in the abandon books with missing pages,
are missing from within myself
searching for myself in the dark
because the only one I ever loved
told me he was born with dandelions in his spine,
blew on them to pass the time,
it was only wishful thinking
and plants never taught how to bleed only to cry
theres a crowd in my head
and your not invited
only the thoughts that gather
always left unsaid
or on your voice machine;
the concert tickets were too nice of a gesture,
I went wrong saying they were one of my favorite bands,
maybe I should become a liar.
Mostly though I am in love.
I am in love with time and
it only exist if you want it to.
Like a child enlightened by heightened curiosity,
So is a native swimmer by poetic luminosity.
A prose in sight and sound devoid of modern flair,
For poetic convention the diver does not care.
But take this vague verse as one roaring rhyme,
And take it as verbiage very overdue in time.
Unjustly sunken voices the swimmer seeks to hear;
Battling a torrent history...above, below, and near.
The inquisitive diver infers a present too dismal,
As around an angry sea lies an origin, abysmal.
Rejecting all fables history’s abettors inked true,
The swimmer seeks fair chroniclers as wreckage was their due.
Sought is Illyria, a place far from here;
A land said "not to exist", so how can it disappear?
Most fabricated history our beings cannot fathom;
Quelled grandiose splendor serves political stratum.
So, how does one interpret Illyria’s butchered will,
As her godless schism fibbing history faux fills?
While Illyria’s rebel ship sailed upon history a fright,
Shakespeare's pen amorously inked the 'Twelfth Night.’
Calling curious minds to ponder this hell of a theory,
But consider the diver's roots with impartial query.
What the Illyrian believed in was a life well spent;
Not man-written guidance begging cents to repent.
On modern Illyria’s outskirts sly mythology prevails;
Modern Illyria’s pervasion of such mythology still fails.
But her feeble-minded native is essentially to blame
For their grand, deceptive role in the imperialist’s game.
Brutal eradication of Illyria’s vocal reason
Deem all these conspirators of ultimate treason.
As the State buries the intellect for piercing wits,
The native dog barks, upon foreign command he shits.
In the European south roam these bad hounds of species;
Anatomical sketches of Europe's rear excreting feces;
A pile all imperialists eject with laxative ease;
A pile all imperialists still smear as they please.
Above Illyrian graves, those below made to inspire,
The dopey dog dances, blind to his own fate in fire.
This damned work of art, not a site for you and eye,
Is an emblematic governance gagging an eerie cry.
The dog's disintegration, painted by his foreign master
Is an art to be repeated in future governing disaster.
As today’s worthless pawns in corruption they engage,
Illyria’s distinctive scions remain fools on a stage;
Our bodies dance and sway like silly puppets at play.
Our minds confined to idiocy as the capitalist’s prey.
Now, a poet's jingle jangle on probing minds they should linger,
As besought are worthy scions who must leave behind a 'finger.'
I cannot stand the taste of salt
On my tongue as the night drags on
And although it is my own fault
I cannot stand to know you’re gone;
Sheets covered in raindrops – no,
Those are pieces of my heart
And I find myself alone tonight
(Perhaps deservingly so);
Didn’t mean to yell, to fall apart;
I’ve always feared the light.
My lips are unbearably numb;
Is this how I’ll miss your kiss?
Is this what I’ve become?
Lost your love in the abyss,
The depths of my own mind,
Where voices ring loud:
“You are not worthy!”
Oh, I do apologize;
Words like these won’t make you proud,
But neither will girls like me.
I am acquainted with early hours
Of the morning, and yes
One a.m., I miss the flowers;
Midnight has already seen the mess
That is my forlorn heart
And yes, two a.m.,
You may wipe clean my canvas face
For sadness is not a work of art;
Were my lips not meant to part again?
Perhaps I am simply a soul misplaced.
What if I told you
you are wanted
I have seen many openly contemplate
to take your own life
you have all heard this
many who contemplate suicide
forget that they are loved
forget that they are wanted
by others on his god-forsaken world
It is a deadly thing to forget
don't let it get out of your
the anthem of the lonely
is the subtle ticking of a clock
a bomb preparing to explode
a cola can gathering pressure
a planet with crumbling plates
i am lonely sometimes
i know what true desolation is like
it is a slow aching
i am subject to quick fits of rage
i rarely fall in love
but when i do i am completely and ultimately committed and lost to it
in hope that i have finally found a truly close friend
we learn to be let down
we learn to cope
we are the strongest
those of us that are not destroyed early on
the thin white and pink
scars are not a solution
i have seen that
i drain the emotions through
i drain the emotions through
Lorde music and
your small sonnets
are a curious sensation
i feel that burning in the back of my
head, as my hands touch the keyboard to
try to express my appreciation for your work
most responses are terminated
your voice is loud
and your clothing is louder
your writing is poetry
and your poetry is art
i detest you
yet i feel a need to
you seem worthwhile
you remind me a little of myself
the part that never speaks
and that frightens me
i feel as if you will get to know me
better than i know myself
i could never meet a trespasser
of that caliber
and that potential
From gilded paths,
carrying grey blood, apathetic veins
and red eyes,
with letterman jackets,
sporting hometown glory,
staving off the ordinary,
with the slightly above average,
he holds me, and his invisible world,
within sometimes strong arms.
I carry these midwestern sunrises
in my irises, and I watch him learn
Manifest destiny, and why settling, settling
(down), led wheels and wagons
to this place of nothingness.
I watch as I become his something,
and I know exactly when we stop fucking
and he starts holding the word
love in his throat, like a cough, he blames
the cigarettes (I let him).
From his blue moon larynx, when I recall how
to play coquette and can coax out his clumsy truths,
I can feel him printing-press himself into me.
I know he is learning my melody
to accompany his drumline pulse,
I see my skin turn into his medium,
I see art start to matter.
And could I exist in these cream tones, adding my red,
turning these picket fence pastures Easter pink.
Getting lost (sometimes), stumbling through acidic woods (only sometimes),
I could be his familiar adventure- always.
He’d build us a cabin and a fire he would never let turn to ash (even as we did), and I would never truly understand that our always-smoking chimney meant his forevers as he would never truly understand that my always-muttered poems meant mine. But with goosebumps traveling up our medulla oblongatas, and from different hemispheres of the mind, just perhaps I could carve out a thousand more nights with you. perhaps.
images flicker on a silver screen
frozen in time for all the world to see
captured moments stored away
taping every step you take or word you say
movies are much more than they seem
they're not just a monotonous series of scenes
they're beautiful memories and works of art
that have captured our history, and stolen our hearts.
Hypothetically where my poems come from
as I am an Ophelia to my art of words
this glorious obsession will kill me
yet, what a wonderful way to die
I will play Russian roulette with death
till I have nothing left to write
all through my darkest days
and all through the cold nights
I will play the Angel, the Fool
I will even play it sometimes cool
just remember this
I do this all for you
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Jaws glanced the floor
as you made the scene
at hale and hearty
where food reigned
and laughter spilt,
raucous we flocked
amid moist meat
lavished in hot spice
whetting our whistles
on good spirits.
on glass screens
to feel the unseen
a master of the art
pulling me flush to your flank
as screaming ribs
expelled shooting stars
in lightning flashes
that arced to my blood red sky
while conscious hips fought
with unwitting urges
and lost to a straddling sea
of other-worldly delights.....
The barman glared
and we the raucous
stopped and stared
as she lost her grip
and supper hit the decks,
exposed in our coloured
intoxication he calls time;
some walk in a war of words
under hitched hems
toward a blaze of
hot leather 'neath
that paved my path to sleep.