cat gut, dried and twisted, sang out,
stretched and braided, worked by the hands of a master.
A mold formed its shape
released from the plaster.
They came, as do we all, from the earth and the rain,
the sun,
or
our .. pain
the origins of soft, meaningful refrain.
The echoes that remain.
recalled and loved by us all
without much
strain.
The origins oft considered now insane
those creatures whose lives were lost,
or even worse,
were
used
or slain.
The turtle, for its shell, used as a pick
not too thin, not too thick.
The human blood and ash put to wick,
the scholar’s ink
Don't dry too quick
Enemies skin stretched over the head of drums,
the sound of fire and bent wood as it thrums.
The pain it takes back to each creature ,
the creators.
The destroyers.
callused finger caresses banged thumb.
cries are carried within it,
our grief
it helps us numb.
We all howl still under the moon’s glow,
hearing each other and our connection.
Wandering
in what direction. ?
We feel what we feel,
but how do we know what we know?
The candle, made of discarded fat.
The vellum, made of less than that.
The strings of a bull, an ox, or a cat
tones that shiver, shrill or fat.
The thoughts and ideas, blood and lust,
capture
take us to certainty,
or lead us to
rapture.
The potatoes boiled, the insect crushed,
but once they toiled.
The lacquers and enamels and oils
we crush from the life of plants and leaves,
reminding us of the one
for whom
we still grieve.
The worst of lies:
that we are separated from this world.
We are one with it,
and we will share its fate,
its riches, its seasons,
its spoils.
From whence does brilliance come?
A desire, a sleepless night, an explosion.
The life that once lived sings back to us through the ages,
more than it lived,
more than what it had
to give.
We hear the tree of Stradivariuses' choosing
fight and cheat to have it in our hands.
Search far and wide,
for every one,
in every recess,
in every land.
Da Vinci, strokes of egg and wash,
make a material not often spoken of—gouache.
We are looking at an egg,
illuminated
by dried fat and beeswax.
We are inspired by a creature’s skin,
flayed
and beaten to a pulp,
paper-thin.
We are amazed by the ideas,
and inspired by the truth
within.
Do we see its beginning in us,
or our end?
What do we use?
For what we give back
What do we gain and what do we lack?
The energy
to grow
to achieve
to believe
to communicate.
Elucidate.
Try and relate
We ****
we suffer our art.
Still we feel our worlds apart.
Give back to me the howls of the alley cat
the munch of teeth in the endless grass
I'll take all that.
The rhythm of the river
the blood
the stone
the flesh
the bone.
But Alas
I will leave this world as I came
alone.
Feb 27
Feb 27, 2026 at 5:54 PM UTC
cat gut, dried and twisted, sang out,
stretched and braided, worked by the hands of a master.
A mold formed its shape
released from the plaster.
They came, as do we all, from the earth and the rain,
the sun,
or
our .. pain
the origins of soft, meaningful refrain.
The echoes that remain.
recalled and loved by us all
without much
strain.
The origins oft considered now insane
those creatures whose lives were lost,
or even worse,
were
used
or slain.
The turtle, for its shell, used as a pick
not too thin, not too thick.
The human blood and ash put to wick,
the scholar’s ink
Don't dry too quick
Enemies skin stretched over the head of drums,
the sound of fire and bent wood as it thrums.
The pain it takes back to each creature ,
the creators.
The destroyers.
callused finger caresses banged thumb.
cries are carried within it,
our grief
it helps us numb.
We all howl still under the moon’s glow,
hearing each other and our connection.
Wandering
in what direction. ?
We feel what we feel,
but how do we know what we know?
The candle, made of discarded fat.
The vellum, made of less than that.
The strings of a bull, an ox, or a cat
tones that shiver, shrill or fat.
The thoughts and ideas, blood and lust,
capture
take us to certainty,
or lead us to
rapture.
The potatoes boiled, the insect crushed,
but once they toiled.
The lacquers and enamels and oils
we crush from the life of plants and leaves,
reminding us of the one
for whom
we still grieve.
The worst of lies:
that we are separated from this world.
We are one with it,
and we will share its fate,
its riches, its seasons,
its spoils.
From whence does brilliance come?
A desire, a sleepless night, an explosion.
The life that once lived sings back to us through the ages,
more than it lived,
more than what it had
to give.
We hear the tree of Stradivariuses' choosing
fight and cheat to have it in our hands.
Search far and wide,
for every one,
in every recess,
in every land.
Da Vinci, strokes of egg and wash,
make a material not often spoken of—gouache.
We are looking at an egg,
illuminated
by dried fat and beeswax.
We are inspired by a creature’s skin,
flayed
and beaten to a pulp,
paper-thin.
We are amazed by the ideas,
and inspired by the truth
within.
Do we see its beginning in us,
or our end?
What do we use?
For what we give back
What do we gain and what do we lack?
The energy
to grow
to achieve
to believe
to communicate.
Elucidate.
Try and relate
We ****
we suffer our art.
Still we feel our worlds apart.
Give back to me the howls of the alley cat
the munch of teeth in the endless grass
I'll take all that.
The rhythm of the river
the blood
the stone
the flesh
the bone.
But Alas
I will leave this world as I came
alone.
how ? when ? who? and , and and... do you see a little more now ? or were you reminded , are you capable of true honesty and introspection ?
