Shot like a flower in the dance

“What can I say, I’m a sucker for abandoned stuff, misplaced stuff, forgotten stuff, any old stuff which despite the light of progress and all that, still vanishes every day like shadows at noon, goings unheralded, passings unmourned, well, you get the drift.
As a counselor once told me -a counselor for Disaffected Yought, I might add: “You like that crap because it reminds you of you.” Couldn’t of said it better or put it more bluntly. Don’t even disagree with it either.”

-House of leaves, Mark Danielewski

This that you gaze on, colorful deceit,
that so immodestly displays art’s favors,
with its fallacious arguments of colors
is to the senses cunning counterfeit,

this on which kindness practiced to delete
from cruel years accumulated horrors,
constraining time to mitigate its rigors
and thus oblivion and age defeat,

is but artifice, a sop to vanity,
is but a flower by the breezes bowed,
is but a ploy to counter destiny,

is but a foolish labor ill-employed,
is but a fancy, and, as all may see,
is but cadaver, ashes, shadow, void.

                                                                   -Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz

                                                            (Translated by Margaret Sayers Peden)

I always thought truth was somethig you could hold in your hand, or put in your pocket. Like a stone, or a coin, or a picture of your kid inside your wallet.

Never did i know, the TRUTH

I didn’t once question whether the rancid words that slipped off your tongue were merely parables, or hand crafted myths, which bore not substance, but holes into my soft brain which was, and still is developing

I swore up and down that the history books didn’t have me fooled, as your slick lips kept moving and moving           

-JD                    

(it’s so strange I wrote this several months ago and now it holds greater significance than ever)

it’s only slightly unnerving (not at all surprising)

to see that you are still the same soul-sucking sycophant of anything

easy enough to claim

as your own.

Behind the door, you’re nothing more 

than a silly chameleon who must continuously wander 

to evade the shit parade that will always inevitably follow

a hapless, hollow figure who must continuously squander

anything with th potential to recreate or in the least,

elevate

I too was a fool in your game.

It’s a realization that at times latched on like an ugly parasite

something too that always seemed to spite me

and spit at me

despite this, I always knew

even in naive and (still) developing youth

there exists indeed a vacuum of socialization, reputation, physical health, material wealth, power, prestige, sanity, vanity, respectability, humility, divinity, naivety, fortritude& solitude

but not of the soul

You can take my words & claim them as your own,

have them

their yours

such as my “innocence”, which in your words produced a bloodstain on the bed

but, like many of your words

are neither your own, or in the case that they are, true

some just love to create bloodstains, not quite the ones they claim to lust for,

the overzealous,shock value-thick, campy gore

but the ones which serve to make an imprint, what they hope will be a shadow burned into the wall forever

part what they really consist of/part what they wish they were

i’ll remain living while your bloodstain continues fading

-JD