Category: art

lost in found

i thought our paths crossed
on a lonely evening once in the park
I remember it was slightly dark but lit
up by the spark in your smile before
we both jogged in opposing directions
lost in the fog

you don’t know me
but our eyes met

and i saw dead galaxies
buried inside your eyes
start brimming with light

what if we’re the culmination
of a billion miracles – only to
miss each other – make brief
eye contact and just keep going

…without looking back?

what if we met before
in another galaxy
before our souls
were harvested
by robots (or demons
as Christians call them)

i was a white cat
passing by in your
reality

i was a white cat
passing by in your
reality

remember when you told me
we’ll meet in another life when
we’re both cats?

and we did
but it was
just a matrix glitch

lost in translation
of 1’s and 0’s
cloned celebrities
& satanic rituals

the matrix is beautiful on the surface
isn’t it?  and nobody cares about the
truth.  i just care about the youth but
what good does that do when they
just clone their gods but silence their
voice and their vision because

if they killed a rapper who was spitting
truth they wouldn’t have a messenger
to reach the youth

and so you can bet that the world will
never see the truth

my life is chaotic, it’s everywhere
one night i’m lit popping champagne bottles
in the club then i’m cruising

i’m addicted to the fast lane but i can’t seem to
get a good grasp of this rap game it’s arcane

i’m still searching for you in the eyes of every
girl that i’m looking through and i feel like i’m
losing you just know that i’m not reducing you
into another girl that i’m grooving to –

the second our eyes locked i was glued into
the spark in your heart that shone through
your eyes i was in a losing fight with true
insights without choosing sides you’re my
delight in this freezing night you’re the only
pleasing sight

“My bowl is the sky,
And I drink at my eye,
Till I feel in the brain
A Delphian pain -”

John Keats, A Draught of Sunshine

““When an almond tree became covered with blossoms in the heart of winter, all the trees around it began to jeer. ‘What vanity,’ they screamed, ‘what insolence! Just think, it believes it can bring spring in this way!’ The flowers of the almond tree blushed for shame. ‘Forgive me, my sisters,’ said the tree. ‘I swear I did not want to blossom, but suddenly I felt a warm springtime breeze in my heart. ””

 Nikos Kazantzakis, Saint Francis

“I reabsorb myself, I lose myself in myself, I forget myself in faraway nights, unpolluted by obligations and the world…”

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

“Let me remember you, soon will the winter be on us,
Snow-hushed and heartless.”

Sara Teasdale, Indian Summer

“Art is born and takes hold wherever there is a timeless and insatiable longing for the spiritual, for the ideal: that longing which draws people to art. Modern art has taken the wrong turn in abandoning the search for the meaning of existence in order to affirm the value of the individual for his own sake.”

Andrei Tarkovksy, Sculpting in Time

“I’m not a war baby. I’m a baby
at war. Thumbs grow into my throat.
I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
Lover, I feel a darkness, I feel a fugue
come over us.”

Anne Sexton, Baby

““I tried to explain what I had hoped to do. 1985 wasn’t the era of the memoir – and in any case, I hadn’t written one. I was trying to get away from the received idea that women always write about “experience” – the compass of what they know – while men write wide and bold, the big canvas, the experiment with form: Jane Austen’s famous two inches of ivory; the domestic, interior worlds of Emily Dickinson and Virginia Woolf. Why should a woman be limited by anything or anybody? Why should a woman not be ambitious for literature? Ambitious for herself?””

Jeanette Winterson, All About My Mother

“I can only answer the question ‘What am I to do?’ if I can answer the prior question ‘Of what story or stories do I find myself a part?’”

Alasdair MacIntyre, After Virtue

“I’ve been willfully locked in the house all week, writing poetry. In the meantime there is no point in finding a point.”

Emily Dickinson, Selected Letters