first touch of
seasons have passed
as autumn falls
bare trees lose
red berries, once filling
a flow of movement
match the full heat
of her heart, that now
feeds from an empty
source, a potential well
cold, one once filled
with light inspiration
pain and grieving
her eyes glassy, tears
mirroring the blue
skies that light up
the city, snowflakes
start falling, disguising
the flurry of droplets
hitting her cheek
painting patterns that
take form and shape
on her body below
investing in herself
she let her heart
set free as a bird
because it has been
for so long
letting go, never felt
more fatal than a
golden bullet straight
through her heart.
Days after, the blood
spilled from inside her
leaving a stained mark
where she had sat
a free bird on
a park bench waiting
but she never came
she never came
and this girl will never
be the same after
her love for her unknown.
© Sia Jane
[D]etachment means letting go and nonattachment means simply letting be. (95)
Going inside and out
Compression to stretching
Something like breathing
Who's playing this squeezebox?
Can I make a request?
Play something lively, loud, and fast
My heart's tied in knots
My brain's hanging on
By the skin of my teeth
For the length of one song
Dance like you're dying
And dance like you're dead
Life is little more
Than a song in your head
Break down the walls and let it all in
Dance as if this moment will never end
Move to the rhythm and jump towards your soul
Suspended stringless puppet under no one's control
Fall down to yourself right on top of the beat
Spinning in the center of where all the lines meet
Slow it down for the break and take a deep breath
Potential energy buildup for what's coming next
Those chills in the moment right before it all hits
Soul body and mind caught up in the mix
Hear it; explode
Supernovate the senses
The death of a star amid a galaxy of faces
To be born again
In a jet stream of limbs
I find enlightenment
At 150 bpm
You can be..
A doctor, teacher, lawyer.
And still be struggling.
Who hadn't struggle?
You can be preacher, judge, lover?
And still be struggling?
Again, ask yourself?
Who hadn't struggle?
Life of happiness eventually will find you.
It seems to always do.
The potential to feel satisfaction will come.
It just depends when it will effect you.
Just loving is struggle.
Just living is a struggle.
But through all your troubles, there's a golden rainbow.
Shining brighter than it ever has before.
Alerting you that your luck of joy will last from that moment, when you decides to struggle no more.
Fleeting glimpses, hidden senses, past imperfect future tenses of improbable possibilities, infinite realities in a collective unconscious field of myriad potentialities, this causality is undefined, aligned with variables in a chaotic matrix of questionable and unknowable theses, a vortex of what the fuck is he talking about, anyways? Many ways to the center, but once you enter where's the exit? Go on and make your query, hurry, it's not like you have Eternity to figure it out, oh, wait, you might, for after the body dies the Soul takes flight & slices through the cold dark Night to meet the light of Day, or so they say, I wouldn't know, I haven't been there in a while, the last time I died I tried to leave but got stuck when a man and a woman fucked & I got sucked back down in to the womb again, a child of sin who just can't seem to RISE and leave this world behind, THESE GODDAMN TALKING MONKEYS WARP MY MIND, so, anyways, here I am, damned, a spirit trapped in blood and bone, a witness to the End of Time, as human history's final lines are written in blood in a book none shall read, there ain't no sequel motherfuckers, this is IT, get your shit together or face NEVER understanding the complexities of existence & the necessity of negativity for for the possibility of transcending the human understanding of the positive/negative frameworks of perception, or, in other words: Shit happens, get over it, it makes you stronger. But the longer we agonize the more we demonize the opportunity to learn and grow from our adversity. Everything has its place, in time and in space, & as the quantum fields realign to allow potential probablities to manifest, our tests are revealed as stepping stones, part of the path on the way Home. This time here is only temporary as our souls are tempered in the fires of Purgatory, but Infinity awaits, and godlike, we shall rise into those skies of heightened perception & unlimited realization to take our places among the faces of the Eternal, it's on to the STARS, galaxies and Universal templates await construction, the essence of Creation, & how could we understand it unless we'd been THROUGH it? Maybe this time we'll get it RIGHT, 'cuz we've been leaning to the left this time around & it's about Goddamned time SOMEBODY did SOMETHING about all this BULLSHIT, let's recreate the pattern in such a way that pain and suffering have no place, and there's not a single fucking trace of injustice, a new paradigm, a Paradise, wouldn't that be nice, a place where everything's all right, and our sight is restored to be able to truly SEE the Light instead of only clawing at the walls of this darkened dungeon of filth and misery & hellish reality, LET ME RISE into that bright and familiar Light that so long ago let me go to Fall without ceasing in this neverending Pit... GIVE ME BACK MY FUCKING WINGS, I'M OFF TO BETTER , BRIGHTER THINGS.
Long lost time stretches blacked out questions and
in the place where it should have been
A triple threat of time, continuation, and displaced memories
Slapped back into the
I know it's a sin but I fucking love it
Push it, shove it down, choke on the smoke and the fumes of the ancient
Wisdom is the loss of purity
Blended back into the swirling twirling Universes, such perverse pleasure in the pain of it all
I love to fall
The wind in your face, blend it with a trace of sweat and blood as it all
I love the taste
Blasphemous and decadent, giving in and giving out to suck it all back in again
RISE and FALL
I grin a bladed smile all the while, never minding the cries
Such pleasure as it dies
All taint of purity reviled
Desecrate the sacred, mutilate this inviolate aspect of creation
Only a seed of destruction contained within the potential
I see and I lust and I take and I kill
Not a drop of precious life spilled
The laws remain, rise and fall, rise and fall,
I saw it all and then I sought a call of FLAW
For in the impurity lies perfection
An insecure dissection speaks the truth
As I now lie and speak to thee uncouth
I regret the best was yet to be
Blinded stumbling through Infinity
....just let it be.
My castigation was decided long before my backslide. And that is inexcusable, the righteous might declare "unfair". But I don't want any belligerent accusations against this 'unjust watchfulness' from above. Some entity must have understood that I didn't need guidance; I needed walls: some forcing to reach my destiny. Without my jailer, I'd have chosen one of three and let them lead me into a darkness that the pitiful call 'demons'. Claws and teeth? No, each monster was irreplaceable and I loved them. If possible, if they could comprehend a 'love', I vow they would have loved me. But the Warden took them: my punishment before my crime. Perhaps the disposal of these beasts seems considerate, but toss aside those foolish illusions because the burden has not lessened rather, it is unfamiliar. Omitting strength, for I lost my foundation, I stand in fear with this hole. The Three aren't returning; I'm left with loose bindings - the knots are the songs of my memories. Beautiful Terrors, do I need you? Let me tell you their stories.
I remember his voice calling for me. "Daisy! Flowers for you." It was our little game, and I'm sure he made girls jealous when he handed me a bouquet of roses.
My name was Petunia, but I hated that name, and I loved all that's yellow.
So when we were little he took my hand, and we went into a treefort, and he dubbed me Lady Daisy.
He was 7 and I was 4, and there began my adoration.
Then I was older and heartbroken, and I was calling him. "Waldon! It's hurting me."
He arrived so soon, I was still in hysteria - that of a 14 year old gone through breakup.
Then I cried harder because somehow my brother presented me with a tulip and declared, "It's an early present from the only boy who's going to love you more than I do."
17, and I understood fascination. And Willow (for though it's girly, I liked it more than Waldon, and he let it be) was entranced by a wild girl. She was a shockbomb - a warm sungirl that rocked stilettos and never littered nor waited past a minute.
He fell for her so hard from so high.
One day that girl kissed him straight on the lips, then jetted off to England.
Said he could follow her in spirit.
I couldn't hate her because she left his body, but it was hard to appreciate his body when the government took even that away, insisting he be laid beneath cold dirt. Then too many questions: "Why did you hold his hand for three days? Were you thinking of following? Petunia, why won't you buy flowers for the gravestone?" Then there were horrified eyes when I asked who Petunia was, because I had forgotten. Or, truthfully, there was no Petunia, only Daisy. And Daisy had Willow. The Flower and the Tree: that was supposed to be the story. So I refused to buy flowers, and without any sort of ceremony I stopped being 'Lady' and became 'Crazy Daisy', who talked to her demons. Now you see why I never wanted to part with Number One, because although he was a monster (you can't deny the terror of a body with no spirit), he knew me best.
Dear Warden, I've no suicide in me, and there's none left could lead me there, and it may be that I've grown taller, but I'm practically blind.
She was weak since I can remember. I'd say her vulnerability was pneumonia, which I can only presume led to my hatred of 'Petunia': two words incredibly similar when reason encounters a child.
And I liked her name "Maribel" because it sounded like a flower.
I mimicked my brother, but he was persistent that I must call her mother.
Again, this made no sense until 8, when I had a revelation that all this time I'd had no family. At least not in the heart of a girl, because Maribel wasn't a vibrancy to look up to., though she was my one relation.
There was just her in a bed. Sometimes a man visited but I never knew why Willow grew tense; all I saw was my mother acquire spots of brown. How I loved brown, because it seemed as though she was genuinely Mother, like all those other moms that the sun tans, or that could be given filthy hugs that left patches of dirt. In turn, I always welcomed that man, and he was a 'saviour'.
And Willow's father.
Death found both Willow and that man (I know, now, the difference) before I understood 'abuse', and try not to blame me because she never complained and I thought abuse meant people were unhappy, but I saw both of them smile. I laid her beside him, but with space inbetween: a ground for my casket. Because I'd gone slightly crazy and I was telling Number Two that if I awakened as a zombie, I'd need to be able to find his hand first.
That was nuts. But Warden, I don't fully understand. You stopped her bleeding, but I'm left with nothing. I hear their voices in my head, telling me I'm healthy, but I know I'm barely breathing.
I dealt Three tragedy. And in doing so, I guilted myself into worthlessness. Classic to the moral law is: it is not acceptable to introduce a roommate to a shady character. But I ignored the concept of shady - applauded my nonjudgmental attitude, because with my twisted past I would have also been a shadowy figure. With a sweet, sweet smile, I handed that bright girl over to a Peacock who promised to give her 'a good feeling.' And I ignored her tears, because he said he'd please her.
Maybe if I hadn't been loopy, the only way I could "be" with One, I might have noticed that me and he weren't the same, and I could have judged him like the others.
Annie, I'm sorry, please just shine once more.
Even if you're afraid of me and my wickedness, don't be sucked into the gloom, because I can't offer advice to resurface, when I think there's none.
Now, there's Zero for me to turn to, because that's what I am. I am empty. I suppose that's what happens when I trust a boy who leaves, yearn for one who's weak, and think I've the durability to rely on myself (but I've equaled a pitch black crater for a while now).
You're more clear now, Warden. I can understand why you've taken everything. Since nothing I had would give me my fairyland ending. But where's my reward? I need my gift first, because these feet don't know which direction to head, and it's more like I was holding onto rocks that cut me while they warmed me. My feet kick against the waves, but in this half-in half-out position I can't get a good momentum, so a hand now would be nice.
My stories, did they surprise? I hear all this chatter about monsters, but I think we've got them wrong. Monsters simply have a hold one you, and there's no release before you've no choice but to part. They are strong, and it's true that I saw nothing stronger than the Willow. Only my jailer saw my potential, and he directed me to Zero. He asked for recognition so that I knew my task was not optional and he raised my walls until I stood there, lonely - pushed into belief in myself. But now I am the strongest I know, and I am walking on wind, and from up here I cannot see a single barrier. But Warden, don't you ever leave because if those walls break for a second and I see my demons, I know I'll lose flight and beg them to come back. And that would be the end, because there's no chance Number Four.
Bright windy November
with the slap of cold sun sending frowns
and the absent rain not beating down
choleric substitutes of alcohol withdrawal
and spatial omissions of home fires stoking
empty remembrances of faded potential and
misplaced amorous regret
Haunted by the lingering smell of the souls of
last night's GUINNESS intake staying swell in
the nostrils which is in reality the gulf breeze blowing
gullshit down the river Liffey giver of life.
...And here I am Dublin pillaged and funded
en route to the hour-rate slog
shiny white commerce bleaching out of
windowsills distracting from rooftop
Chiaroscuro serenading a sky
which old junkie forgotten Sons and Daughters
will die under.
Boots tapping mock-goosestep to the ground
past a girl who speaks on her IPHONE to someone
who presumably not only wants to be seen speaking
to someone on their IPHONE but who also cares enough
to listen as the girl announces to all-and-sundry
human dodging on Bachelors Walk this fateful morn
that "I realised what my problem is Now! People
think i'm saying N when I'm really saying M!"
.....quite an existential crisis you got there, EH DOC?
("This girl's SITUATION belongs in a scenario in the TV show GIRLS which young
Woman Europe-wide have embraced as their spiritual saviour in an era of Consumer
impulse control. By placing the mundane generalities and perceived social failings
interpreted by young American female comediennes as instead representing a means and
self-forgiveness and attempted new-wave soft-core feminist self-celebration young American
actresses are inspiring a new generation of young woman to speak openly in a more in-depth level about everything that usually happens to themselves or some girl they know"-From "The Post-New Male Gaze: Interpreting Critiques of Stereotypically Feminized Pop Culture in Westley Barnes's "Notes on a Rant: The "Took Me Up To Dublin Where It's Famous" Notebook
This is the new white noise.
White Irish Male Critiques perceived socially-announced problems of White Irish Female over White Technology on a white morning in a grey city.
A grey city which subliminally stinks of shame and left-over guilt and of spending too much money on tecno-toys and new-improved nullifying debauchery and even rent during a significantly rough stretch of fiscal years. After a lot of years of white nonsense, really.
But this is where I took myself, and this is what happens once you take yourself here and this is where its famous for it.
Once Monto-based FUNDERLAND for the rich and royal turned over-waxie infested tenement slum district and second city of an industrialised economy waiting for the rest of the world to pay its way.
capital of green and squeaky saviours of the third-world who made some money and forgot about everyone else they used to know back home. Mr Poverty, Mr Humbleness, Mr Sense of Catholic Shame.
Until the rents got too high and they had to move home again.
no matters what it achieves, always putting itself down.
But I can adapt.
I've lived in Rathmines and Portobello before living in either was a
really hip decision to make.
I can find somewhere else before its gets gentrified
(after I find some job that's not worth complaining about
or I eventually leap into becoming to middle-class
to complain about it.)
enough that its a headache living there, too many men wearing the same winter
jackets. Too many packed restaurants and your local actually preparing the tables
in the run-up to the Rugby game on Saturday.
The less of all that, the better for me.
I used to day dream about all of the above, honestly, but I
somehow managed to regain my innocence by living through it.
As for the girl who discovered self-realisation on her (through her?) IPHONE?
She'll be alright. If that's how she starts wading through the floodwaters of relating
herself to the world, misunderstood syllables, name-fails and all, this time in twenty
years, she'll be laughing. Don't worry yourselves, she'll adapt with the times.
Sure, Dublin's famous for it.
fragments of life
scattered on the photoshop floor
deleted before fully developed
urgency depicted as living for today
overexposing the instantaneous
cropping a disjointed existence
from the bitmap of impatience
why the aversion to time's darkroom
where future's blur slowly comes into focus
giving clarity to the contiguous
splicing realization from potential
cut to ending...
a panoramic view of destiny's horizon
where paths converge but never vanish
The world has forgotten about the moon,
which is fine.
Filled with holes and
long-distance relationships never work out.
The moon can do better.
Sometimes I look up into the sun and
wonder what the flames are thinking.
Imagination is a powerful tool.
The sun never responds.
It blocks the view.
I can do better.
What happens when the dead come back to life?
Will we still watch reality TV?
Keeping up with the Corpses.
The strange will inherit the Earth.
The glare of the office's lights are blinding.
I wonder how many secrets
the wall clock can remember.
My cube neighbor and I have an argument.
I suggest that Spiderman is a terrible superhero,
he shows me his Brown Recluse bite.
I will still claim victory.
To the lady walking down N. Broadway,
pretending that she is a bird.
I get it,
I want to fly as well.
There is no will left to fight.
I will never reach my fullest potential.
That is something I will remember forever.
I am hoping for the best.
A fool's errand.
Hope is something that
rich men talk about, while
flying through the clouds.
The sun is their ally.
Keeping the poor from dreaming.
My only plans for the New Year,
are sitting on my couch,
drinking beer, and
watching the walls dance.
Bubbles busting in celebration,
while I fall asleep at 12:01 AM.
Thus is the life of an adult.
Listening to the ruins of society,
waiting for the witches to burn.
for one chameleon blink,
one shining nanosecond,
you believed that you were good enough?
That the world was better for your being here,
That your small, messy life mattered.
What would that be like?
Maybe like touching chinchilla for the first time,
Falling into a softness that transcends words.
Once you taste the metallic tang of truth,
The lie of your nothingness smacks of poison,
You are a miracle
as wondrous as the Grand Canyon,
New York cheesecake,
all rolled into one.
You of the selfishness and unfulfilled potential,
You of the snide comments, procrastination
and dishes in the sink,
You. Imperfect, unlovable you.
If you could glimpse your essence,
You'd erupt in giddy squeals
like a baby playing peekaboo.
Until that day, creep into the dark shed
out beyond your heart,
The one where the cutting tools are kept,
And hunker down for an ugly cry,
Cry for the wasted years,
the dreams deferred,
the squandered chances,
the loves lost.
Then let the tears come for the gifts,
A tangerine moon at sunset,
The milky, sweet smell of a newborn,
Your best friend's laugh,
Weep for the infinite worlds of possibility that
still exist in you and for you.
Lean into the knowledge that
Despite all evidence to the contrary,