written by www.instagram.com/vanessamiamatic
photo by www.instagram.com
After all the mud covered me. I am only half-human. The rest is dirt. And I’m a bastard that forgot to love you like all the yesterday’s where never owned by our lips hugging like flowers in a whirlpool. You were my whore, naked, and beautiful. I dreamed you into starlight, it covered me at night. Yet I was still restless. As we consider love like an art form, as is life; And it takes patience. It is some sort of solitude that is put together into some strange oneness and becomes some sort of romantic friction. Belonging to some unattached music that follows you even if the melody is sometimes broken. They said she was a girl that knew music but it didn’t matter much to know music, as it did to feel it. Life was relatively a dark humor comedy. If you taught me anything it was to embrace the demons because they were the fallen angels that knew how to joke. Each day was to loll and roam like a new-born, but the loving was fading from newness; Familiarity was far too empty. They kept trying to approach it in a different manner failing to see the problem was not the outside; That outside that has been created so brilliantly, with lushness and stars still unseen, music still unheard, silences still undeserved. It all came from some hidden pain that flew away with the light-birds that disappeared from view to the lighthouses; And the engines in the hearts of man created such savageness to forget their powers, and to forget the beauty of the worlds deeper designs. No one had time for anything but the quickness, and the quickness became their solitude. Even in the smallest cities you could disappear and no one would know your loneliness; As we chase our ghosts with a vodka, so pure as the figment of our youth. How I lost my way, I will never quite remember but they’re giving love away. Some thought you could buy it yet they couldn’t dance across the water, there’s only footprints in the sand. Still it was all loveless, the end pressed like diamonds glistening in a deep sea; Never found. A supermarket of tears, machine saints that dance nakedly once again. I am not sure if it is pornography in a long dress or politics. Sentimental as roses that stay late up in your bed till they dry up. Are you going to let your life pass by the instagram or the pages of the magazine. They look like us breaking. I have been smoking joints and drinking whiskey and it’s almost now 5 AM, I feel clean. The holy spirit of me, burned by live girls, girls, girls. psycho babble streets. Now the girls buy the tables. VIP, they spread they don’t seed. Men seem laughable or it’s all of us, underprivileged. The Russians, Persians, filling the street, it was down right of Melrose. Some people seemed angry by it, it was just common sense. Unity, the way things could add up without us knowing. The television set plays another Kardashian and another one. Or a hot porno-dream-chic thing off of your feed. The sky is starless and we walk over the pink stars, tonight they laugh.. Their glitter explodes, and it turns your skin to anger. Taking off clothes, sending your tears into non-sleep. The machinery, the wars we can’t stop that come back like a haunting. Where did the music, and movies go. The beach is sadder than the reel time, it’s like your shoulders in the hot sand burning off hoping it’s not the after life. But the waste piling, and that one crazy older guy hitting on all the girls makes you laughable. Believable almost that you’re in some movie and in a moment you might wake up, or a meteor might come down on the shore. I just feel so very tiny, yet claustrophobic. Almost like there’s nowhere to go, but to dream of what everyone dreaming. We almost belong to the same dream but each time we believe we’re reaching it. Well, the water just comes up and the surfers ride over the tides, I close my eyes feeling the hot mist. Surfing their happiness bringing new spirits. I can never be a sports player, I can never be a doctor, I can never be the president. Always these many things that are contradictions to our very friction. Don’t you think that the president will be the same families from years before. Impressive. Generation. Now. And tomorrows that will always become yesterdays to most. A quick good time, for memories we keep in digital cameras. Or each cruelty we tend by ignorance. No one can even be friends, even the ones you believe are slightly cultured are the worst of all. People seem to behave irrationally, I just believe their parents brought them up wrong. No manners, no small gestures, everyone’s strung out, the party seems to end too early. We all either have 2/3 jobs or none at all, or some half dumb slut job where we jingle a nut on to our butt. That’s what it looked like to me. Half-memories. Clueless responsibility. Money that everyone believed in, as if they could floss their teeth and find something there. Both sides numbed up by different obsessions. It’s 2016 how far have we come? Have you seen those revelations of those funny people that go to burning man? They throw a little dust in their eyes and think they saw themselves, or Africa, or blood diamonds. Yet, fake ones. Like the vibrations that tar them into the abyss of enlightenment. Which cereal to buy, the business men, the cladly dressed whores, the trembling men, the families, the silent storms. the free speeches. I needed another hebrew star to put in my hair to chase all the wars away, to chase all this greediness. Everything felt like hearing my name in an echo, or the echo of home that lays in peoples eyes. Even now as they turned terrible I still believed in this loveliness. Perhaps, I have just been the silliest. Only I see things this way? The flowers to water by my balcony, I sell my self free, art is free they say, but they’re charging 300 a ticket for one clowns show ..this is per ticket and then which clowns buy these tickets? I swear it’s not worth it they might call me a bad name for saying so. I went down to Venice Beach, that was enough entertainment; No charge. No wars, near sighted only gun rattles, with our liberties to have arms. This was the greatest us. We were merely awake. I had a late night snack in Chinatown. How I miss being in another place, but I look at the stones; Really they belong everywhere, I feel myself alone as them, heavy as them, but then I think I’m just another brick in the city. Maybe I’m tall as a NY building. And gosh I just miss the coldness. At least I wouldn’t melt all my feelings away, but the longer the heat the longer the wielding. Going back to sleep seems smart. I’ll just balance my love and dreams, as harmless as the child in me. I will only think of fairy tales. To be richer, prettier, better, only to believe that truly made us uglier. And there was such suffering and vacancy in youth, with all that we have been feeding ourselves on. Repeat, money, repeat material, repeat tumblr sexuality hi gloss eroticism. Repeat youth, war, mating, repeat revolution, repeat pollution, hiv, repeat romanticism, repeat all temporary lives. Why did some have so much and some so little? And that was never temporary; As humanity dressed up as a can can girl. I took a seat and watched her start kicking. Surrealism killed them with a cat. The revolution of love. The revolution of fashion. The revolution of the evolution. Whom do I concern this without a cost, but the soul painted in black where I am a stain, a holy blood. Not to be seen or out done, a no one. I put my love-less curse in you for everything you say or do. Falsely acquainted, with words on hidden pages; Words you never felt and never knew my truth within a frame of a name. Many have come before you, many have never returned. And never have I felt so sure the sex would press up against me like a seed of some almost-death. In search of the sweetness inside you that I believed existed through tears. Tears that may never come. Tears that people mistake for weakness. Magic is fading like my helium birthday balloons and the party is over, and it was never that fun. And my friends are leaving one by one. Maybe it’s just me. This broken winged bird mending, seeping fragility in the nakedness of us underneath the eyes that are watching. I shut my eyes and pretend that I am sleeping. They spoke of secrets of the world, and the clothes of many colors, the women were so beautiful, and the sacrifice begun. It was just to speak into the sobriquet of the blinding sun. I know his somewhere over there, on a hill made of sand. Well surly it’s significant how we change our delay. He knows of love but forgot to call her name.
”Truly, only love remembers us. All must be love.” -V
