The Girl of No Defining Feature

She is,

Home to brown eyes and black hair.

She is,

Medium for art and awe, alike

From artists and poets who write with the lines of her lips and the rhymes of foretold secrets in her eyes to hunters who lust for the curves of her hips and the aspiring striding of her thighs.

She is not a metaphor nor an embodiment;

she refuses to be a mere manifestation of ideas and notions.
She is fully human all throughout from the radical rationalization of her feelings to stupidly irrational rants.

She is the correctly drawn map of the world and she is the perfect history with no traces of colonization and prejudice.

She is unreal but real, but she is no paradox nor is she a medium for the juxtaposition of elements; she is not embellished by contradiction

She is a melange of elements essential to one another like fire and air or salt and sea

She is the frothing foam left by the land on the shore, distinct and crashed by another; one part of the dynamic change.

Painted Atoms

I am half science and half art.

My bones are made of

torn paper and

broken crayons.

I’m half equations and half patterns.

Never reaching

to the ends of Pascal nor

the frames of Dali.

I am half art and half science,

My blood is wondrous,

but my mind is encrypted.

The Colored Art of Thought

What kind of art is not a sin?

What kind of art doesn’t make you cry a little on the inside? Or feel some sort of heaviness, some sharp pain that bluntly scathes across the fragile seams.

My dear,

my dream,

my muse,

be here tonight not before 12 but not too long after 4 in the morning, you illuminate the most perfect, with the optimal degree refracting your every idea when it’s too dark for it to be called night, yet dark enough to be closer to the light.

remember when I told you about black holes? Or was it you? When it happened, we were there together; one conversation. The collision of every fragment across the space between us. They tell us how the light has travelled such a long distance and has bended on the way when the space between us expanded, but I refuse to believe that distance can change the color of your eyes or make you emit any less energy than you possess in the natural frequency of your soul.

And light absorbed by a black hole, never returned; would never be capable of escaping. and that stroke within me a fear double-sided with fascination, but mostly fear. But then you said you believed that in older times, before something could ever kill light, the black holes were only black because light never travelled to them in the first place.

And in that moment, between light and hole, that very instant with which particles of you hit the surface of my mind, something is ignited, and my thoughts aren’t as black as they used to be.

 

interspersed

vomit surges up through my throat

the taste of midnight butter biscuits and afternoon apple juice are interspersed within one another bringing back a recollection of both moments

and then the destruction of the fragment of time between them

the tarnishing of my sense of everything

with respect to time

I can only differentiate how fast I’m falling through nothingness

I can only integrate the region in which I’m slowly losing myself

becoming the definition of emptiness in not even becoming anything

did you see how the sunflowers bend towards the sun? I always feared that one day their necks would break, their stems would fall apart, their lives would shatter, and they would slowly wilt as their yellow scathes breathing carbon dioxide turning all colors to smudged grey

this is how I feel around you constant bending in your presence, and almost as soon as I am about to fall and shatter, you fade, gone as the night’s stars shine and I soon become rectified, rectilinear, alive and awaiting tomorrow’s bending with enthusiasm oblivious to the pain of almost breaking my neck, tilting towards your light

I wish it was falling, I really do, because then my soul would be purged of the almost-pain, and everything would be so definitively black, I would find some comfort? and what comfort is that, another voice, another replica, another shriek, another echo that still hopes to be alive, the instinct within me, to stay, even if bending and tilting better than to have fallen

but there’s beauty in the dead,

but there’s nothing alive in them,

there’s tragedy in the sunlight,

but there’s no death in pain,

and there is me,

but there is no you within me.

Her Second Love

She races her shadows, slowly. Through the night’s hours. Her stilettos two sizes too big. Black, from melted mascara to sheer tights. She is not too young, just too little. And yet her persuasion seeps through push-up bras and her seduction exudes from her tightly positioned ass.

She has wondered through streets with nothing but cigarettes and golden earrings. And the way she smokes and glances, the way she tripped upon trivialities has always found home a captivation.

The first night was rough. An infuriated man who just recently removed his ring, for as she jumped back and forth, his finger holding her small sized breasts had a seemingly lasting mark. She felt his supressed fury in rough gestures that seemed to have pleasure merely marginal.

A night along her second week included an unexpected masochist who asked for more, and payed for such. The marks lasted for the night on her, all over her. But she didn’t even feel the pain, which infuriated him further. He lashed more, he tried harder, but no squeals were even merely audible. At the recognition of his pain-pleasure complex she then merely faded a couple of screams and only then did he penetrate. Arched backwards she felt not even humiliation but exhaustion from such ways. She remained unamused.

Then, three months later, came across one of those facades she recognized and tried to prevent encountering. She tried to walk closer to other cars, show disinterest but it only provoked him further. One of those chase-her-until-she-stops-running complexes.

Well-dressed with eyes that gleamed with false charm. She might as well experiment. She has already ridden most types of cars and this seemed like a fairly good challenge.

First she felt unprecedented tension, and then he lit her a cigarette. This was unusual for her. They usually drove rapidly while finding their way under her skirt, feeling her thighs for pulse. But he was intimate. He wanted to invest in feelings before pleasure, and that confused her.

In her childhood she encountered several love stories but none of them lingered on, she always shook the memories off her mind. She never understood how they loved until the one time she truly loved but still then she shook the memories more violently, hitting her head against her beige unembellished walls. But she never spoke or thought of it again. She never wanted to feel these things. She chose to merely wander, from ride to ride, street to street, and aimlessly from face to face. It was not a desolate love for strangers, nor was it for pleasure, but both surely rose as side-benefits. She just chose to do these things and never know why. She was aware of an underlying reason for her strongly held belief in science, but she hoped to never know it.

This stranger however, wanted more of her than her body can offer.

He spoke to her.

Words coming out of his mouth.

Words not gestures.

Feelings not fingerings.

She remained unamused, but felt merely estranged by this sense.

The sex was okay I guess. She said to herself. But only inside of her she did not understand. She actually did, but she was still confused. She understood the reason why he did what he did, but she just did not know.

She never thought of it again.

That was her second love.

Klimt

Nerves of Life

Everything surrounding you. You’re envisioning the patting of their palms. Their soft skin that extends hiding bones of mud and stardust. They encircle your mind. You believe their words of falsehood, knowing there was nothing else to believe. So you tightly held a rope of kerosene that was bound to catch a whiff of heat and ignite it’s threads of collapse. Their soft hands reach further to the pulping veins of your neck of words and they press. Gently. You suffocate. You never die.

Jenny Liz Rome’s Modern Art

Jenny Liz Rome’s masterpiece. Unleash your inner bear.

Raw

And her soul’s crumbling away, but the raw, 
And her whole life encircles her beauty scar, 
—
She’s a story, every letter of her name, 
She’s a fluttering memory, that never came, 

Her skin so soft, 
Her body so rough, 
No-one holds her hug, 
long enough, 

Fingertips, 
as cold as hell, 
And her heart’s, 
as warm as family, 

–
Her soul’s crumbling away, but the raw, 
Her life’s encircling her beauty scar, 
—

She’s the passion before the fall, 
She’s crashing onto, nothing at all, 

Her cracks so pretty, 
Her eyes so wide, 
Her loveliness, 
is a place to hide, 

She’s walking around, 
with half a smile, 
But she’s really, 
just alright. 

–
Her soul’s crumbling, 
Her whole life, a scar, 

She ain’t much of a beauty, 
She’s just the raw, 
-*

I Can’t

I can’t write. I tried, but I can’t. My thoughts are paralyzed. I can’t stop that obliterating poison ivy from tainting my soul. It’s so beautifully promiscuous. And now I can’t move. I’ve been in bed for months trying to catch the oblivious figments of you. Lost. After I was awaken back to life, from a dream. Your face appeared, though I can barely draw your features into air with my mental paint brush.