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Xella Sep 27
In Amsterdam a few years ago I stood below 12 sunflowers.
Standing still I stared at the bright strokes, bold
With something but I.
Could not understand I.
Did not see a plan, and I.
Felt small, my heart in my hand alone below bright beaming sunflowers
Some sort of morse code.

Through the frame I look at sunflowers still stale.
For a moment I was nauseous and the world spun round
Like a horror story the painting asks for a gift.
I could not provide, salty eyes and lips
I could not give, a heavy handed thought.
So I turned on my heel
and left.
Based on a true story...for real.
O Vincent
Great poesie through dotted skies
And o'er flooded eyes
Of softest loneliness

Take my desert tongue
And immerse it, from chamber to tip
Let it burst onto crazy lip
The loose chimes of loving

And if all patterns take me
To the whims of quiet sleights
I will not flail against that night
For any place is rightly dipped in beauty

Should I find myself forlorn
In the heights o'er skipping valleys
Or the depths of sodden alleys
I will accept it in your breath
fray narte Jul 2019
you are to me as yellow was to van gogh.

but then again,
yellow was the color
of the july sunsets we missed
when we were puppeteering
the glitches in our words.
it was the color of autumn —
its night, when we first made out
and left permanent scratches
on the hood of your daddy's car,
its leaves - a deep feuille morte;
detached,
detached,
detached.

like the scent of my hair from yours.

it was the color
of the light —
back when we lived
for early morning kisses
on coffee-stained tables,
when the world was still asleep.
it was the color of the first sunray
that crept through my blinds
after two days of raining —
darling, that was day 4
after you left.

it was the color of the rose petals —
a mess on the floor
as we listened to a bulk
of lonely playlists —
love, it would take corrosive agents
to dismantle the songs —
and probably the memories too,
that unlike you,
refuse

to leave.

but then,
you are to me as yellow was to van gogh.

but then,
it was under the bouts of madness
that he ate the paint,
thinking that happiness could be ingested.

and darling you are to me as yellow was to van gogh.
fray narte Jun 2019
I'm drunk and the skies are a little hazy, and the stars, a little like Van Gogh's, but tonight, I'm still an astronaut angling metaphors from the mesophere and you're still the moon to which these poems orbit around.
For love
Is despite of my days.
I sow this seventh crow
For you, to flower always.
Works in progress for new illustrated handmade book about the life of painter  Vincent van Gogh and a correlation to my own journey
I think the best of you,
You know that’s true,
You are my silent cat

You see beyond my eyes

We are letters now,
Keep me in ribbon' bundles
So we’ll last as long as the skies

With a warm handshake
I love you.
WIP's - for experimental verse based on the life of painter Vincent Van Gogh, this is called Seven Crow's - vincent writes to Theo
These will form part  a handmade zine , my first!
I'm sharing on here to engage with any opinion and also to publish as a way to reflect.
HARVEST

I'm truly naked
Accolades have no place to call their home
I see the darkness from where I'm from
And knowing finally rests upon the ledge.

Hope lost, leaves reasons to leave,
In younger years I travelled light
Now I plan for every eventuality, til
the train can’t take my load.

Time to harvest,
the crows have had their fill
Replacing clouds in the sky
I’m the blue, the thin
before the black and I shall fly
I shall fly and you will see me again and again
I shall fly and I will see you again.
Works in progress for new illustrated handmade book about the life of painter  Vincent van Gogh and a correlation to my own journey
I'm dying inside,
Ever so slowly
With glittering promises of hope
Along the way.

Help is yet another set of ideas
No more please,  I cannot bear them.
It is freedom from this personality
Or nothing else.
Works in progress - experimental verse for a graphic novel based on the life of painter Vincent Van Gogh
Guilt is a wound not healed by time.
It’s scars are maps to the memories.
And there are those that never forget.
Only in my work shall I find redemption
Where the  monsters are reduced to shadows in the sun.
Works in progress - experimental verse for a graphic novel based on the life of painter Vincent Van Gogh
For some reason or not,
The softness was exposed,
and like all creatures who are in danger,
I found a hard shell to call my home.
What else do you expect from me!
When you all join in a world,
So full of sorrow.

It’s a game where you’re neither the pieces or board.
But  authors of  rules.
No matter,
I shall love all the same.
Works in progress for a new graphic novel about Vincent van Gogh. These are trial pieces for both a background narrative and conversational pieces.
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