In a recent conversation about poetry here, djw wrote:
- A poet acquaintance of mine said a couple years ago that everyone is tired of the image of the starving artist, and I think he's right. Or I think they should be, at least.
- “Poetry is what happens when nothing else can.”
― Charles Bukowski
Every day, all day I wake up starving. This hunger
is more than small nothings crawling inside me;
it’s the small nothings that creep on my skin too.
In the moments between fullness and satisfaction
I find myself yawning. Dark grumblings between
membranes, nerve endings mark empty envelopes,
“Return to Sender,” hollowness withdrawn like
arms from an embrace, hands clasping their own
opposite elbows, the fingertips cold reminders
that every body stands alone, even entwined,
luxuriant in post-coital sleep. Self: contained, single
servings meted out biologically against all logic and
though one body comes from another body or in or
around one, each body defined by separation, even
one hand releasing another as in “good-bye” oddly
eats away at this notion, as if “hello,” a reservation.
life’s just a mess
I control it less and less
so to my ice cream and burritos
I seek solace which salsas? which sauce?
life’s a coin toss
but when it comes to these meals
Haha! finally i’m the boss but sometimes the habit controls the hand
and I fill my belly beyond my waistband
an all night food party
that I seriously hope won’t end salty then sweet, then savory meat
leads to sweet, back to salty
with this cycle, there is no replete my anger builds , fear on the rise
shamed of this mouth
holding back tears in these eyes but I won’t cry, I’m just tired
and alone; couldn’t purge if I tried
which I won’t don’t you know purging means you’ve got a problem?
And problems? I can do without em’ so I hold it all in, till’ the next day wake in a ball of shame
failed at this food n’ life game - unless I do something fast!
so I’ll exercise and skip meals:
now that’s a good deal.
I’ll the this whole game:
starving myself till’ my belly grumbles my name
Tired disagreeable our own Poet Friends.
We in Several years ago,
We Arts a
Figure entrepreneurial
a Hungry piece,
We (likely you)
are right.
Think other then
The We should
(Little solstice). trouble
Arts inverted
Art house,
Than you can
Crawling do
Point one.
We live a Out active sum
A lacquer bath
. We burned Open Wed,
heat
Force, Brown
Color crayons
Electric Melt
Story. (Typical)
Body hunger only
Hungry, Yes
It is its
Staff, however
We have Coke
Consider hunger Means Creativity
summation
A private
House of the Arts
. Self-bunch
Self-discharge current
Open-Attic a,This, factor
Heaven now
"Writing a Presentation "
In Open - You feed food
Thing, hunger Write hungry can More,
however One it does not
(True constant)
A fruit.
Said other Possible
Yes other Is a non-occurrence thing
Inspired Uselessness
*Credit for these two lines to Tom Robbins "…Art, like love, is what makes the world forever fresh and new. However, this revitalization cannot be said to be art’s purpose. Art revitalizes precisely because it has no purpose. Except to engage our senses. The emancipating jounce of inspired uselessness." What do I desire?
I often wonder whether my answer
is bound by my means;
Is my appetite predeterminately starved?
What *can* I desire?
But this half-hearted abandon
fails to assert my ambition.
My internal fire can't come to fruition
If I limit its legs to stand on
If I deny its lifeblood
In all honesty, it’s music
I want my path to be etched in the
notes of a stave.
The emancipating jounce of
inspired uselessness that it embodies*
Music, with its eternal gift of inspiration.
Its ability to sift through the nonsense
and help heal the rifts in my emotions
I offer it my utmost devotion
Spending days at a time working on one single line,
Processing a noise, adjusting its poise.
And as I address the finesse of the sounds I express,
I stop to reassess what they mean to me.
Have I written from within?
Falsified feelings wont win me over.
But I digress...
Yes, music is what I see as my true calling
Even if that means falling at hurdles or
finding myself increasingly out of luck.
Music is my passion, I'm stuck to it.
Music is passion.
I'm vanquished I consume My callouses rust I age I'm fat My guitar gathers dust
This is crying for a second stanza - maybe JakobVirgil can write one...
Lately it has but I find if I fallow I come back with fresh ideas if reduced quickness.