4/22/2013

These streets are awfully duplicitous. Richmond, the strumpet. The fungus, tall and tame; with pennies to its tarnished name.

She's just as likely to seduce you into the alley and show you what a real woman can do, as she is to rob you blind at the edge of a blade. But that's what keeps us here, isn't it? The unpredictability of the mad lover. The eternal Beatrice to the temporal Dante; steam-powered hearts belching pollutants, lusting for Empyrean and purgatory in equal measure.

I've missed writing this blog. Maybe because it gave me the opportunity to shout from the digital rooftops a message I never could cry out in the street. Maybe because I have a subconscious Freudian desire to strap together some cardboard and etch "THE END IS NEER" in messy lettering. Or maybe because this is the only form of social interaction my selfish mind cannot sabotage. But I hope you are doing well, reader.

I just wrote a few jots of rambling poetry in a fit of terrifyingly indifferent artistic passion this morning; inspired by whoever decides to read them, I guess. I like to think prose is my preferred medium, but it's much more humbling to write in a form you aren't very good with.

So if you enjoy them, that's good. And if you don't, that's good too. I hope that me reviving this little blog will pique minds somewhere and somehow, for better or for worse, or at least incite a few people to put down their iPhones for 30 seconds or so. Hey, Gandhi started in a court in South Africa; maybe I can start at the corner of Broad and Belvidere.

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We blessed with warmer climes know
Where the frost gives way to sea.
And how each sunset Charon ferries
Thousands more to shore,
In chains, to freeze.

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The endless ever reaching ever scraping
Countless faceless time
Covers our roots in lichen. Callused mastoids
Are we, dessicated;
Intravenous lifeblood from the lesser gods
That stains our leaves with jaundice
Gives us life, by definition.
(If you'd like to call it such)