Without easy provisions for stating their titles or engaging in any sort of knit blanket regret, my double personalities share their druthers with idiosyncratic uses of the asterisk and aesthetic overtures of line-breaking while their discrepancies are allegorized through separate imaginative and anecdotal forms in order to consummate the same objective; that being to agitate the diacritical mark, at least, in the signifying sense.
To some extent, it’s an involuntary induced evolution in a bid to moonlight syntactic signs, of primary tired allowable behaviors, like family reunions. At this phase, the urge to borrow certain punctuation marks is driven by a compulsion to assay, not simply on a emblematic and morphological level, but on a corporeal and palpable slant, mindful of progress and pause; the advent of reference marks aren’t limited to being utilitarian, but can potentially work to impel and arouse fluctuations which can then be gesticulated onto the page.
“Friendship is a term used to denote co-operative and supportive behavior between two or more people. In this sense, the term connotes a relationship which involves mutual knowledge, esteem, affection and respect along with a degree of rendering service to friends in times of need or crisis. Friends will welcome each other’s company and exhibit loyalty towards each other, often to the point of altruism. Their tastes will usually be similar and may converge, and they will share enjoyable activities. They will also engage in mutually helping behavior, such as exchange of advice and the sharing of hardship. A friend is someone who may often demonstrate reciprocating and reflective behaviors. Yet for many, friendship is nothing more than the trust that someone or something will not harm them.”
I plot movement, filled with fumes, haze.
The callous push of the sked,
The toil I don’t even know I’m doing.
I tie a string around my finger so I will
Remember to lock the door.
Steam screams from the lips of the kettle on the stove.
I wait for the margins to appear.
A missive that blows in when needed most.
A scratch around the keyhole.
Days of nothing done, nights of startled sleep,
The expansion of a worry into a strain.
The brows cluttered, a thick furrow.
Rivers circling the mind, and the wind.
I move quickly.
There is snow in the cell.
I am a contemporary figurative painter, who creates mixed-media paintings with a penchant for bright colors, geometric shapes, and street-art forms. My work explores the relationship between cultural plurality and a recycling of pop-culture, by layering different motifs from Science Fiction film stills and quotations from an art historical background, like Symbolism and color-field paintings. Overall I am constantly studying the possibilities of oil paint as a medium and trying to push my boundaries.
Our indulgence are now complete, these bit players,
As I expected, we’re all breath, and
Are dispersed into ozone, into the very thin air:
And like the reasonless sense of this sight,
The mist held spires, the atrophied palaces,
The funeral temples, the fiery rock itself,
All which was salvaged, so decimate
And, like this insubstantial masquerade slips,
Aggrieved within sleep.
My narcissism is smaller than yours, or so I tell myself to feel better about applying a second look over the shoulder. Getting older, can’t hide this within a tacky snap of the photobooth browser, no wizard of instagram casting spells over the stories of my skin. Painting my nails incessantly in an ever rainbow of my youth, tricks to flash that little girl not totally buried unbreathing. Mulling over layered punctuation when confessing powerless prowess to the mirror.
takes practice, practice for the practical, tactical, lost being factual. Trying to cling to that ship, those hips, that spill off bottom lip. Who you are, who are you, little people looking up to you, you still holding on to youth, uncouth, drink vermouth. Where do they start and you begin, where do they stop and you churn within, twin, bruising shins. Mother dearest, dressed in finery, red lip paintings and well timed lines worth reading (are they?). lost, lost, spiral plot, dressing up to prove you’re real. material definition forgiving transgressions. Is this a crisis missus, is, was, versus, un-hear this.