#expressionism
I was hoping that maybe we could talk...
Or that you'd be willing to receive
My truth, in private agony
& unkind leisurely reprieve
a nuanced air of psychic assemblage,
As wordless paint- always says more
Like of the eyes, their silent language
Abstracted it expresses, as Intuitions deplore.
Aug 24, 2025
Aug 24, 2025 at 7:45 PM UTC
Here I lye with you-
you don't listen, so my words
write reversed haikus
I don’t need your drugs,
but I do need you to know
no one deserves this.
I choose to let you
treat me like I’m blindfolded;
Still, I gift to you-
Graphite and color
a blank sketchbook (with this piece)
Inscribed in the front.
Art is all I know
so this opportunity.
to express it all-
Has such strong power,
you might never truly know…
Still- I hope you do.
Oct 24, 2022
Oct 24, 2022 at 11:39 PM UTC
From soon all beady my dove and romance
plop buys me a radius of monthly advance
and gives abstract expressionism a chance
we tremble to book so softly their witness
the tiny push bras like nobody's business
collarbone funnybone and studio fitness
how can a lag dinge for a slow digestion
just dreaming low their next suggestion
to be or not so beat, that is the question
walkabout it doesn't make much sense
my verbal byronea about to commence
as two bold eggs sit on a cake and fence
three olding hens sit on the fent and knit
five juvenile retenders rolling out their kit
artly and hostanously thart spliffing in a lit
zuckering freudily Alsberta around the bend
onder mist blontentious wick willet harksend
and befending our liblyhord to the bittery end
Jul 19, 2021
Jul 19, 2021 at 4:41 AM UTC
Sister Magdalene had her own parking space
in the lot of the church where my grandfather
placed his hand on my shoulder.
Over the other, Joan of Arc whispered a joke
about the Father.
Something about bad breath.
I giggled a fragmented
Amen.
As a young girl I dreamt of the honor
of battle and the burden
of armor. Each morning I’d awake,
my wrist sore from painting fields
menstrual red. My thighs ached.
My horse's name was Gust.
She was the color of overcast.
Once, she got so tired
she kneeled. When she stood
her stomach held the night sky.
I laid beneath her and named stars
from bits of her fur
until the field began to whisper so loud
that I woke.
Sister Magdalene sat in the first row of pews.
Her skeleton hands held a candle. The flame
tip-toed up her habit with the resolve
of a field of corpses rolling their eyes
toward salvation. When the flame
reached her chin I bit my lip.
Joan asked what’s wrong
or what’s right.
My mouth was full.
The flame grew to reach the Father,
kneeling at the feet of a cadaver.
I listened to the church bend
in the heat until Joan begged that we leave.
Apr 6, 2020
Apr 6, 2020 at 11:48 AM UTC
As the cold came forth,
The trees rain pink atop heads,
Of young and old too.
Mar 13, 2020
Mar 13, 2020 at 3:51 AM UTC
MAD
don't write about it
paint a scream
a pen not a brush
only corrupts the scene
turn paper to canvas
let colors cry
flow tears and bleed
whit howland © 2019
Jul 25, 2019
Jul 25, 2019 at 2:39 AM UTC
Just give me one more broken heart
So that the numbness can start to spread
Throughout my nerves and in my veins
To forget any feelings, any pains
I'll have new senses and give them new names
Senses that wont make me feel deranged
My hands and heart will become my own
Tools for sinning and a beating stone
They'll forget they served anothers throne
They'll forget what it means to feel at home
My feet and eyes will be selfish for me
Carry us to places only I want to see
No longer shall they dance on flames
Or search for truths where none remain
My lips and tongue will still be kind
To each new friendly face I find
And lovers even more so
My liver and lungs will both be mine
For indulging pleasures smoke and wine
I'll give away my torso
My mind's not mine, It's never been
Its shown me things I've never seen
Makes me speak words I've never heard
Whether thoughts are who we are? The lines get blurred
As long as, like the rest of them, it keeps me from being hurt again
It's doing it right now..
Jul 8, 2019
Jul 8, 2019 at 6:06 AM UTC
A cape on my back
And a trigger next to my index finger
I look around at the world
It is a hell on Earth
The trees in bloom, the water azure
The sky cloudless, orange and purple
I look like I'm from the future
Maybe I'm from the future
Or maybe I really did come from Saturn
Since this is all so alien to me
Take me back to where we were
Take me, Ra. Take me, Jhonn.
But I'm here. I see the world
The old building blocks
The ferris wheel moved by radiation
I look at the gun in my hands
It's matte black. Brand new, like me.
Brand new, like the blood from the body on the ground.
Maybe this never happened,
I say to myself questioning the audience.
I look at the cubes. They are all different colors.
Some explode. Some expand.
Some implode. I feel at home with those.
This feels safe.
The world I came to is different.
This world is not a rhapsody.
This world is made of skin.
There's another body inside.
Like mine, but pitch black.
It is my shadow.
Suddenly I am at home again.
I feel the shadow pulling the Earth apart.
I feel my face. I'm dusty.
I report to the Mars of the World.
They tell me to head back in.
I resign myself to fate.
I look in the mirror one last time.
I see a woman.
I'm content.
I get in my bed, as I did yesterday.
The night shortly falls over me.
I crawl into the void, as I live and breathe.
I wake up in the different place again.
I look in the mirror.
It's a dusty, white face of no expression.
I put the cape back on and leave.
As I leave the zone beyond time, I remember again.
It is time to find something of value.
**** the objective.
I hear knocking on the door.
I open it. It's the courier.
"Welcome back."
"Thank you."
"Are you ready?"
We leave for the yellow zones.
But I'm tired of the courier.
As the bullet exits his brain, I feel free.
So does his blood.
The desert around us stares at me.
The cubes cry out.
I'm in the green zone. I'm looking for the child.
He greets me with a smile.
"You have realized!"
"I am finally back.
I have killed the ones holding me back."
"Welcome back to reality. I love you, Mother."
The industrial zone around us starts feeling distorted.
The cubes lose their shapes and scream.
My son grabs my legs tight.
The trees are all dead. The sky is gray.
The water runs green, with purple bubbles.
I missed Saturn.
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 3:31 AM UTC
Rattle on
And do so backwards
In the insular hole
Strangle lo’
To and fro, in herds
Build for me a pole
Wail along
And do so sweetly
In my crooked glyphs
Sail strong
To lands discreetly
A flintlock at your hip
Walk across
And do so sideways
In a tiled oasis
Count the cost,
To hands that play
Deal out epistasis
Swim away
And do so upwards
In a veiled monsoon
Drown the day
In Carinae
Seek its vagrant moon
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
Theoretical physics is a branch of physics
that employs mathematical models & abstractions
of physical objects & systems to rationalize,
explain & predict natural phenomena;
this is in contrast to experimental physics,
which uses experimental tools to probe
these phenomena; the advancement of science
generally depends on the interplay between
experimental studies & theory; in some cases,
theoretical physics adheres to standards
of mathematical rigor while giving little weight
to experiments & observations; for example,
while developing special relativity,
Albert Einstein was concerned w/ the Lorentz
transformation which left Maxwell's equations
invariant, but was apparently uninterested
in the Michelson–Morley experiment
on Earth's drift through a luminiferous ether;
Conversely, Einstein was awarded the Nobel Prize
for explaining the photoelectric effect,
previously an experimental result lacking
Expressionism was a modernist movement,
initially in poetry & painting, originating
in Germany at the beginning of the 20th century;
Its typical trait is to present the world solely
from a subjective perspective, distorting it
radically for emotional effect in order to evoke
moods or ideas; Expressionist artists sought
to express the meaning of emotional experience
rather than physical reality
or a theoretical formulation;
Neo-expressionism is a style of late modernist
or early-postmodern painting & sculpture that
emerged in the late 1970s; Neo-expressionists
were sometimes called Transavantgarde, Junge
Wilde or Neue Wilden ['The new wild ones'];
It is characterized by intense subjectivity & rough handling of materials
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 1:55 PM UTC
I love you more than you will truly, ever know. I am stricken with so much fear. I am so scared because, truthfully admitting, I have no certainty that I obtain enough strength to defeat this "monster". I can't stop hearing this **** on a loop in my head. What if I never break myself free, what if I am trapped inside my own demise forever? It's the most frightening thing that I've ever known, I have been too afraid to be anything other than still; so, so, still.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 5:22 AM UTC
Deceit you speak all the while
Knowing I know and how I feel.
Thrashing scars upon my flesh,
God knows they'll never heal.
Mistrust and doubt,
Lies and hidden truths;
All the same and all coming from you.
It's all that I can do not to shout.
My nerves clenched tight,
Can't you hear them scream?
I say to you, you're right, as I
Try to bury my truest emotions.
Being who you want is merely a dream
Inconceivable madness;
Pure in love and intricate filth.
Already weary souls, encumbered with The weight of every lie.
White lies, black lies; colorblind
Lucidity comes without pigment
All the flickers of light;
Can't you see them?
They call my name and wish
To carry me away.
Love and lies and passionate cries
Have brought me to endless insanity
No one left to save me.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC
Love the one you hold
For I will never let you go
I love you for infinity
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 2:59 PM UTC
And the breath is taken from my lungs; Suffocating. Without your sweet, sweet existence my chest would no longer pace, nor would it flutter. The wicked sea would take me underneath, becoming apart it's density. Alas, I hear your spoken sound; For suddenly I am no longer bound. The air I breathe; a gift, from you to me. I rise afloat so effortlessly. My source of love, my choice in life, my happiness gleams, my hope a light.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 1:26 PM UTC
Sail on, sail on
To seek the mystic truth.
Each wave bears my weight;
I am no longer a vessel of mass,
But a vessel measured in volume.
Victimized by the vile waters
Of this ever changing sea.
Swallowing briny salt water
As I drown.
Each drop, for at least one moment in time;
Has been the entirety of these swelling waters.
Magnificence fades, as fear sets in.
All concious thoughts and feelings alike; refused existence.
No longer our own,
We belong to another.
Ultimate force
Quickly releasing, the last oxygen rich breath to ever fill my chest. Lungs feel as if, being ripped at the seam.
Triumphant failure, the body lacking to compensate.
The pressure's immensity meets capacity.
Comfort & ease soon wash over me.
Ruptured organs ironically,
Free us from pain and suffering
A beautiful defeat,
Beneath an imaginary sunset.
We sail on together
To paint the mystic blue.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 1:19 PM UTC
Truly brave souls plunge into the dark-simply to learn how to find a way out.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 9:22 AM UTC
It's been a long time
but the ink scrawls & lines all fall into place
an expressionist
glimpse into urban dreams
somewhere in the past
a typewriter sounds
someone is writing
a masterpiece
which will never
be published
in a land
soon to be bombs & flame
meanwhile my lines
make out the city of my dreams
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC
On a shore flooded in the tide.
Now on a flitting log:
Rain, trying to fill up
the ridges white,
that, I, along with
***** snails and tiny starfish
are ambling to escape from.
The trees, they are laughing wet.
As are the distant waves,
snapping on returns.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 2:27 AM UTC