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The smoke that swirled up from her pipe
hung there in the air, partly obscuring her face

With cupped hands she began
    to gather the smoke
  as if it were sand on the beach

Very carefully she began stroking
and teasing it until it appeared
to be taking on the properties of a solid

What had been the contents of her lungs
moments before, were now compressed
to the size of a tennis-ball

This blue-grey sphere hung there between
us like some strange smoke-filled soap-bubble

As I began to open my mouth to say something
a sword the size of a pin flew from my lips, and
burst the bubble whereupon the smoke fell
to the floor like fine white snow…….

          “…don’t you know?” she said, with a grin,
         “…that’s just the way that wars begin!”

As she refilled the pipe with twigs and weeds
she raised one eye-brow and a voice somewhere
between us said…..
”so you want to find yourself,do you?……..
don’t you know that talking to yourself
is the first sign of ’SANITY?”….

“And with that my mouth
involuntarily said “FORKS”
but the sound didn’t come
instead
    from the side of her bed
came the unmistakable sound of forks falling on a
wooden floor…….and everything began to rhyme
   then I heard the chime of her quartz clock
a rooster appeared, with an immense ****
                               ……..attached to it’s head
                                    by the wind it is lead
                   but East is opposite North instead

  then she scooped it up
    and it turned to twigs..
before my eyes could adjust….
…….the phosphorous flash of IGNITION
                     the firey INQUISITION
As she relit the pipe, with what seemed to be
             my thoughts and dreams made real
                                        in solid words
                                            in solid air
                             I cried in deep despair
                   for the weight of untold shame
                             that showered like rain
                   on those who could not explain
                                         their own pain
                           on those trapped in shame
                               those crucified for vain
                           making everyone to blame
                                             for MY pain
                                    which falls like rain
                                into her upturned hand
                                   where it forms a lake
                                     called “my mistake”

Based on a lack or something missing
                     I can hear the hissing
                          of the black snake
                  the guardian of the gate
                 my birthright to legislate
                catch fire before my eyes
                 as  another dreamy spire
                 of grey-blue smoke…….
                     …….rises into the void
for a brief moment the only rhyme is
            PARANOID

             but just as quickly it is gone

As the pipe glows then rises musical notes pour
from its bowl as if the Mistral wind itself were
blowing through the embers.
Upon inhaling I am surprised to find that my
companion has been joined by Oscar Wilde…
heavily, theatricaly disguised as an empty chair
    with accompanying wall-paper

This observation becomes solid in the air
and suddenly there are chairs everywhere
in my pockets, in my pipe, in my hair…..
chairs of every size and type and colour everywhere
no standing room, just chair upon chair upon chair

“Collect your thoughts” said Oscar Wilde
to me, as if I was a naughty child
So, slowly, I gather the chairs together
with cupped hands, like sand, into one single chair
then lay my pipe upon it to make it real
from behind the canvas I step….my hands reveal
PAINT AND BRUSH
IN SUCH A RUSH
                       GRIND AND CRUSH
                                       YELLOW OCHRE
                                                    CHROME YELLOW
                                                              yell “HELLO!”
                                        ’”HELLO!”
                          “HELLO!”

“    “….have you fallen in love with that pipe?” asks the chair
       As I stare…
            yellow sunflowers everywhere
festoon the walls, the floor, the chair…..
                 elsewhere…
there's rubber clothes and x-ray hair
           starry nights and daymares
         loveless thighs and derrieres
          cut price love unguaranteed
    sure-fire ways to dispose of seed
right now…… with GREED-SPEED
            rivers of come, knee-deep
            bed’s on fire…..can’t sleep
cut off my ears but they won’t bleed
               instead they turn to ****
which I place on the chair with the pipe
and invite my companion to take her feed
      
   “…don’t mind if I do” she replies
  “…but must we forever sit inside?”
“..not far from here I think I spied”
“… a cornfield……some countryside..”
“we could walk far, and near, and wide
then round and left and right outside
till darkness falls upon our heads…..
  and sends us scurrying for our beds”

But sleep won’t come
because some elektronik hum
is buzzing in the walls
makes me shiver in my *****
till my spirit-level falls
and my skin begins to crawl
off my body,….up the walls
         reality DISSOLVES
………skinned alive on a granite rock
……beneath the stars of future-shock

                 alone…….
with billions of others
           with no cover
other …than the cold blankets of mist
        that hiss
           from the wounds in my wrist
         reality persists

              CAN MY SOUL RESIST?

          WILL MY HEART DESIST?

FROM BEATING IN MY BREAST

WILL MY BONES STAND THE TEST?

…….or will they crumble like the rest?

                             and be blessed

                                        by her

          as she smokes me in her pipe ….

               I am scorched by her love

         that comes raining from above

                   into my upturned hand

        and when I can no longer stand

               another day another night

                  in this lifetime of fright

                 and I want to take flight

               I drink her from my hand

like fresh spring water on a summer’s day

                      she makes my head sway

              to the natural rhythm

               of her breath……..

                 of her smoke…..

                   of her hair……..

                     of her chair….

        of ANYWHERE

      where she is…..



She gives me back my skin

         fills me to her brim

then strikes another match

and draws me deep inside

till I can no longer hide…

      my grin, a mile wide

   I’m safe here inside

          ………outside

         ………inside

     THE VOID….
mom, you raised a girl who is not afraid to die, a girl that still thinks she can climb every mountain, just because you let her climb the fridge, the cabinets and the roof of her house.

you raised a ******* the road

in van traveling up the west coast with a man who longed to be free

to not wear shoes and not be bothered by the wind
brushing the rest of populace's feet

Mom you let your child run free with the dogs. Let her think she, too had four legs and could love someone as unconditionally as they do.
My dad did not want to settle down in one place. He bought a van and set off around the west coast with my mother and I. I spent the first years of my life on the road. My earliest friends were dogs. I always felt like dogs and their unconditional love was something to really stop and appreciate. This poem comes from the faded remembering of my childhood and the feelings of wonder and the questions “how big is our capacity to love?” “ what is the essence of our capacity to love“
I still think it’s unconditional.
keneth May 20
brush my lips with more reds
make my smile look alive
let the youth touch my hand
allow the colors to dry

bury my casket along with my sins
and the poems i can never sing
get the black book and the priest
let the funeral of an art begin

brew the finest lies you got
the vengeance of the word
a ghost will haunt your dreams
a ghost that bears your name

the sick truth of a man
sought refuge to a face
a better death; to be betrayed
than drown in yellow paint
i tried swallowing ' happy ' not knowing it's what's gonna **** me / art
A Feb 15
How does it feel to be disliked by your whole village
But loved by a world you never got to know

Arles never once treated you with the same beauty as you saw in it
Concern for your wellbeing never came from the people you passed
Not even after they learned that you had taken your last breath
Your memory contained nothing but whispered rumors
They painted the picture of the madman who kept no company
Disregarding the compassion that flowed out of you
Only some knew the truth and what events molded
The trauma that shaped the man who frequented empty fields
Auvers-sur-Oise knew you as a separate man entirely
They stole pieces of you that you did not even have of yourself
Made you their crown jewel, nothing more than a story to keep the town alive
No part of your legacy remained untouched, just as no relationship you’d held stayed pure
Your own doctor claimed your art and in turn your reputation for himself
But how were you to have stopped them
Especially when you were not around to plead for anything different

How does it feel to be disliked by your whole village
But loved by a world you never got to know
caitlin Aug 2018
I ate the yellow paint to make me happy.
I want to smile again
The people around me were worried about my colour lacking face.
So every morning, as the sun rose, I drowned my unsaid words in yellow paint. The colour was brought back to my cheeks, and everyone said that i was glowing.
I started eating the yellow paint day and night, to brighten my dreams. Yellow paint for breakfast lunch and dinner.
No one complained.
Except for my stomach, lungs and heart.
The yellow paint made my outside looks better, but slowly destroyed my inside. You see, yellow paint is poison, no matter how bright.
So it slowly killed me, but everyone said I looked alright.
courtney l p Jun 2018
the story goes
that van gogh would eat yellow paint
in hopes that it would
put happiness inside of him –
probably the same reason
he drank absinthe.

i never understood that level of desperation –
except i painted my fingernails yellow today
in hopes that sunshine
would flow from my fingertips
instead of the torrential downpour
that i’ve made a home out of.

but it only reminds me of van gogh
and new york city
and you –
lots of starry nights

who knew you had the power
to make everything feel so grey in your wake?

if you think about it,
all of us have our own yellow paint –
something we cling to for refuge
even though we know it’s killing us, slowly,
the temporary solace feels worth it
if only for a moment

and you were mine.

- courtney l. p.
the words i never thought
i would have the courage to write
https://courtneylpposts.tumblr.com/
Vera Mar 2018
Oh, Andy-
speak to me in paints:
red, yellow, blue

When I told you I wouldn't be good at this,
an inability to sketch hands that punched at everything leaving me weak.
Keane's sorrow filled eyes upon oil made more sense to me.

I was never angry or mean, just sad and hopeless.
Lichtenstein was more your speed with obscene images of ******* women
and dialogue of broken hearts.

Van Gogh never made sense, but his attention to detail caught my eye.
To not know what goes on in your own head is identifiable so,
my head is art crafted by Picasso.

they hospitalize you once you've lopped your ear off
when giving a part of themselves to a lover.
I'm not cut out for this- the starving artist,
the tragic sketcher,
or the natural- born painter.

I've calloused my hands,
shed tears on pages of sketchbooks
put paint that looks childlike
and nothing worthwhile,
in all the time spent learning,
I've never learned how to be an artist.

I thought it was the mantra to be pained and miserable,
but you accounted for bold choices and vivid primary shades.
I feel betrayed, that my art alone, isn't enough to be good.

They will never frame my name,
or immortalize flaws in which could never be erased.

Like our conversation in my dream:
"I can't be mean." -Me
"Killing yourself isn't much different" -You

So Andy, what is the color I'm feeling? If it isn't blue?

—V.H.
A dream I had of speaking with Andy Warhol
A Feb 2018
Sometimes people don't want to let go,
Sometimes they beg to stay,
Sometimes they want to be on earth,
Their death makes them sad, but there is no other way,
And no matter where they go, heaven or hell,
Their sorrow follows their souls, even on a bright new day,
And when their sobbing specters arrive at eternity's gate,
Their hearts are still and emptier still,
And with their emptiness they must wait.
Inspired by Vincent Van Gogh's painting of the same name.
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