Will you be ready?
I’ve written about why I write in the past. This is how I write.
He loved by devoting himself to his art.
His art was only realised at night.
In the throes of anti-matter dust,
In the throes of loves arrow thrust,
In his minds madness trust,
In his blood thirsty nocturnal lust.
It all came to him half awake, half asleep,
Like Dali his mentor painting surrealist sweeps,
He’s the lyrical dreamer with spoon in hand,
Waiting for a wink of Loves command.
Off to work in the dusk he strains,
Eye bags, Eye Sores, Iris pounding, retina pain,
Awaiting his lot, for words to claim,
In the auction of poets where the asleep are slain.
I have to pick at your wounds.
No, I don’t enjoy the pain you’re going through,
I’m addicted to healing you.
He could play any six string guitar to the tingling of senses.
But strumming her six ribs was his masterpiece he reserved only for her
Some things have to remain sacred.
Love is being able to compose a masterpiece but leaving it only for the pleasure of one soul, despite knowing you could have any soul in the world by playing the haunting entrapment of its melody.
Tonight, we feast on words.
Even though we are separated by worlds.
Your ages so tender,
So full of splendour,
You’re mind benders.
Battered, beaten and bruised,
Torn, healed, re-abused,
But, I remain amused.
At the possibilities ahead,
Just like you,
Open hearted to receive,
So raise the goblets in time,
And lets drink loves wine.
“I want to be with you,
More than anything I want to be with…”
He interrupted her, “Really?”
She nodded with tears welling up in her eyes.
“Enough to want to see five of me?”
She paused as she struggled to comprehend.
“Because that’s how bad I want to be with you,
I want to see your face recreated five times in children
She didn’t reply
I’m an extreme mist of the worst kind,
I’ll pose at one end of the spectrum,
In full sight,
Or a midnight blind.
I’ll fog your thoughts,
Stir the soil to be sewn,
Have you scurrying back and forth,
Rope ends of your mind.
So push me to that end,
Or to the other,
Through the thickness of it all,
Who knows what you’ll find.
Time to hijack the term back from the lazy throws and empty prattling of media musers.
Too long it has been deployed by the mass hysteria-mongering media, abused to stigmatise people.
Words are not theirs to use when they cannot appropriately contextualise them. They are ours.
The word extremist is not evil, not in the correct context or deployment.
Shakespeare is an extremist.
Beethoven is most definitely an extremist.
Einstein an extremist.
Ghandi an extremist.
Any person of worth or merit devotes themselves to an extreme beyond the norm to spring forth greatness and beauty the conformity of society cannot produce collectively in their mediocrity.