consonantberry

Archive for February, 2012|Monthly archive page

Whip Made of Bliss

In Poetry on February 24, 2012 at 11:37 pm

There’s a hill in the curving horizon
There’s a cloud in the vast rolling blue
There’s a dream in the ground that grows golden
In that flat naked country
Where my soul grew its roots

There’s a house in the vanishing distance
At the end of a road baked in sun
There’s a truck in the shade of a sycamore tree
By a field with a day’s work yet done

There’s a pause in the sweltering labour
As I raise my canteen to dry lips
There’s a trickle of water runs cold down my chin
And it burns like a whip made of bliss

There’s a sigh in the golden-tipped whisperers
As the day bleeds one long last release
And the west trickles rays through the stalks in the sea
While their shadows drain off to the east

There’s a porch in the wake of the sunset
There’s a pipe glowing softly subdued
There’s hope at the bottom of every wishing well
In that flat naked country
Where my soul grew its roots

Advertisements

Aztec Eye

In Art on February 24, 2012 at 6:49 am

This is from playing around on Sumo Paint and then applying some Gimp 2 filters.

Aztec Eye

Chairs and Shadows

In Art on February 23, 2012 at 10:46 pm

Here is a series of digital edits that I did to an original rough acrylic painting (directly below).

Chairs and Shadows (Original)

Chairs and Shadows 2

Neon Shadows (Chairs and Shadows 3)

Chairs and Shadows 4

Cerebral Aneurysm

In Art on February 23, 2012 at 8:56 am

Upward Gaze

In Art on February 23, 2012 at 4:32 am

Upward Gaze

The Dock

In Art on February 23, 2012 at 2:39 am

The Dock

The Kiss

In Poetry on February 23, 2012 at 2:27 am

Your sweet-smelling sickness
runs down my throat
like a decadent mold, blossoming
into spores of smothering growth, sullying
every corner of my lungs.
To climax in a verdant rupture,
spending its fermented juice
within the hollows of my pores
in a soft gushing release
like so many grapes on a vine
bursting in the hot noon heat.

I could drown in that sickness, I know it
but I draw it in deeper, because
it’s just as sweet as it is sick
and I don’t care to live for ever,
or even one more breath, without
your ripe-rotten filth in my lungs
filling me, raw, with a moment
of nothing.

But then the carbon coals come begging
in a faint dioxide itch, a nervous trickle,
that sharpens into restless jolts,
then hardens -fast- into a switch of nettle.
It rakes the lining of my lungs
with surging convulsions
and I cave, always, finally, I cave
beneath the density of being
this living thing compelled to breath
in and out, again and again,
blindly, endlessly, repetitively.

And I wonder how my will wasn’t enough
to hold you in forever.
And I try to keep the feel
of not being lonely in my body.
But when that fades
into the turning turbulence,
into that noisy disaster of movement and worry,
I’m left with naught but the urge
to dissolve myself back,
-back into the sweet sick nothing
of your kiss.