he asked a question and without waiting for a response drew three cards from that divinatory deck usually carrying as little meaning as a tossed coin scoffed at and swiftly ignored this time seemed to tell a recognisable tale unexpected in its providence a fortune perhaps to favour the brave
the hanging man with his eight swords and his eight wands these cards showed him the start of a journey not necessarily a life turned upside-down instead that a change of perspective is needed the octet of swords unveiled his cage of indecision uncertainty and fear a need to upset the balance of the inert a reasoning for destruction in order to create and those upright wands carrying with them such signs of movement a willingness to decide a commitment to progress
either that or the pack was simply reshuffled and dealt again and again until it foretold that which needed to be heard
Eat a deck of tarot cards for breakfast. Squeeze a little ketchup on the upright hanged man, And try to figure out where we've gone wrong.
We don't know who we are, So we try to box ourselves into Cute little archetypes. We don't know what love is, So we kiss, laugh, and cry Until we're exhausted. We turn turn the card... We don't know what to do with our lives.
sorry, i've been posting shorter stuff lately. here's an old one that's been sitting in my notes app for a while. feedback is welcomed!
“i set my deadfall hands on fire — swallow the ashes,” i wrote and laughed as these words turned black with rot
in two months,
i am no longer inside the skin burning away vividly at the feet of the sun god. i am not a body at the crematorium with matchstick-fingers and gasoline; my bones are whole, pure, pearly, quiet white.
i have been holding my breath, waiting for the smoke to clear without choking. i no longer want to write about the flames and the embers and live-coal hearts; i put my poems down, my cigarettes and pitchfork and step into a gentler flare, and stick my tongue out to lick the sunbeams — they’re warm against my taste buds, like honeyed milk and hibiscus stews.
i am four years old once more, sleeping soundly on my mother’s lap.
les enfants jouent dans le jardin c’est dur, je ne comprends pas tes vies sont différentes de mien je me sens comme un méchant comme un adulte, mais en même temps non c’est trop pour moi, je suis occupé je ne suis pas bien, je ne peux pas t’adorer les enfants jouent dans le parc je guéris avec mes arts avec des cartes de tarot je suis empereur, un magicien j’ai connu les règles mais je les ai cassés c’est dans au passé tu ne me comprends pas je suis un nouveau moi, je suis un roi tu ne pourrais jamais me comprendre depuis le début j’ai vu, je t’ai vu mais tu ne pourrais jamais me voir
2 times 2 is four, as my life path always wonder if I am on the right path wish I could calculate my path, extract the unknown prove it with words and numbers, not just inner knowing and tarot cards math is more believable to the severed body I use other means to understand my body holistic, artistic, there's always another way deterministic, statistic, no place for the grey calculate how best to waste your days