(hello, folks! new to the forum. I wanted to post something of mine, and I'm really excited to read some work on here when I'm finished posting this. Of course looking for some feedback... trying to see if I've got anything to put in front of a mic, as I'm shy on my work and all... hope all is well!) A life of decadence and eccentricities... that's the goal. Art creation conversation aroma and oils bubbles and spice movement touch, taste, sound, sight. texture...the general want for pleasure. fresh pomegranates, honeydew, and plums strawberries sweet and plump paint splats on toes and stained fingernails piles and piles of vinyl records and cellluloid movie reels projection screens, steeping grean tea inhales of hooka burning down coals that's the goal. Move to funky rhythms from the stereo while someone's in the corner imprinting my livingroom decor Dancing until breathless heaving chests beg to stop but heaving hearts want to dance more. Yoga at dawn followed by meditation Candles with eucalyptus energize the relaxation Massage the kinks from your neck With a towel soaked in warm lavender water wrapped around your head Fresh flowers and linen, feathers and silk Organic. Essential. Whole. that's the goal. books and books stacked with dogears and borken spines scoured and pondered and jointly intellectualized downloading unknown basement artist types just to remind yourself of what's new something no one's ever heard of but the creator, the fans, and you. Friday night at the house, showcasing spoken word sipping chai with incense to make the air sweet. Retro Bollywood movies played on repeat. Four course meals of the gourmet variety packed up and taken out into the night for those who might need something good to eat. can't find that kind of luxury at home, or in the street. A life of decadence has no purpose without soul. that's the goal. Sitting parkside with a guitar and tambourine Music swellling in the wind winding about trees glistening in sunlight, the marriage of art and the serene. Laughing, the most pleasurable of things... I want a velvet and satin life. One to cherish with each moment passing by A threading of time through expression, the eclectic, the beautiful, a life to behold that's the goal.
(I'm liking the idea of posting numerous poems under one thread. Don't know why I hadn't thought of that before. This is a piece I wrote of sort of rhythmic prose to express my reintroduction to poetic expression after seeing some clips of Rives and Shihan... amazing poets.) I got inspired... (unhealthy behavior 101) I'm grateful for those times I get inspired to search out some kind of cathartic expression. My hopes always seem to be that what I seek will motivate me to express what I hold down but what seems to come to some so freely. See, I'm one of those blogger poet types... you know, the kind that can never seem to find the right words at the right time, but would sound silly at the right time anyhow, coz my right words tend to have rhythm and rhyme. Most people would just look at me funny. Most people wouldn't know what to do with the way it seems my words come through, and sometimes I'm in that boat, too. I feel that my lack of training somehow makes my words less the right thing to say or the right way to say it, just another hack poet in the world who thinks her expression isn't good enough to handle suggestion, but maybe that's not the "words" themselves I'm thinking about... maybe it's the fragile mind that holds the words too close to be let out. In any case, I tend to let that frustration of dysfunctional communication manifest itself in some sort of poem or prose that I can't say to someone's face, but allow to find its way to a post on myspace. ambiguous, often treacherous, and laced with what I really want to say... but in a way that gets me off the hook for my own need to express, without expressly expressing what I need to get off my chest. I sound crazy to myself when I know I'm taking the backdoor to honesty. It just came to me recently that my ideas of deception and dishonesty were somehow not synonyms in how I deal with reality. Apparently it was admissable to me to be ambiguous to save some face rather than take my conflicts on truthfully. So in that case, and considering my lack of ability to fully pay forward for issues as they lay themselves in front of me, I decided to use deception to fake some sort of clarity. But at the end of the day, though I was trying to fool you, I only ended up fooling me. Having said all that (and once again feeling like I've said too much), I still get the urge to actually write down a verse, or two, to someday recite to a selected few who understand what it's like to feel the words in your throat become cumbersome and tight. Who know how it feels not to be able to speak... but be able to write. And when I think about the tasks I have put in place in this life I've made and am making with each new click of the second hand on the minutes of the clocks on the walls that I live in each day, I don't give a shit about what your journal article has to say. I'd rather just sit here and listen to other poets share the words they write and then get the balls to stand up and recite, and hope somehow their art will inspire mine to leave the confines of letters of the alphabet put together to create the symbol for what you read as a word. And that maybe someday I'll get the courage within my being... to not just be read, but be heard.
The first one was so thick and rich and decadent and overloading the senses. It felt almost stuffy. I read it listening to jazz and it was cool. My one question is that towards the end I am still unsure of what your message was exactly, were you saying that all those experiences are superficial or are they essential for the soul?
I suppose the message is all the things I want to enrich my life. Perhaps I can rework it to have a little more about the substance and need for humanitarianism. I might play with the structure to break up the stuffiness (if you meant stuffy by congested and not stuffy by elitists, that is).
I build you a castle in the sky, and shake the sand of who I am underneath. And when you come crashing down, my foundation is thrown to the wind. All I see that's left is a pile of rubble that was once your beautiful castle, and I'm nowhere to be found.
Yeah, it feels like a rough draft. I think it's a little too wordy, do you think you could simplify the structure and say more with less?
