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"seatings" poems
Tessa III Two people sitting unidentified in cinema seatings missing reality. If we touched classical screen will be on, two to 20 minutes long. A private facility at home, what is happening? A million faces said it before, *** can't change things when silent. It's not about the hurt or pain of memory humanity, a gut feeling that won't come out. Your bowl of fruit, act sur- prised. Turning up the dramatic sound, it won't be a smash hit. I am trying to forget about your special traits. I got talent, you see... If I go toward the exit first, our secret will self- destruct. "Houston, we have a serious problem. Re-entry zero burning." Tessa IV It's easy once you see it, yours and mine ideology. I want kindness from you, from me, when we sleep. Bla- ming is the gravestone when all method is dead. Our bed is floating and we can't say why. I am capable of change, another challenge to meet the talisman. Indifference to use in this sentence upholds the vision, was it virtue, loneliness? That is the supporting middle that we have. Friday morning glory, coming in boxes on the table. For- tune teller in your tealeaves, what is it saying? When will I be dead? The level of threat has moved to another level. Tessa V Weekend readings, a million heads per second. I do the writing, and so a few hundreds more. The gurkin inside your oyster, making intention go blue and green. The sun is what I call the architect. High shadows when looking be- hind now. A glorious morning, I can just smell the coffee. I am looking forward to a good saturday this weekend. Dis- tance between us is a good thing. This lovelife is homeless, without memory. Let's grow old more decently, talk when having breakfast, or just be quiet. You know when they say 'a good life', I don't see it in your eyebrows. Oh, please, don't smile... Sometimes I wonder why they left you, stunningly beautiful when you were young. What can I say, my charitable me is a DNA- thing or the Chuckle Brothers. One more thing, what is it with this metaphor, when you are young with the sun wrapped around your waist? I am just happy with my readings.
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Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 6:06 AM UTC
tipon
Tipon, Virgo 2019.
Tessa III Two people sitting unidentified in cinema seatings missing reality. If we touched classical screen will be on, two to 20 minutes long. A private facility at home, what is happening? A million faces said it before, *** can't change things when silent. It's not about the hurt or pain of memory humanity, a gut feeling that won't come out. Your bowl of fruit, act sur- prised. Turning up the dramatic sound, it won't be a smash hit. I am trying to forget about your special traits. I got talent, you see... If I go toward the exit first, our secret will self- destruct. "Houston, we have a serious problem. Re-entry zero burning." Tessa IV It's easy once you see it, yours and mine ideology. I want kindness from you, from me, when we sleep. Bla- ming is the gravestone when all method is dead. Our bed is floating and we can't say why. I am capable of change, another challenge to meet the talisman. Indifference to use in this sentence upholds the vision, was it virtue, loneliness? That is the supporting middle that we have. Friday morning glory, coming in boxes on the table. For- tune teller in your tealeaves, what is it saying? When will I be dead? The level of threat has moved to another level. Tessa V Weekend readings, a million heads per second. I do the writing, and so a few hundreds more. The gurkin inside your oyster, making intention go blue and green. The sun is what I call the architect. High shadows when looking be- hind now. A glorious morning, I can just smell the coffee. I am looking forward to a good saturday this weekend. Dis- tance between us is a good thing. This lovelife is homeless, without memory. Let's grow old more decently, talk when having breakfast, or just be quiet. You know when they say 'a good life', I don't see it in your eyebrows. Oh, please, don't smile... Sometimes I wonder why they left you, stunningly beautiful when you were young. What can I say, my charitable me is a DNA- thing or the Chuckle Brothers. One more thing, what is it with this metaphor, when you are young with the sun wrapped around your waist? I am just happy with my readings.
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I colored her into a canvas and called it my greatest art piece, letting them know that only the hands of a(n) artist is capable of making something that has always been beautiful, Into beauty that is now defined. The brush strokes speak of heartbreak and anger, Of love and pleasure, They mimic the energy vibrating throughout her body and begin to imprint a different story within those who stand before her and ponder. One, thinks that her movements are portrayed as tough, yet the world is slowly weighing down on her, crushing every sense of hope The other, believes that she sways to the beats of Love. She stares, questioningly, at how the canvas embodied Love. Little did she know, The contents of the art piece is in fact, Love. A man and a woman stand before my significant piece, Their hands interlocking, eyes wide open, mesmerized This is what the art work stands for — Lips interlocking, eyes gleaming, hungry minds, desperate hands, drum-like hearts. A family walks by, the kids unaware of the beauty surrounding them. The mother stands in the center and clasps her hands. Her thoughts buzz. This is how she feels. These swirls of color, Mixing and staining the white, is a representation of all that is within her — A mess that continues to haunt her. Is this what she wanted? But of course, she is madly in love, Is it with her husband? The father stares at his wife in awe. Regardless of all the litter in the world, she remains the only sensible thing of beauty. As more people begin to file in, A sense of accomplishment washes over me. The painting connected to so many people, that they’re most probably going to think of it over the next couple of days, weeks, maybe even months or years. I take the painting down. I storm out of the gallery. I project the painting onto a larger canvas, a larger wall. The people realize that there are seatings, in which they each begin to take one. I yell out, ‘what do you see?’ ‘What does she speak to you?’ ‘What are you filled with?’ ‘What thoughts creep out of the shadows and talk to you, when you look at her?’ The audience stares at me with disbelief, as if I have become a madman, losing my sanity. But I’ve already lost it to her. ‘Comfort’, one yells. ‘Loneliness’, follows. ‘Patience’ ‘intelligence’ ‘abandonment’ ‘happiness’ ‘carefree’ ‘anger’ ‘pain’ ‘suffering’ There are no words to describe the person I love, But she embodies everything I see. I tried containing her within a painting, But she lived in every person that was granted a look by her. And I am, Forever, Grateful That I get to see beauty, in everything she is and everything she does.
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Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 7:10 AM UTC
Seeking-eternity
A Galleria of Beauty
I colored her into a canvas and called it my greatest art piece, letting them know that only the hands of a(n) artist is capable of making something that has always been beautiful, Into beauty that is now defined. The brush strokes speak of heartbreak and anger, Of love and pleasure, They mimic the energy vibrating throughout her body and begin to imprint a different story within those who stand before her and ponder. One, thinks that her movements are portrayed as tough, yet the world is slowly weighing down on her, crushing every sense of hope The other, believes that she sways to the beats of Love. She stares, questioningly, at how the canvas embodied Love. Little did she know, The contents of the art piece is in fact, Love. A man and a woman stand before my significant piece, Their hands interlocking, eyes wide open, mesmerized This is what the art work stands for — Lips interlocking, eyes gleaming, hungry minds, desperate hands, drum-like hearts. A family walks by, the kids unaware of the beauty surrounding them. The mother stands in the center and clasps her hands. Her thoughts buzz. This is how she feels. These swirls of color, Mixing and staining the white, is a representation of all that is within her — A mess that continues to haunt her. Is this what she wanted? But of course, she is madly in love, Is it with her husband? The father stares at his wife in awe. Regardless of all the litter in the world, she remains the only sensible thing of beauty. As more people begin to file in, A sense of accomplishment washes over me. The painting connected to so many people, that they’re most probably going to think of it over the next couple of days, weeks, maybe even months or years. I take the painting down. I storm out of the gallery. I project the painting onto a larger canvas, a larger wall. The people realize that there are seatings, in which they each begin to take one. I yell out, ‘what do you see?’ ‘What does she speak to you?’ ‘What are you filled with?’ ‘What thoughts creep out of the shadows and talk to you, when you look at her?’ The audience stares at me with disbelief, as if I have become a madman, losing my sanity. But I’ve already lost it to her. ‘Comfort’, one yells. ‘Loneliness’, follows. ‘Patience’ ‘intelligence’ ‘abandonment’ ‘happiness’ ‘carefree’ ‘anger’ ‘pain’ ‘suffering’ There are no words to describe the person I love, But she embodies everything I see. I tried containing her within a painting, But she lived in every person that was granted a look by her. And I am, Forever, Grateful That I get to see beauty, in everything she is and everything she does.
Continue reading...
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