Shadows, breath, body and poetry

-2
We all have shadows.
Areas of darkness that follow us wherever we go,
reflecting off surfaces,
off people,
showing us our colours,
our form, our shape.
That is because light shines on us,
does not emanate from within us.
We are not the source of light.
Only one man that ever lived had no shadow,
because he was the source of light.

‘Have we not sent you except as a lantern of emanating light.’

This is my light.
I can hold it all in and come out,
in one night.
I love movement like I love poetry.
I’m not afraid,
If I don’t speak, it’s because the poetry has not come yet,
let the words brew,
let them be, leave my body to me.
Movement is poetry of the body.
If you can’t move,
you have no motor imagination and that’s a tragedy.

I love all forms of poetry,
the written, the physical, the spiritual, the mental, the emotional,
the material, the earthen, the ocean’s, the heavens and even hell’s poetry.

I can collate them all the best when I feel it in the most visceral, real, thing possible.
There’s no more bullshit, the buck stops with you.

The fight is where you are most honest.
If you worked, it will show.
If you didn’t it will show.
Whoever is most honest wins, whoever is most poetic woos the crowd, woos the heathens.

There’s nothing savage about two honest men,
naked, poets, prosing our bodies, proving our cursive.

We’re not fighting you heathens,
we’re being brotherly,
we’re sharing emotions so deep on each others skin,
every blow, I feel his hardship,
every grapple, he feels my heart pound,
every sweat drop, a spill of ink.
Blood …..and you gawk,
but blood…. we revive!
Taste it on our knuckles, split lips, eyebrows drenched,
eyes stinging, noses filled with pus,
we bleed for you not,
we bleed for each other.

Two honest men, exchanging poems.
And you cheer you heathens,
you gawk you illiterates,
you wouldn’t  understand poetry if it was Rumi himself spitting at you.

You breathless gutless heathens, cheer on, cheer on.
You can’t write poetry, you can’t spill your blood,
But you’ll pay for it.

Pay up you dogs,
We’ll keep writing, keep breathing.
Each breath, punish yourself so bad until breathing is the only thing you feel.
We’ve expired our lungs out for you,
And all you can do is stupor away in drunken heathen-ness,
You sorry illiterates.
-W.E.

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