Letter to the Young…

 

 

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One day, this world will break you

and when it does

you will never be ready

you will never be mended

and you will cease to believe;

in life,

love,

faith,

family,

god,

in everything,

although you may never admit it.

You will spend the rest of your days either in denial of the abyss at your center,

wearing a smile like paint poured out upon a sepulchre,

or

you will knowingly fall deeper into the squalor of existence,

embracing the black malevolence of your being,

casting light upon the cosmic joke of human consciousness,

gnashing your teeth at each new passing day,

cursing the insistence of the future,

and hoping for the sweet oblivion of pure nothingness.

But,

either way

you will never be whole,

you will never be well,

never at peace,

never at rest,

never at ease.

Selah.

 

 

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Shoegazer

I was going though some of my older photos and I came across this little nugget. I began to recognize a pattern throughout my photographic work. I take quite a number of photos of shoes, either mine or others, and or other objects on the ground. Generally speaking, it seems the implicit intent of my work is to cast the eye downward. This makes perfect sense from a psychoanalytic perspective, given my ongoing battle with clinical depression and my overall melancholic disposition. This is a testament to my temperament. My eyes are constantly averted. My vision sits low, head-down. My world view is quite literally bottom-up, my frame of reference beginning on the ground. In essence, then, my work is a glimpse of the world through the black bile eyes of the morose, the emotionally impaired, the damaged, the depressed, the unwell, the mentally unbalanced, the mind of melancolia, the sight of sadness…

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Beggar at the Gates

 

I dance with my despair
I kiss my suffering mouth to mouth
Lips wet with saliva and tears
sweat and strain

Do not let my stutter depart from me

I limp because I have wrestled
I have striven with “God” and men and have prevailed
Disjointed and crippled, I am whole

I am laughing sweetly with my anguish
Ever tasting this supple sorrow
I do not seek to numb the pain

I waltz with my sadness
never knowing who leads yet still we sway

I have made love to my wretchedness, never knowing who recedes yet here we lay

Shrouded in the darkness of a melancholy joy
May I rise, take up this bed and walk away
But, in my lameness may I remain

Smokestack

I just recently finished reading a book my therapist ‘prescribed’ to me; Healing Your Emotional SelfI won’t go into too much regarding its content here. I’m planning on writing a post regarding a few thoughts, considerations, and critiques of what I found in the text. Overall, however, I though the book was helpful and informative. As I was looking through my highlights and notes, I came across this short poem that I wrote in response to a mirror therapy exercise, an activity the book’s author is a prominent advocate of. In this particular exercise I was instructed to simply look and the mirror and describe what my face and body revealed. This is what I saw. I thought it might be good to share it. Let me know what you think.

 

I am tired,
worn,
exhausted,
weathered,
aged beyond my years,
weighed down,
hopeless.
I am a shell without occupancy,
empty,
hollow,
a fireplace without flame,
dark and foreboding,
full of nothing but soot and disuse…

Blessed are the Angry…

This is a new poem. It’s still a work in progress. I’m still tweeking it but, I thought I’d post it anyway. I’d love to hear your thoughts, suggestions, or critiques. Enjoy!

 

Blessed are the angry, for now that God is dead vengeance shall be ours.
We shall rise up and revolt in resistance to the priests, kings, and every oppressively exploitative structure that they have erected, which has grown rich and bloated on the backs of our efforts and the sweat of our brow.
We shall take back seven fold what has been unjustly stolen from us; our labor, our dignity, our hope, what we have built, what we have created.

Blessed are those filled with righteous indignation. In bitterness and rage we shall strike back on behalf of our soiled waters, our scorched earth, our cracked sky, and our beaten and broken species brethren. These are our neighbors. These are the ‘least of these’.

Blessed are those overwhelmed with hatred and disdain.

Blessed are those who retaliate

Blessed are those consumed by rage and wrath for they shall have the calmness of a bomb, ticking with an anxious fervency, laying in wait for the moment of detonation, wreaking havoc and desolation upon the houses of the gluttonous who are fattened by impotent power.

Blessed are the peace-breakers, the disturbers of the peace for they are unwilling to compromise or make amends with those who have ravaged land, sea, and air, orphan, widow, and stranger. We come to bring a sword instead.

Blessed are the jaded and scarred for the memories of pain and suffering are never far from them.

Never forgive.
Never forget.

A Centerless Mandala…

There is no quiet at my center.

There is no calm at my core. There is no peace in my being.
 I am inundated by anguish and turmoil.
Chaos permeates to the very marrow of my bones and it cannot be silenced…
In the tumult of where I am found there is no space,
no escape,
no safety,
no reprieve
There is no area that is not tainted by desperation, urgency, despair, and anxiety.
…come visit…

A Prayer of Perhaps ( To the God I Don’t Believe In)

I pray to you…but, who is the “you” to whom I pray?

Who are “you”?
Perhaps I pray to no one
that isn’t so hard to believe.
Infinite pages could be filled by the desperate cries and the wounded words shouted to an empty sky.
Perhaps I pray to myself,
as I’m sure Feuerbach would agree.
Perhaps I pray to the best of me, alienated and disenfranchised from myself,
fallaciously separated from my own flesh and set up beneath a transcendent crown upon an immaterial thrown of the heavenly lie I’d like to believe.
Perhaps…I pray to God?…
If you are God…I don’t believe in you.
You do not exist.
You are dead.
You have died.
I witnessed your last breathe escaping, never to return.
Your blood is still dripping from my hands,
my fingers still tight and clinging to the hilt of the blade.
But…
If “you” are God…
although I cannot set aside the atheist for which I rightly pass for
I will speak and, perhaps, even listen to “you” if you will listen and, perhaps, even speak to me