The Truth morality as written from a white chair

As inspired by both flushing my hair down the toilet and this David Foster Wallace quote:

(The interesting thing is why we’re so desperate for this anesthetic against loneliness.)

The reality is that I wrote the poem first and found this quote afterwards;

some simple honesty relaying that I did not find hope in this seemingly distant case of mutual suffering.

 

You drop the hair into the spinning resin

Watching the slush of water

spin itself away,

Taking away layers of damage,

you hope at least, that the spin

is a delta adding the change from rise to run,

changing your interactions with the world.

When will your slope recline?

No longer do you hear or feel helping hands

instead there is frustration as you attempt to put out the fire

the fire that constantly haunts you,

the fire that drove you to hospitals, to hands, and

eventually confirmed your greatest fear:

if you push enough the lingering hope turns away;

so you are awake writing something-which can’t even call itself a poem

and scream casually into the void.

But still on your head the hair sits

so you await the moment when it will all end;

There must be some connection between hair and suffering

you always tried to align both metaphysically,

The only real metaphysical truth is that beyond society

we are alone,

figments of some imagination

always falling short.

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The Selfie: A Mirror of Depression

Scene:

The camera is held at the point of establishing a full shot, subject begins under the water in a bathtub. The viewer hears the roaring of the pressure, in the background a song plays. As the subject’s head submerges from the water the pressure decreases, just the rush of the water hitting the still conservation is heard and the music becomes more noticeable. (ay ay amor canta y no llores…)the song loops around these lines, which the subject cannot hear; the song seems to envelop the glaring sadness in the subject’s face as the camera pulls away from the scene and focuses first on the subject’s face and then pans out: the face as the focal point of the zoom. As the subject rises out of the bathtub, and turns off the water, some water falls on the side of the tub, demonstrating the form of apathy that the subject has for maintaining order. For the split second of nudity the camera will focus on the tiles of the floor, clean but covered in the residue of human flesh (dust) at the places where the tiles converge. A towel is seen swinging across the camera and at last the subject enclothed in the vile color of some serene blueish-green fabric walks out of the room as the camera goes from side facing to following the subject’s backside. The door swings on the camera a slight pause to seeing the subject and recognizing the voyeurism of following a person, who beneath a fabric is but a human body. The camera suddenly in the room again sees the subject who has put on some underwear, the body non-consumed and glaring sports the imperfections of a life lived: scars, marks, the flabbiness of excess. The subject now established as a person, opens a bag, a bag with the potential for coloration, a powder of rouge is taken out and a brush is held by the person who presses on it, bringing the powder now in a form of specks to the face; the hand makes circular motions near each cheek bone, the face now flushed rather than pale looks at the circular mirror. Out of the bag, the person brings more powders to the counter, the fingers dig into the powder and find the creases above the eyes, yet again painting outlines to hide the real flesh. Once the person is satisfied the excess powder is wiped on the puke green towel, leaving behind a brown mark. A black tube is taken out and uncapped, revealing a thin and flexible brush which is pressed directly above and under the eye, leaving some black line, the hand cannot shake and the natural wrinkles must be straightened as the line must be straight. The person looks at their face with each second becoming less themselves and more of a mirage of color, and puts the cap back onto the tube. The subject repeats the motion with a similar tube but this time outlines their lips. After the outline is made, a tube is uncapped and slithered across the pout. Now the cheeks look less pale, the eyes more urgent, the pout more structured. A t-shirt is found, tight enough but not calling for attention, the camera pans out as the person throws on the ware and the camera spins as the person stands. The last part is coming: the subject grabs a phone, opens up the world, find the right angle and presses the button to capture the perfect still. The camera alternates from shot to subject. At last the subject sends the pic to somewhere or someone, looks at the mirror one last time, and wraps their body in a blanket on what is called “their” bed. They immediately notice the glaring light and turn it off. The last thing the viewer sees is the immediate sense of darkness as the person’s bed squeaks; their body once again finds its way to the bed. With the hope of some connection, the person holds the phone to their face, both vacant, but as the hope fades the subject lays their head next to the protruding light of the screen and closes their eyes. the camera pans out noting the darkness and the only light being the phone. The light suddenly flares out and there is nothing but darkness.

Insignificance

I ripped the candy wrapper,

Did you hear the news?

I ripped the candy wrapper.

I do not remember ripping it,

it must have happened beyond my consciousness

but I ripped it.

I broke it, I tore it, I killed it.

In some way parallel to how I handle relationships.

I ruin, and wreck, and never even intend to or notice.

So then I become apathetic to it, I don’t even feel sadness.

I blame it on:

the season,

My drinking,

my sadness,

and I find a new tv show,

or another person to distract me.

Because in reality I am sad,

I feel remorse and yet did I truly ruin it,

or did they just leave?

I convince myself that it is the latter, that way I did nothing,

I can’t fix it, and it is insignificant.

I stare instead at some image

and forget.

 

 

 

The Instant Love; a formula

The liquid dripped, it dripped in an instant

falling from the inside of my crevice

to the leg which sustains me.

It’s almost funny to think

that every experience

that is had

is only perceived to be real

by the sensory organs in the body

and so eventually it all fades.

I keep wondering often

about the illusion of feelings

and whether I will ever

fall so deeply that I won’t rise alone.

Instead leaping up to move

from point a to point d

the point of not being a singular

but of trusting enough to be a second

and yet a first.

humanity has redirected the desire

for stimulation and pleasure

and instead made themselves vaguely aware

of the death instinct,

living moments as though the immediate does not matter.

I looked at the dripping liquid,

it dried on my leg instantaneously

That’s the magic of the male orgasm,

it flows out, hits something and then is over

in many ways the same way as being with someone who

can’t be forever.

They appear, hit you, make you feel

and then leave as though

you could simply wipe off feelings.

Observations in my travels: Medellin Colombia

For what cannot be bought, there is feeling

at times the feeling of leaving the body

to touch the vulnerable fragment of iridescence

At times the feeling of incompetent

frustration,

a longing for the person

who will leave the body and meet the soul

in a dance of joy in suffering.

The soul rips apart and the body screams

the face reacts by red patches of uglyness

as the vesicles release fluid in the form

of floating perspiration.

I touched the urine on her skin

but only the coins felt her longing.

I cannot recall the face but I remember

the need , a need for the coin,

the gesture of the cross.

The priest, he said

that we are pilgrims, bodies made of dust,

the journey is centered towards…

the beans, the sustenance of flatulence.

the error grave, as I gazed at the artform and forgot to see

the hidden people that color the environment

with the reality of the result of self gain and free market,

I gave a coin, the priest a nice word, but the grass gave nothing,

it could not give beans,

the beans belonged to a market of some form,

which turned every touch into a debt,

the grave , a cost,

the birth, a cost,

the diploma, a cost,

the lips releasing a heavy smell

the rotting of the wood,

the explosion of the candle

which refuses to light without whim.

the lord will only listen by the donation,

a donation to light the candle,

a small remnant, a reminder of the debt

that christ left.

debt is but submission towards a power,

she released rain, sitting on the side of the street

drinking Coca Cola

a woman of no means, with the coin,

the power of the cross

which portrays the debt of one person towards another,

a debt which immediately fades, once the coin is released,

the kiss of life forgotten, the dance a facade,

no home for he who only has a coin.