I take a sip of black coffee
It sits resting in the ceramic mug next to this typing space
The liquid rushes down my throat
This fifth cup of the hour brings joy
Is it a crutch, for I miss my usual companions of mind expansion?
Or is it a common cultural ritual of casual importance?
Is it a tool to fuel the fire of prolific inspired thoughts?
Or is it an illusion of harmful dedication to fulfill the need to write?
I feel it helps,
Though, naturally, it is not necessary.
Just as wine to wet the palate of flow,
Or an herbal cigarette to get the picture on the roll, the scroll, the holy goal
It simply is a habit - an extra step to the top floor of Creation.
I've been in the fields - the plantations
I've picked the coffee bean with my own hands for hours upon hours on end,
Leaving nothing but sticky hands and a limp paycheck to help me continue on my way.
Where am I headed?
Only the sky knows the answer to that question.
I try my very best to listen to its whispers
And imitate its words with action
I try and follow the orders of the divine to the best of my ability
But I am human,
And with that fact, I am hindered by natural law
And so I sit quietly on this lazy sunshine afternoon, sipping my black coffee
Recalling the days of sticky hands and limp paychecks in the humid fields of fate
And laugh at the craziness of my existence.
When I was born, did I think that I'd be here today, recalling such things
And forever immortalizing them in word and symbol?
I can't recall.
Perhaps I did , but perhaps I didn't.
They say that you choose your family before your come into this world.
But did they also say that you’d pick your face and desires?
Did they say that you’d be exactly who you wanted to be?
I’m not too sure who “they” are, but I don’t really care
As I poured the coffee into this mug,
I also choose what I want to do, who I want to be, and just how I shall love the world
As a human, we’re born free
The mind creates whatever it wants to base its perspective on reality off of.
The lock of gravity to keep us from floating away
Even when you’ve had a drop or two of ol’ Sandoz, you’re still kept from flying from the world
Words can fly, though
At least spoken word.
The words carry a vibration, a soundwave, which continue throughout the cosmos for eternity,
Unless eternity doesn’t exist in this universe,
In which case, they shall bounce off the walls of Space and Time and ricochet back to their source
Oh holy game of Sound Tennis
Free us from thinking you don’t exist
When the game is being played, its easy to forget that its just a game
It is only a game
Sitting in the sunshine of afternoon daze,
Sipping away at coffee and dreams
Life seems more like a blessing of bizarre circumstance and genuine interest in formful comfort
As opposed to a game with no more of a meaning than to finish it and try win in the meantime
Something seems fishy
And it isn’t the cat or the caffeine
Its the bare existence of existence
Perhaps I’m dancing around in circles, getting nowhere
But is there actually anywhere to go?
Sure, I’d love to be on the beach in ninety degree weather in the Cayman Islands rather than the cold of This northeastern mountain range of poor old troubled Amerika
But such is life
Perhaps one day I’ll be back on the beaches, dreaming easy of nothing, for the dream has already been Fulfilled, oh what a dream
With a farm up the hill from the coast
With fresh gardens and fruit trees and cannabis and coconuts and a shack of humble gratitude
With rivers and fish and goats and chickens
With sunshine and warmth and light and forever blue skies
With a woman of love and peace and art and intellect and wisdom and smiles
With the quaint knowledge that everything is always alright, regardless of circumstance
With the security of not needing security
With the freedom to laugh without pausing out of courtesy to not wake the sleeping
With the ghastly beauty of not waiting in line to ride a roller-coaster, for the mind is more than enough
With twists and turns and self-inflicted burns
With the crazy catch of tomorrow while still being here today
With nothing less than paradise awaiting the caress of self’s heart
And the holy notion that there’s something even greater on the other side of this life
Om, tranquil being
Pour more coffee, must stay awake - no sleep in days
No sleep in weeks
How do those speedy speedsters do it?
I wouldn’t even want to try
I enjoy my dimethyltriptamine inspired voyages across unforeseen holographic landscapes of the Subconscious
Oh, I’m conscious of that
I wonder if it’d be possible to bring the totality of the subconscious mind to full conscious awareness
I suppose it wouldn’t be the subconscious anymore
And thus there would be no way to measure if it worked or not
I think it’s already working
Yep, it’s working,
At one-twenty-eight a.m. It’s working. From noon to night. Life is still life, and it’s all alright.
With a clamor of disorder a raised voice heard,
pompous and prig it begins to emerge,
he starts with,
"I don't understand this obsession with television
you're numbing your brains with perfect precision,
vegging like zombies consuming mind corrosives
numbing your senses with cabbaging explosives.
You are passive and dull clapping like a seal,
have a word with yourself, IT'S NOT EVEN REAL!!
It's nonsense intended to diminish your soul
makes you pliant and supple, never breaking your mold"
He pauses and sips then gleefully splurges,
"My head would never be satisfied with the basest of urges.
I spend my free time reading or immersed in the arts,
i cleanse my essence and strengthen my heart.
I visit wonderful worlds full of joy and compassion
where people love well what's front and what's past them,
the flaws and the soars of the human condition
are painted out in strong and perfect position,
So while you glaze your iris with images galore
and turn your mind's eye from vibrant to snore
i have beauty coming out of my pores.
But you stick with your idiot box"
he knowingly mocks,
swings down his drink
and finally stops.
There is silence for seconds but then somebody says,
"I disagree with your there in quite a few ways."
"Although i think reading reveals amazing truth,
enriching life with strokes drawn loose,
conveying love with all that it brings,
grief and stillness and magical things.
And i concur that art is a window into the soul,
running with life and filling the holes
but telly can also tell the things that they told.
He guffaws with derision and says with pride grown fat
"pray do tell what TV show could do that."
"There's a show where a girl is given a tremendous burden,
her present hectic and future uncertain,
she stands between the world and inevitable doom
while going to school and being sent to her room,
she worries about hair and being the object of mirth
while still being scared but saving the earth.
She has people around her who are courageous and clever,
and stand by her side whatever the weather.
One would feel useless and small
but then buy the dress so you can go to the ball.
The other sent to watcher and keep his distance
but for the pull of affection there is no resistance.
Red held the fate of the world in her hands
when her world ended and crumbled like sand,
but she used all her magic and not to float a pen
but to stand back up, to love again.
Her sister was a key and her duties a lock
sometimes she began to rock
she had a day that we will all have
where something is lost and will never come back,
outside it's sunny with hoots of oddity
inside it's seconds from mommy to body,
and this happens,
unlike her it will not be gentle,
it will invade everything
and evade courtesy
But this is because of love,
and what it does.
everlasting and there to see,
and in a show on TV."
She has a slight pause and then remarks
"It could be drenched in sadness and resplendent with larks,
many vampires slain and demons destroyed
moments of weakness, feelings to avoid.
She could plough the fields and never till them,
admit her mistakes...i'm sorry William.
She could be class protector
she could be surprised
she could lie with you until sun rise
she could die for the world and take out the glory
she would run from her problems but always finish the story,
she'd get you down from a tower
with words not her power,
her screams send the bad gentlemen away
because she is stronger then them, everyday,
she has kindness
and a best and a worst
can burst into song and be effulgent in verse,
told she's a a hell of a woman and the one
and returns the i love yous on the day that he's gone,
and through the screen and this TV plot
is written with love how she saved the world...alot.
You might like books
but Buffy is great
an endeavour of joy, an affront to the hate."
The man composes himself and then says without regret
"It sounds fucking brilliant, i'll get the boxset!"
We've built a city of memories from the ground to the sky,
they bloom between the buildings carrying offerings:
empty bottles once filled with imagined glories.
This spilled life courses beneath coarse tarmac, and it rolls beneath our feet.
the memories hide in the quiet corners where we heard the collusion of class.
They whisper from those thick front doors, with their shined brass streaming past.
They scream around the empty rooms, last echoes of a congregation,
baying and booming for their salvation under pools of bass dripped ceilings.
They cling still, with their matching wordsto floors and buses, to fields and swings,
a tribute to the nameless places which birthed important things.
They meander amongst looming, fissured trees, caught in half-dark places,
then float to rest upon a bench between our pale white faces.
These memories now were moments then; as they skittered away down the lawn,
they left us silent but comfortably so, in the air of a red-grey dawn.
Have you seen what hides in shadows, so very very dark.
What is scratching away at the lies.
Leaving but a mere mark.
A flash of light in darkness lies.
What there lurks.
Illuminated only by the stroke of solo firefly.
Maybe just a speck of sparkle.
Lighting just one minute spot
Wants to dance a minuet but, dances all alone.
In advance of dancing goes to play.
Within fields of corrupted virgins.
Who only want their wicked way.
A lovely witch.
Entombed below the freezing heart of winter moon.
Where winter roses dare not go.
For there will be no more tomorrows.
In pain of all ex-virgins sorrows.
Upon a shelf was left such love.
Dropped in an acid bath.
Watch it fizz.
The poor heart.
Love lurks in last years shroud.
That's what hides in the shadows dark.
(C) Livvi x
are you the one
he and we are asked..
our replies express
where lately we've been..
in our bordered world
do we see interlacing..
are there open fields
in our imaging..
those fields unseen
seeming to project
each our scenes..
are wounds noticed
seeds of healing
theirs and ours..
without an answer
to the question…
For years I have known only you.
You, unfaithful lover, mutilated monster, blood-sucking fiend.
You, walking cadaver, trash-filled ocean, rotting mouthful of cotton candy cavity.
I felt you first when their faces filled my mind with nuclear lies. We walked the halls, hand-in-hand, eyes fixed on the laces of our shoes, desperately searching the cracks in the floor for our hollow reflections. Together we were like widowed spiders, catching unsuspecting bugs in our twisted, silkened webs, and draining their insides for our own selfish use. We were run-down strippers and streetside hookers, needles shared between haggard addicts shooting up MAGICDUST in blackened midnight alleyways. I twisted my fingers with yours, knelt before thick lines spread upon deceitful mirrors, lies threaded between rolled bills. I spoke your name before tornados and blizzards, blindly hummed your song in the presence of serial killers and wild felines with frothing, razored teeth.
For far too long I felt your wrath.
You, loaded shotgun, CLICKCLICKBOOM.
You, pointed blade, silvered hair, bloodied sheet smeared with scream.
I danced with you on wires of barb, 12341234, licked clean the wounds you salted with poisoned defeat. I shot your arrow from a rusted bow and laughed, cried, prayed for the kill. On weathered crags where nothing grows we testified our right to life, dug the graves of sinners and murderers, liars and thieves, then threw ourselves inside. Six feet deep. Like zombies we emerged, hungry for throbbing hearts and wrinkled lobes of brain. Like hunters we searched, scouring mine fields and sunken ships for our hidden souls.
Many nights I succumbed to your power.
You, thick leather belt lashed upon my back.
You, vicious, vindictive virus pulsing thick through my veins.
I've tried to lead you astray from your destruction. I threw you from marbled balconies and left you behind in dense, overgrown forests where I knew not my way. I fed you to flesh-hungry pirhanas and strangled you in my clenched, white-knuckled fists, trampled your face with spiked heels and had you sleep upon hot coals. Yet still you found your way to me, followed the trail of trembling hands back to my door and hid in the corners of rooms and the pages of books, waiting for your next attack.
From you I have learned.
You, wolf in wolf's clothing, howling at my moon.
You, filthy fox of the slyest breed.
Sad petals fall like tears
And lavender colors fill dying fields
"You're too beautiful
to be so sad"
She no longer shows her efflorescence
The moon was in the sky and the sun was long since dead.
when the shrew said to the rabbit, "I don't think its time for bed."
So they garnered all their energy and set themselves a route,
along the way with natures sway,
went searching for the truth.
They happened upon the lights of life and at a river drank.
But when they heard the hunters call,
their hearts they quickly sank.
It sounded like the last call to a drunkard at the bar,
as the shrew said to the rabbit, " do you think we've come to far."
The lights went out around them,
they just sat and laughed in turns.
Even though the fear was there,
they had remembered what was learned.
Amongst the trees and barley fields and rivers that run free.
For this is where they grew to learn,
that what will be will be.
Alice sits in the large
window of her father's
library, looking at the
garden and trees and
fields beyond. Silent
except for distant voices,
from the billiard room,
where her father is
with friends of his.
Laughter, deep, haughty.
She hates it when the
men see her, and want
to haul her, onto their
laps to play horse riding
and over hedges in the
fox hunt. She pretends
not to hear. The garden
view brings Dougridge
to sight; the gardener
of manure. Seldom speaks,
nod of head, touch of
forelock type. The men's
laughter gets louder; she
imagines herself tucked
up in her mother's arms,
safe, warm, and out of
harm's way. Mother is
out for the day. Taylor
drove her; he of sour
face, dark eyed and hair.
Alice holds her doll tight
to her chest, arranging
the mother made dress.
One day, one time, one
of her father's friends
held her on his lap and
tickled her to tears, his
thick fingers squeezing
her thighs, his alcohol
breath in her ears, soft
wording sounds, she
didn't understand, she
wanted to get down,
and did. They laughed.
She still felt his fingers'
grip long after the laughter.
She sees the maid from
the kitchen throw stale
bread to the birds, thin
girl, thin arms and fingers
and features. Brought her
breakfast in bed once,
when unwell; sad, quiet,
sickly girl. The laughter
stops. Doors open
and close. Voices, greetings
and farewells, an odd laugh.
Then silence. No going
riding on a hunt today,
no horse-play; no perched
on knees with thighs finger
squeezed. She hugs her
doll and kisses its head.
Your mother will be back,
but not until you're asleep,
and tucked in dreams and
bed, her grumpy father said.
You forget the freedom in your hands,
dusted with graphite, adorned in
fading mineral shadows across your palms.
You loose the feeling
of yellow painted wood,
sitting solemn at the window
wishing you could craft beauty
with paper and pencil
akin to how
the earth grows the mountains.