I am an artist.
I can make myself into something new
Imagine the possibilities you could
Just let me know what you want.
Here, flip through this magazine for some
And tell me what you like best!
It’s all about pleasing your audience
It doesn't matter what I want,
Nobody cares about that.
They just want to see something pretty.
I sculpt and paint imagery out of tools
To end up with a fake canvas.
Day to day I suppress myself with the lies.
I chip and chisel,
Dissect and carve,
Bits and pieces,
Until I’m left trembling,
Just to be tossed away in the end.
Splashes of red,
And strokes of black ignite your appeal,
And this is what you label as real?
Hunger strikes itself through the bones
Revealing its power through the limbs
Of the body, eye sockets, sinking down,
Death could possibly be the resemblance.
What a terrible piece, a shame it is.
Maybe just a few more tweaks,
And it will at least look halfway decent.
Trim down the sides,
Thin out any extras,
Fill in what is needed.
Even just a tad more color,
Then we have something.
Time strolls by,
A year soon passes,
And one day I just happen to actually
And look at my masterpiece,
But only for a moment.
In the mirror,
A reflection stares back at a wretched,
Beads of liquid build up into my pallid
Unable to contain the weight of their
reasons any longer,
Tears begin to burst,
They trickle down my rose stained
Fueled by the absence of perfection,
And I feel nothing.
Needs more work.
I wish I could paint the night sky with star dust
Pink and purple
I’d write your name so you’d feel special
You would never have to wonder why I love you
You light up my eyes
And awaken my dreams
With the most beautiful of lies
And did I tell you
I would never trade even the most beautiful sunrise
For just a glimpse of your smile
You are a gift
And I never want to leave
So ill gaze off at the distant night sky
Imagining your name
Written next to mine
Across an ocean of canvas white
A stroke of beauty comes to light
The patterns even, contrast, and fair
Complexity in the mind created with care
Do not allow a single smear
To blotch the canvas and make unclear
What blossoms made with hand and mind
What intricacies you will find
A root of commons grown within
of Artist and Gazer's ken
Now engrossed with personal thought
Through paintings on canvas, connection is sought.
I will take the Son of God to a Shell gas station
I will feel the deceit of paint on a white picket fence
I will tell your father about the ad hominem fallacy
I will show up to a busy hospital for no reason
I will send baskets of flowers to all the nurses
We can take our child on the public city bus
We can feel the heat of an exothermic reaction
We can tell Reader’s Digest about our refined taste buds
We can show Alton Brown a couple of recipes for finance
We can let him choose the one that tastes the best
You should break my nose for only one dollar
You should kneel to no man, woman, or Oscar Wilde
You should spell out how to use an Oxford comma
You should throw a party celebrating the use of libraries
You should invite people to drink excessive volumes of vulgarities
I am falling on a sword that seems romantic at most
I am falling down the stairs to get to a peaceful bottom
I am falling with a freedom that reminds me of Tom Petty
I am falling for a beauty never seen with prescription sunglasses
I am falling into Eden with an apple meant for Eve
I know I'll be alright by morning,
But these coffin crayons crack bones,
Guesses sulk cause lips don't draw shades,
Mishaps wrap glassy sparks to hips,
Distrained ecstasy foresees highlights,
Sky's apply to stitch ego locked cloth,
And steadfast butterflies paint my face,
I'm the lines that follow but don't fade,
Those spaces sink snaps to where sole see,
Responses strike transparent handshakes,
Shaded realities scream dyslexic,
But I swear that's just how you made me,
Now I just sit and watch the clock tick.
"The problem is..."
"that it is'nt us who see people differently from you,
but you see things different from us. We are not the problem you are.
You see the basest humans when we paint majestic creatures,
we tell stories of superheroes with no faults,
we expect our boyfriends to mirror night skies in their comfort,
and speak like Kerouac. Kiss our scars like white girl tumblr pictures."
"People like you," he says;
"...Dont ever kill yourselves. You're used to the disappointment. Your used to kissing your boyfriends sweaty upper lips and smelling...just that. You clean up the puke on bathroom floors without complaining because you know what people look like from the inside. That's why your art will never be good. Thats why today in class when I asked you to paint a human body cut open, you drew a colorless man with his organs splaying out of him, and goddamn" he laughs..
"I have to fold petals into my boyfriends armpits just to stand the sight of him
our fucking is'nt fucking,
its lovemaking. Supposedly.
When I tell this story later,
I'll leave out the spit and saliva and how the human body
aint that pretty, especially gay sex. Even 6 ft 3 chiseled muscle of it, ill write metaphors about his eyes and similes to his fists,
you will tell us about the humaness of his breath and how
it annoyingly kept you up at night,
you will speak of storms but not of the ones in his eyes.
The ones in your belly
when he farts during sex and you will
describe every putrid detail, like the fact that waking up in the morning aint so pretty,
morning breath is something we dreamers leave out in movies. And, it must be exhausting
living here seeing things how they really are, but atleast when you expect disappointment, theres room for surprise.
People like me expect the good and are disappointed when its pissed on."
My lips must be paint, because
They paint you blush red
He descended lost and lonely into this world
fast did he fall, like cold winter's rain
his body broken and his mind shattered
yet he tried to keep himself contained
He felt like a ghost by a warm fire place
but, none of the living could see his form
he was a stranger, a stranger of passion kind
still in love with his sweet crying moon
Solitude and longing had become his good bed fellows
each night in his empty house they would paint nightmares
and when morning was claimed by the screaming of sunlight
they would pack up their paint brushes and go into hiding
His joy was the shimmer of a new dawn sun
it gave deliverance from the pain of loneliness
yet sweet justice came with those wonder nights
for the stranger and his love the crying moon
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
On monochrome highways I chase your dreamcoat encapsulated body.
I’ll swallow you like codeine, soothing the cuts serrated words left on my esophagus.
With stolen wine, embittered lips, naked naked naked blindness, we are gasping for carbon dioxide,
screaming never leave, please don’t leave. You direct the moon of your eye into my light-starved system.
And then come morning, run your hands along my gilded wrists, chip away the paint, it falls into molehills on beaten wooden floors.
Let your teeth grow crooked because you hate the straight and narrow.
Pick at your scabs, create redness you swear is moonburn.
Speak in banalities, cross your heart, my eyes, and swear you don’t.
Graffiti yourself in rainbows unless someone ventures into your venn diagram borders in which case drape yourself in blackness, like that one angsty midnight you suffered through.
Maybe ebony will then be enough, maybe you’ll finally be art, maybe you can hang yourself on the walls of museums, maybe you’ll be praised and detractors can not see through shut eyes.
Trademark yourself and I promise I won’t become tangled in your legalities.
I’ll just tangle my hair in your fingers when the oxygen goes sour in my own bedroom and I want to be wanted.
some winter mornings
last through the spring,
sweeping in between wind chimes
and dusting over windowsills,
until our bodies are numb
and our minds are racing
i don't feel pain in the winter time,
pain feels me,
all curled up in the fetal position
with fuzzy socks
and war paint
at the edge of my sheets
december never stings,
kind of agony
that whispers tauntingly
through the shower curtains
at 5 am and says
"why did you bother getting out of bed?"
oh and how that cold, cutting voice
gets stuck inside your head...
at least until spring takes
it's last cool breath