Thursday 21 December 2017

Party at the Met


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Monday 11 December 2017

Canal Street, New York


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Monday 4 December 2017

Munch at The Met Breuer




Sick Mood at Sunset, Despair.
Edvard Munch


This painting is a more literal depiction of the event that influenced his most famous painting, The Scream.


“I was walking down the road with two friends – the sun was setting. – I felt a waft of melancholia – Suddenly the sky turned red. I stopped, leant against the railing, tired to death [...] – I stood there trembling with anxiety – and I sensed a great, infinite scream through nature –”
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Friday 1 December 2017

All is Well


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Thursday 30 November 2017

FUCK (it all)


Trapped by Julia Blackmon
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Wednesday 29 November 2017

Times Square


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Friday 24 November 2017

Detachment



Walk the same streets
With eyes anew.
Like the first time
Lost and awed amongst places that never existed before
Locked in the present
(un)Framed by the past.

Dead lives
Afraid of the future.
I am fear.
What is my purpose?

Revelations arise.
The smell of seaweed in the stairwell,
Love,
and Light,
Waiting surely
Behind one of these locked doors,
Eyes closed,
Body shivering in tortured anticipation against the frame.

The minutiae.
An atom, exploded
A ringing never answered
That might say,
Let me in
Come to find me
This time you will be saved.

A dream small enough to exist inside the void of a child’s tear
The space between the lines of miscommunication
greater than any ocean.


Living,
Lying,
Dying.

Tomorrow,

I set sail for a new shore.
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Thursday 23 November 2017

Brooklyn Bridge


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Tuesday 21 November 2017

Sun sets on the city


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Monday 20 November 2017

her name was



her name was

she asked me to remember her
but i was already trying to forget while she plied me with pints of Lagunitas at the bar of the Crazy Horse.
she hoped that the alcohol would make me love her,her name was
or at least act as though I liked her,
for a few moments more of this short escape that was for her so exotic.

i fucked her once
up against her brand new Buick
under thin trails of moonlight at the side of a black country road in the forest close to where i had taken a room for a month.

she was a good, sweet, stupid girl
who probably deserved happiness more than most.
she liked fishing, John Wayne, and sending me photos of her perfectly fake tits that the weed farm had paid for.

i don’t think i will remember her,
but i will save her here
as i fly into a storm
towards a place the limits of her imagination will only let her dream of.

“I’m going to get a passport next year.”

memories cost more than distractions now.
i suppose they always did.
it was just that before the body fooled the mind into thinking the cheques the ego passed would never need to be cashed.
for the irresponsible they never really are anyway.
we brush off our debts
with a heartfelt embrace,
mad tales from the other side,
and an honest smile that sends you back to the bar happy for another stolen round.

the roads that take us away are simply different.
pot holed trails down the centre of nowhere.
in the middle of Rajasthan,
for example.
riding too fast with an Israeli yoga queen on the back,
armour-less and unprotected from anything outside of our bubble that could befall us.
for how will fear ever find you here,
floating almost formless off the map?

it caught up with us later
a lost front tooth, head injuries, tetanus shots, screams (not mine), scars for life, and a violent end to another soirée.
but that was minor
worthy wounds to exchange for those moments of life that you cannot forget,
those which set our cycle apart from the dumb merging into this thing that some call the solid ground of our dominion.

i’ll trade that every day for a motorcycle and something less than a village beside brutal, beautiful farmland in a gypsy desert.
slowing down to high-five naively naked, dirty little children who never saw a white man before.
then tearing back on the throttle,
flying along this path that we that we should never have ever taken
(could only ever have taken)
with just the sun and instinct as a guide and promise
that beyond the shimmering horizon of this place we didn’t plan to see
a slightly more formal reality lies in wait.

arriving anyway, of course.
sun burnt and ridiculous.
flighting not long after in the deep alcoves of the windows in our overly-elaborate, decadent hotel room.
the stubborn scorpion defining his fate once more, 
as he stares into the too weirdly turquoise lake of Bundi that bubbles under the April sun.
or was it still March then?
regardless,
that slow motion fall onto the asphalt is set in motion.
decreed in this awkward needles silence post some argument about sex,
or something else.

25 kms from Pushkar.
a shriek of unnatural collision. 
the flashback of a whole life.
the desecration of joy that was this unhindered roar through just another crazy day in a country that we know will never be tamed.
the one they cannot comprehend will always be so without ever having stood here
bled
cried
fought
laughed
learnt
and loved
here.
and understanding now,
in that eternal moment,
instantly frozen
before teeth meet ground,
that what you prayed would never come to pass was in fact essential and inherent.
a point of payoff.
the entry fee in part reimbursed for your gall to face off against the might of this great beauty which hurts as much as heaven.
the same heaven that is itself the pure light of love and wonder we pirates carry in our open hearts.
a vaunted gift i bow down to in supplication whenever it demands i touch the earth,
and resist a while longer the endless empty call of the Dharma bliss.

i still remember your name, Molly.
maybe not for much longer.
but Always
and Now i apologise for nothing.
No true soul need ever be sullied so.

Get your passport.
Ride the punches.
Dodge the snipers who know not that their bullets are only the bitter ballast of protection that masks the desolation and pain of their own lives’ sorry regret and envy.
Dream with me.
Fly,
Fall,

Forever. 
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Saturday 18 November 2017

Financial District, NYC


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Friday 17 November 2017

28/01/16 (For Saphir)


28/01/16 (For Saphir)



You want to take a step back from the monster
but you do not see that this void is all consuming
and that within it there is no such thing as movement.

you, the monster, the void, and I are all the very same thing.

My weakness and failure is that I pretend to let your naivety and ignorance control this deception.

To not explain to you
how the monster is your mother
brother
dead father
sister 
and son.

that the monster is not a scarred result of rape and pillage
but a new born baby filled with as much love, light and hope
as the raging fire of lust and attraction you fight to extract your searing skin away from now

the irony IS
that i too
daily reject the monster you flee
that i too
must believe in witches
mythology
false gurus
fake friends
and the true non-believers
who will turn all that is the best of our monsters
into the very essence of what sane men should fear.

it is normal for you to be running backwards from me.
and sad.
sad
that you will only make it back to where we already were
once i am nothing more than a memory,
or a nightmare that will never disappear.


You treat me like a killer.
A murderer of emotion with no feelings of my own.
You, the distraught bloodied victim
I, the rabid dog
aimlessly infecting the weak
and immature.

In 6 days the world around us was created.
In 3 i rip it up and tear it all to shit.

and how many days will this suffering last out
until sun down?
the next offer of an awkward fuck with a stranger i feel nothing for?
or until we have worn each other down right to the very bone?

there is nothing worse than love
left to die.

love
too fearful to breathe.

LOVE.


within the very centre of all the shared pain that is our love
all i want is to hold you close.

to simply lie still at your side

hold your hand

have your head lay on my chest

and whisper together
the spells of a language we don’t understand.
incantations,
that will undo all of the things that never cease to torment us.


what do we talk about when we talk about love?
Carver wanted to know this
and now
today
i understand.

love is not for life
it is the second where your fingers pulled softly away from my own
and i knew that it would be the last time i ever touch you.

love is not for life
it is the first words that we never even spoke
and the sly smile you tried to hide behind them

love is not for life
it is the provocations i can’t control
that turn us all into monsters
out of fear of being forever alone
and in pain.

love is not for life.
it is for secrets never to be taken back
then held over our heads like weapons of war
forever suspended in the ever nearing knowledge of our brutal end.

love is not a shortcut
that can be reached by the back road of Up Beat Beer
joints
and cocktails of Xanax, Valium, Tramadol, and Klononpin. 

love is not for life.

love is not for the living.

love is not for those who can never grow up
and compromise.

love is certainly not for a beautiful jewel
who belongs only to the universe
and knows nothing of these mortal fools
she has been forced to live amongst

love is not for a man
who fits not in the skin he was given
and takes fright each time a mirror reflects his image.

love is not repetition,
and nor is it soft.
it hurts and burns.

by your own hand
it slices indelible suffering into your skin
which in turn leave its own eternal imprint on my too soft heart

love is boring.
no, it is not.
it is never that.

love can be found
but only at the very edge of insanity.

love can be shared
but only in flashes.
like shooting stars
jumping dolphins
in the silhouetted glide of an eagle across the sky with a snake in its mouth
(and this I did say)

love is the falling sun
that we can never stop from leaving
even when we know that its tomorrow will bring
nothing more than fraud and pale imitation
of this perfect day that went before it.

love is nothing that is not romantic.
it stands alone
beneath the beauty of the stars
under which we are all eternally dying
at the same pace
in the same moment
stranded
grasping at the futile nostalgia for that other light we never even saw.

love is blah blah blah
a joke.
a poem of nothing
sometimes of everything.
a madness that has no cure.

love is the help that those from outside of us
bring to make us strong.
it is my brother who sees me walking only tall like a king
it is your sister who wipes your tears away when you cry and reminds you that you can never be anything but beautiful.

love is long.
yes, it is.
very short sometimes too.

love is a secret place
where i sit with Indians
and think only of you,
hoping that one day,
far away
these words will make you smile,
feel stronger,
and love me back in return a little,
even if only for a second that i will never know existed

love is everything that is lost in communication.
it is schlug.
sheshbesh.
mine-i-mum.
and “translate.”

love,
this love,
will come to an end
it will stab me in the heart
with my own spear
as i pass you on the beach
and turn in the other direction
knowing that where once you wanted only a smile
now you cannot bear to see my face.

love is the darkest part of my mind.
all that is confusion.
every dark spot that covers the light.

and love is a mirror.
one you must be afraid of.
the one which i stand before
but in which you can only truly see yourself.

love is knowing too well
that what hurts one so deeply
will only destroy another even more.

love is something i have never known
but fight to guess at 
and grab for everyday.

love is Sisyphus.

Sisyphus walking his hill,
arms and legs sore
under the terrible weight of his rock.

his love is that which punishment could not take away
and which he continues to carry in his heart.

love is the wife Sisyphus fooled the gods to see just one more time.
it is the colour of the sea.
the sound of his son’s voice.
and your smile.

then the sudden,
momentary enlightenment,
where his arms and legs hurt no more
the rock bears no weight
nor the hill any inclination.

and Sisyphus is still

Sisyphus is…


I don’t know what the fuck Sisyphus is.



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