THINE EYES!
October 14, 2020
Compressed black and swallowed, it lays buried inside a canvas of melted, foolish lines.
Busted color leaked into solidarity on an open pupil.
Trapped inside a fluxing current smudged with bereavement and the blissful madness in-bedded from
the gluttony of au courant moments, moments true and peeled,
moments rotted and soiled in the profoundness bathing inside the ticking unanimity of ones own mind; visible existence.
And oh the things it bares witness to;
Transportive passions spun into the playful minds of eager architects.
Mid-summer sky’s, boiling, smiling, scolding the skin.
How it exchanges the dreams planked inside the weary tear ducts of tepid cooling clouds.
And blackness, born from a speechless space, an alchemistic abyss; one third of our lives.
What paradise finds home inside these jello eyes?
For it is they that wrote this, not I.
Eyes of white,
Eyes of gold,
Courted and neatly trimmed by the thoughts of Michael Angelo.
These glinting, darting, dancing eyes,
Why they have no option but to nebulously sink, in occasion, behind the squint of suspicious lids.
Safeguarded at all times.
But while they remain veiled beneath weakened lids,
They remain open,
fixated inside the belly of a crepuscular night;
They do not sleep.
The Wilderness
October 8, 2020
Wild?
It is but civil.
Scattered trees whose nails are painted in rose buds and thorns
Waving inside the lofty breath of rushed and waited wind.
Quiet, its weathered lids, canopies above
your quick-flirting eyes.
And you,
You cannot woo it, even should you try.
For it is the wild that drowns unmerciful structures.
It doe not speak through electrical wires and erect thumbs;
Nor does deal in self-devouring gold.
Crowned in the mirth of a quintessential performance,
It’s self-invigorated
As the rivers do not mind you, or me.
Above we see mere clutter, but below,
Below its all one grand parade.
Organized, processions of apple roots, warm clay and leaves, as emerald as eyes,
journeying to drink beneath sun-bathing water lilies.
This rivers skin, reflective and teary eyed, like bottled wine drunk on light,
it absorbs EVERYTHING.
And this,
THIS is my wilderness!
Mad, its barks reveals its pouting veins buried beneath wrinkled moss.
Its ceremonial quirks, and exiled sounds,
They twirl and turn and take me.
Somehow transforming corrosive syllables into brilliant, soundless, swishing waves.
Here, one has not a choice but to listen & behave.
What Crones Up Crows Drown
September 27, 2018
And though his bones they have bled into oat, ash & dust, his stories, quite blahsensical, they shall ever never rust.
Whilst parliamentary principles perabulated in his head, he laid upon his pillow, solving problematic proverbs in his bed.
Swashbuckling tales wrapped in a small trim blue skirt as she holds a ‘drink me’ bottle beginning the flirt.
Algebraic equations tunneling the mind, make it difficult for her to follow that big bunny’s behind.
And since I am no neologist, dreaming in ratios and gold, I can understand what the Jabberwocky’s point was in being told.
Oh and ahhhh the joy in those frabjous words interlocking the tounge with the mind as it does.
Confounding it all is.
This world’s upside down.
You’ll find that man who claims to be of scripture filled with Mach·i·a·vel·li·an sound.
And that human who won’t work, it’s only because it left its soul in the hurt;
something those pecking birds feast upon in deserts.
But fear thee not and believe in thy all,
for a Tureen of soup may cure the fall.
And if ye shan’t believe in thy might, I suggest you take an absence from this thing you call sight.
Go ahead, be brilliantly bold, as blind as a blissful old bat,
fill your belly with the stars till its round, fruitful and fat.
Go on twaddle twinkle, trip towards your leave;
as it’s won’t be quite difficult in more than six impossible things to believe.
-Magnolia
Acrylic on canvas ♡
( © 2018 Magnolia HL )
What is Bliss?
September 14, 2018
What Is Bliss?
But to have ones heart saturated with all the best ingredients.
Chocolate powder, swirled into crystal cubed, brown sugar bumps.
Mixed with chilled white milk and
Stirred inside endless clarity;
Only to be baked into a soft edible fever.
Coated with crying, frothed cream,
just happy to be apart of something.
Half-done, half- raw, half -baked, all-together.
Dreaming of filling in the space of unsealed lips.
If for nothing else, isn’t this why we exist?
