Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
veritas Sep 8
strange how we can recognize someone
    by the shape of their shadows how
                        the places the light cannot reach tells more
than the places it strikes that
     the span of darkness across their throat tells more
about the way they move and the way they feel than the
                                  tear in the eye, suspended, caught on an eyelash, unfalling with the light,
that the empty spaces of white that the shadow doesn't reach tells me
               they are a reality and that the curve of their body is not impermanent, or that the shadow is not permanent, or that the light is fluctual, lining the liminal space between the two, that the design of human nature is wrought not in one space but two,
                                      folding over and in, not in two colors, but one: one within and one without.
black and white art
veritas Aug 24
the song is the story and your thoughts/what you see is the movement, the action,the space and the author can articulate depth by juxtaposing them both: steady staid one single story line (the song, empty pvris), and the flashes of metaphorical movement to deepen the scene. don't focus on an object in the reality, focus out of it to preserve the realness and yet unrealness of it: simultaneity, the crux of being.

aging universe, before capture, i am in your stills of eternity. to fade in to every inch of stardust and sparkle, edge of the world euphoria is in your veins because one side is her home, and the other a mask of my own. i go on, remade, because creation is never ignored by creators. what mockery would those hands be capable of, had they? they did not.

limits of vision is what you call an event horizon. what you call subjectivity is someone's objective nature. so then, Ginsberg, the circle was not broken, but perpetuated. you are not a poet.
---
i got the lyrics wrong. adding pressure into the folds of a voice, replication of beauty. ha. beauty isn't so, it's not the pursuit of replication but the creation of other, subpar, greater, more, never same. never same. why do we find what we need when we scour sound as sand, as sea glass?
you can write some **** good lines at 5 am in the morning, just saying.
veritas Jun 7
the rail digs into his back but there's a glint of shrapnel in those eyes tonight (satiety sweetheart where's your appetite?)
            a savage heart and a rictus grin
his mouth is open and then its caught flying burning trapped two men can make a hell of a scene in a rotting cell (but that is a discussion for another night)
              rough grips and curled toes
what good is trauma if you don't access it what good is a bird if it's still broken at the end if you pick it's feathers off one by one love him love him not love him love him not lovehim lovehimnot lovehimlovehimnot
             everything is alive tonight and the air is singing with it he can feel the hands pressing into his shoulders taking out a piece like payment but there is no running from prison
take pity on the people trying to save him take communion from the wine on his face
           a tongue darts along his lips but the blood runs down tracing his every curve every slip of skin and blooms a reticulation out like madness like wires like something bad something terrible something devilish a bad habit you can't kick a cigarette filter still burning through the ash
                                    he'll never walk.
inspired by that one picture of Andy Biersack from American Satan
veritas May 22
silent girl in the red dress,
             what else do you hide behind
     that smile? "The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold.
  The curves of your lips rewrite history."

the hollows of your cheeks casting diffuse rose shadows, the soft glare--
   lips that make the smile but don't quite touch the eyes,      eyes that see to you but you don't see them back,
       --peering out of the frame, half turned to go but just there enough to see (your eyes are so wide with joy); be this happy forever, it suits you. your knowing winter face is shy and alive, and you never say anymore but you are glowing-- in this, ironically,
           you are exceptionally dissonant; the permanence is astounding--
    startling, halogenic-- you, the girl in the quiet red dress, captivate.
               and no one will see you.
saw a girl in a red dress with a pretty smile, thought she had some secrets up her sleeve.
Next page