Just pick up the fucking pen and write.

 Just pick up the fucking pen and write.

That's all that my mentor said to me.

 No sugar coating anything. 

No coddling.

 Just do the work. 

BLEED.

But I let my head get in the way of the flow.

What if someone doesn't understand...

what if I will be judged..

what will be family think..

what if......

what if I do not wrestle with those thoughts every other second of the day.

what if I liberate myself from those scenarios.

What if I just truly let go and not give a fuck what you think about me.

 

No one will read my words. 

They do not matter.

 I do not matter. 

The drop of doubt spreads inside the mind like a loose ink.

Ego oozing out of the surface.

 But that is not the point why we write, create, play.

 Why do we?

One of my favorite assholes who has inspired me is Charle's Bukowski. He was a lush like myself and also had such a tortured little bird inside his soul. I do not drink anymore so the whiskey courage is harder to come by with that raw adreneline of honest.

He explains in this poem why we create better than I ever could right here:

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

 

 So I am going to keep bleeding and exploding on a paper, a canvas, anything to free my soul before the song bird dies inside my vessel.

Bukoski was an asshole. So am I though. I need to accept that most artists are fucking narcissists. Yet, when he wrote, his words made him sound less of a jackass. He just became a flaw being. Just like me. Just like you. When we write you cannot see the face. You cannot see anything beside the raw emotions drizzled on the white page. There is nothing but an open opportunity to share brazenly about the  truth without having to be seen. Naked reality.

How does one create a naked reality of a reality that was unreal?

I am trying to write about a month in my life that I was a missing person in Brooklyn. This small little hiccup in my life has shaped the rest of my decisions in personal and professional affairs. This one little scene is not the whole story. It is one climatic part of a sequence of traumatic mishaps. Isn't life one mishap after another that is blended with a few blissful moments in between. 

So I decided I should just write what I want to write about. Maybe it will be about my childhood and how I learned that Cunt is spelled with a C and not a K (that will never not baffle me). Or I may write about house there is a song written about my virginity. Or maybe I will share some poetry in the middle of an epic love story. Either way, life is not in order. The story will not be either.

Cause that's life, my sweet dove. It doesn't stop until we stop breathing. So the story is being rewritten and reshaped as I breathe more into the now and leave the past further in the background. My mentor told me that the stories, the art I created is not just invented out of thin air. 

"you have been brewing this spicy stew for a while now".

Get out of the kitchen, if you can't stand the heat.

The surrender was found in the exhale.

There used to be a time when I remember I did not care who I was. 

I just was me. 

Maybe it was puberty or being violated by a boy you had a crush on or the pressure to be a size 0 and also live in a society where you are awarded by how well you can push down your feelings and compromise your belief.

Again it is back to that word believe. Inside that one word lives a lie that hinders one to be.

Now how can I be me when we are learned to believe something we have not yet even experienced.

I don't know what I am saying but I do know that I just chanted some syllables to bow to the creator, to the Devine teacher within.  It felt silly but I wanted to feel free.

I sat down in an easy pose. Crisscross apple sauce. Sat up straight, lightning my spine from my sacrum all the way my neck. I pressed my palms firmly together in prayer. Gently rested those hands at the center of my chest.

Inhale. I started with the 

Ong...

meaning the one who created you.
The surrender was found 

in the exhale.

Mind Fucking

Your heartbeat .echoes
The percussion pulses.
 on my ears .
Your chest. My hammock .
Let's get drunk on eachothers spit.
But please I beg. Don't fornicate our minds. The fondling with fear burrowing in the burnt sheet.

Petrified that I cannot pull your trigger.
Explosions erodes in the eleventh hour

Seduction ceases.Rosemary beads beat on the windowsill.

Slaughtering the sins of the mindless rabbit. Hoarding the lucky rabbit foot.

The forgiving fortress .
Leaves an apologetic smile.
Solitude of silence snores .
Five more minutes .
Forever. Finite.

periwinkle perplexities

cuddling with the clouds

pondering if the sky always matches the lavender landscape

does this dawn define the divine?

the earth, the radiance.

if you listen to the heartbeat of the wind

she might let you wander here

;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

swallowing sleep

the  debonair nightingale sings to the solemn shadow

Pulsating rapidly, her heart was ablaze but she breathes in the tundra tonight.

"Nothing's quite okay. But I'm here"

Unable to decide what song sounds sweet. She lingers in the water waiting for the burn to subside.

Cleansing the conscious, caressing the callous mind.

Fingering with fidelity, she fancies a frivolous flute to distract the sober sonnet she visualizes.

--

lies. lies lies

beautiful bouquets of those fibs half truths

luscious fabricated bullshit.

unadulterated desire is left omitted.

If the mattress made a movie, a waver of consent would need to be signed.

The sheets keep their secrets close. And laugh at the lying lioness.

No one sees her quite like her pillow. 

She has screamed into it as she is pierced by dicks jamming inside of her.

She has clasped on the cotton so tightly as she gets fucked from the front.

She lays her head there and giggles as she is being tickled by some funny fingers.

She also lays there..alone..and used that pillow as her boyfriend. As her hanker-chef..as her tissue.

As her closest confident. 

-- 

photo poetry. creative collaborative ; Photography by Anthony Machinski Words, Noel Marie

Seductive Sedative of Silence Showers in Spring

drowsy dreamers dance despite the hazy dark 

smoke serenades the scenery as leaves loiter the parking lot.

Cabernet charades caress her chardonnay clouds to clarified confusion.

did the angels miss the lip-less lioness or let them dry and bury the memory like the pet bird . 

She woke up from her day dream and rose in hopes of falling asleep when shes wide awake.

FUCK BEING A SECRET.

She is not Veronica. She just called herself that when she did not want anyone to know her real name. Her real name did not feel to fit her although she used it as an excuse whenever someone found her out.

She wanted to be a vixen. She wanted to be a puma. A cat that preyed in the dark mysterious alleys and hid in trees. But she was not a dark feline at all. She was a lioness that illuminated rays of sunshine when she walked even alone. But she rather be called something else. She wanted she yearned for the danger that seemed to be attracted to her. The good the truth frightened her quivering body. Her bones ached for solitude and serenity. Her naivity navigated her to sexual encounters that compiled into nothingness. They only were good stories to tell. But that is the thing thats all it was stories. The truth is she is simple. She is not original. Someone already has the name Veronica and someone else really is a vixen that she thought only she could possess.

Her story of who she is suppose to be is fading away like a cloud that passed by as fast as a semi truck drives fast off into the dark highway.

What story is she suppose to tell ? What is she suppose to feel. Shoulda Woulda Coulda.

Fuck it. Things are about to get real weird.

meow

I do not know how to play an instrument. I played the recorder in 3rd grade but that does not say much. I had a guitar for a minute. I sold it to a pawn shop. It was a friend of mines and he wrote a song about me on that wooden string instrument. It was about a girl and her red pea coat and how she always was running around with her redcoat. Funny I misplaced that jacket in New York in Manhattan four New Years ago. I rode a mechanical bull that night and kissed someone I shouldn't have.  Anyways I really always wanted to be a musician or a singer. I even was in chorus for a few years till I fainted. My chorus teacher yelled at me when I fell to the floor because she thought I was faking since I fainted so "gracefully". I quit shortly after and never went on stage again. Only time I have entered a stage was to dance at a club or get my diploma for my college graduation. But there is something about being on stage that I find ever so exhilarating. First time I attempted to sing for the hell of it was in a wooden log cabin in Maine. It was the same winter I went to New York for New Years. I remember being isolated and comforted with my friend Cory and Bobby Jackson with a Great Dane/Saint Benard pup. The first time i sang along with the drums and guitars without a worry or care if I sounded wrong. It may have been the kona or cratum tea or even the ongoing whiskey. But recently I have discovered that same feeling of being okay to be in my own skin.

I think I am okay with someone drawing me nude without being inebriated

Heat my body and chill my mind.

Theres frozen bodies near behind.

she placed a snowman in a sauna to see if he would melt.

he laughed at her attempt to thaw his frozen heart.

he took her hand and and froze her memory.

he asked her to keep his possessions safe so she decided a freezer is where she stow the coal.

Noone knew where it was and she did not even know the way to unlock the door after she agreed to be a snow angel in the summer nights.

she rather be warm but she knew she could adjust to the atmosphere. she wondered why he did not want to sweat out the stress in the sauna and was contemplating how she could get to that steamy sensation he showed her before. but as she walked in the blizzard she noticed he was not the friend that would play in the songs she sang.

there was no top coat and no fancy hat to be seen. he lacked the class and hide it well under a bed of green.

though she was intoxicated with her accent she discovered the snowman does melt away. she was lucky someone saw her frostbitten nose before he stole all the warmth of her days.

listening to grey or blue at four in the morning after hearing it for the first time in the middle of the day in a room full of people in a computer room in college. I remember I had headphones on and water filled eyes with a frog in my throat.  "I notice shes your lover but shes nowhere near your heart" were the lyrics that felt so similar to the scenerio as well as how the girl singing said she is with another boy hes fast asleep and wide awake sounds how it is now.

Yet I am ever so grateful he never fought for me. The best gift he did was show me how he could not give me what I wanted.

what I wanted was something different but the same thing that I get lately all the time. He always wanted me to stay home and watch movies and be a girl to do things for him. I do nice shit all the time and noone asks me to I just want to. Weird I used to want to prove I could be a sweetheart. I was I just was not his sweetheart. I think I am actually falling in love. I want it to last yet nothing last forever I just want to embrace myself in the moment.

Now I will go back into bed and let this new boy hold me tight. I am glad I get to kiss him and I do not even need mistle toe to let that shit happen. Its as natural as the sun rising.

the drive from his house only last fifteen minutes but they felt very daunting. There was animosity in the air. But she sang on the top of her lungs ADELE, Someone Like You was on. Very ironic because it was her attempt to say I will find someone like you but better. As if she knew from the beginning he loved her not

"i can't watch you kill yourself anymore, i can't wait for you to realize your beautiful anymore. I love you but I have to let you go".

I cant live with out you spewed from the radio, damn Usher and comming on at such a coincidential time she thought to herself as well as trying hard to not let him see that she could not breathe or seriously fathom that she would go on without him. She was a lot stronger without him yet it has been so long.

Well, its been real but its been a enough. Those were her kind words.

all i want for christmas is a smile and some serenity santa

I met Santa this year.

He told me about his heart condition. I did not tell him much but I suppose he knew eveything about me aleady. He neve gave me goal even when I could have swore that is all I would recieve, even on the year my family tried to cancelled christmas.

I was suprised to see goats and chickens at the North Pole. I discovered Santa peferred the South and warm weather just as much as I did. He must have been keeping tabs on me because he even bought donkeys for this occasion. Dominque the Donkey was always my favorite Christmas song. I would kick my legs in the air as the hee haw part happened everytime. Who knew I was preparing myself for future yoga positions.

Well Santa seemed like he went through a lot. He must have seen a lot in his lifetime to have such a heart condition. He told me how his heart miraculously got bette without medicine or surgery. Just helping others and enjoying his cookies from time to time he slowly stopped worying about his life and became richer with the fruits of the world.

He actually gave me the eebie jeebies when he told me that my brown puppy eyes could make my father or anyone say yes to anything I wanted. I did not think my eyes were that persuasive although my eyes showed more of the intention of my wants and desires and fears more than my words.


When he asked me to take a picture with him he disclosed what list I was on. It was always on the good list because I was always trying to be good and that is a helluva better than just being good because then I actually do something than sit on my ass and watch the days go by till I get presents. He seemed to know I went through some crazy shit on my journey to the North Pole. I did not even plan to see him this year. I never planned to have a conversation with him let alone god or a higher power but I never planned anything so it does not suprise me that I stumble upon some spritual encounter yet again.

He told me God loved me and that I am here for a reason. Gosh that seems to be an ongoing statement. I was told my guardian Angel is a badass since I stand in cosnervative yet sassy attire sharing my substance abuse stories with fellow travelers at a detox center right before christmas. I sort of had a suspicious feeling that Santa was a lush just like me.

"you can't hide your lying eyes" is what I kept thinking when Santa spoke some truth into my soul. Even if I was acting happy you could notice the water filling inside. Well at some point I had a better fucking poker face but I took off the Lady Gaga attire as of late. But even an alien from another planet commented on my eyes. Shockingly he noticed more about me than I did myself. As I shared some discreet situations I put myself into the alien noticed how my face lit up like candle. Troublesome sort of light since I was explaining some darkness. I enjoyed the dark dances and do not know how to explain myself without being optimistically pessimistic. I did not know it was a bad thing or if it is a good thing. I do know that if I tell Santa or any of the elves my adventures with a frompy girl act then they won't be enticed to believe in my light to shine. Then again it scares me because I do not know if I will ever let go of the dark because that is how I felt the connection for an attention whore like me. I think the alien just started to see the lying eyes too and realizes how much I did to get some love and found it in all the wrong places.

Maybe it is a good thing I met Santa in the South. The North Pole is too cold for me nowadays. I need some warm smiles not a cold shoulder. I think I have met my match

vulnerable vocal chords echo from the second floor apartment

flash backs of virbrant yesterdays and vile visions haunt the happy child

theres no magic pill or sunshine she can swallow out of any bottle.

theres no suprise that the mirror reflects a stranger.

looking back she stares deeply into those dark black eyes.

they look mysterious and lost and so hurt. 

But then there is face that covers up the bruises.

For a moment she screams in hopes to silences the shakes 

It has almost been a year. Why does everything still feel so fucking near.

...there was always this strange sensation or lack there of.

but feeling more alive is scarier than feeling dead.

To live is much more unknown. 

Intoxicate me with intimacy 

Intrigue me with truth

blow my mind with beauty.

show me what it is like to feel okay to hold your hand.

 

rewind to the walking down the road.

fast forward to a place where it all makes sense.

freeze in the sun and dance alone.  messy hair tangled in a bun.

natural skin. naked nothings. momentary blissful numbing

the bruises are hidden. the smiles sporadic sprinkle the scenery.

yet the show underneath the miniskirt is more exciting than the dance she portrays .

this is an elispis....

This is nowehere the end of the story. I have yet to fathom how to start the first page of the novel to say the least.

There is a ticket to a destination I am somewhat familiar with and sometimes miss desperately. But what is it do I mis? The constant uncomfortable feeling of not being at home when I am sitting in my driveway. Do I miss people who I only recognize because I have grown up with them? Or do I really need something from this desolate prison that contained me for ever long.

I think I am just a dramatic little girl who wanted to run away from the normal to figure out her own routine instead of people coordinating it for her.

I think it is good to get a new perspective and sometimes we do need things to make us stronger even if it hurts like hell.


 Try and remember to write more just to spit out the nonsense that is fluttering around that foolish head of yours.

i do not even like you

nothing what i possess is mine, besides me mid(degree) and my body.

yet everyone wants control over it.

Bile.Breathless.Bare and naked. Braids Branded in her hair. Where is your wallet. Where went your dignity. 

you aren't as dumb as you look..
t
..your not as smart as you seem...


why is being utterly undying endearing expressed s being a non empathetic soul who is only looking out for the last period mark.

I would rather have my quotations and apostrophes then swallow up easy sentences. surrendering to serene simplicity will not suffice my seductive shadow singing tonight

the garden is anywhere you can water a root

unfamiliar destinations and sanctuaries.  spraying sirens solemnly in the Saturday sun.

Lost yet not stolen. Running but not sprinting in the ever glow of the stolen sunsets.

Seduction surrenders the smiles that are shining in the shade.

The sun stares solely in the steady serenade of this siren.

The piercing pondering pucker lips are passive to allow the phoenix to fly.

the wait wonders in the walk.

it is easy to believe because you have to have a lie in between it all.

unfamiliar destinations and sanctuaries.  spraying sirens solemnly in the Saturday sun.

Lost yet not stolen. Running but not sprinting in the ever glow of the stolen sunsets.

Seduction surrenders the smiles that are shining in the shade.

The sun stares solely in the steady serenade of this siren.

The piercing pondering pucker lips are passive to allow the phoenix to fly.

the wait wonders in the walk.


it is easy to believe because you have to have a lie in between it all.