Pollock

The painting is hanging inconspicuous, tame and quiet against the wall.
That is not what it truly is or how it came to be. There was a time when it first lied helpless and bare on the ground waiting for the master to weave its magic in between the fibers of its canvas.
Memorise the way the lines are criss-crossing, twisting and bending unnaturally. Commit the colours and shades on the back of your eyelids.
Now, let yourself be carried away. Close your eyes. Extract the paint from the frame and see it flying all around. Do you see the canvas blank and bare at your feet ?
The paint is swirling and swooshing all around you. Can you feel it, grazing your fingers, slashing your cheeks, twisting up around your wrists and tickling the nape of your neck ?
A storm of colours raging all around you.
A chaotic ballet where none of the performers have agreed on the dance that is being performed.
The paint is raining upside down, sharply curving from right to left and left to right,  defying the laws of physics. It is not water after all, it is paint and paint likes to misbehave.
It is now getting much closer, seeping through your skin, thickening your blood and sinking in your bones, chemicals lying heavy on the back of your tongue, bitter and acrid. It tastes of gasoline, grass and burning plastic.
The energy buzzing from every drop is almost too much, on the verge of being unbearable, threatening to unravel your entire being, bones too heavy, skin too tight and lungs on fire.
The master’s raw voice cuts through the disorganised fog, growling “Enough!”. A click of his fingers and the silent emptiness is back. Your body is light again and sweet oxygen rushes back in your lungs, in your blood, in your bones. Open your eyes and look.

The painting is hanging  inconspicuous, tamed and quiet against the wall

Untitled

… HERE

 

“He is not here anymore, you know.”

She said.

“He was never really here to begin with.”

She replied.

“Do you think he finally went somewhere?”

She asked.

“He could have gone anywhere.”

 She answered.

 

“I never knew where he was from.”

She whispered.

 

“He liked to pretend he was from nowhere.”

She answered.

“Yet, he never mentioned anywhere farther than the river, did he?”

She asked.

“No, but strangely, he did not look to be from here.”

She replied.

“So maybe he was from nowhere after all.”

She said.

 

“I guess when you are from nowhere, home is anywhere.”

She whispered

 

 

…TIME

 

Everytime it was the same,

Round and round the ticking went,

Down and down the candle melt.

 

Sometimes quicker

The pace complied

 

Sometimes slower

But never died

 

Everytime without aim,

Round and round the record swirled,

Down and down the drizzle  twirled.

Prayer of the Nonbeliever

Prayer of the Nonbeliever.

If  I were a scholar,
I would go to the blackboard, draw out complicated theories and prove it can be real

If I were a sorcerer
I would go to fetch my cauldron, brew a decoction and make it happen

If I were a believer,
I would go to the church, light a candle and pray the Heavens.

But I’m a dreamer
Thus, I go nowhere, close my eyes, and wish

For her, to believe that Freedom doesn’t mean no Love
Upon a golden drop

For us not to be so afar
Upon  a shooting star

 

For you, unsuspecting -loved one, to be happy
Upon a falling leave

Upon all those magical nothings
Littering the world we’re living in

If I were

I would

But I ‘m

Just

So

I

Wish

Upon…

Little Pandora’s Box

Note To Self

Nearly Three Weeks
Without darkening some sheets.
Note To self
Never let it happen again

 

 

 

Nearly Three Weeks
That the Turmoil of life stole my writing skills
Note To Self
No scribbling makes your soul out of breath

Words are always out of reach
Music, Focus and Emotions
Allow me to cut a breech
And get a grip of these little demons

 

 

Curves are always hard to catch
Rythm, Commitment, and Feelings
Give me the keys to carve a fresh new batch
And to find the path that ends in  powerful drawings

Nearly Three Weeks
Without letting my imagination free
Note To self
Without that release, you’re losing your true self

 

 

 

Nearly Three Weeks
That the mess of this world blew my creative candle
Note To Self
Find time to scribble, or forget that you were once real