Let's create the new world
“Duality Between Growth and Decay”
30x36
oil on canvas
It is the two-sideness of the world. The fact that everything has an opposite. People who desire wholeness, this means that we cannot have good without evil, life without death, growth without decay. Everything contains elements of both. The concept “PAIN” does not exist at all unless we also label some experiences as “PLEASURABLE”.
Take this heart and treat it well.
The last before you?
Oh! With his saffron teeth, the careless wonder, ravenous in his ways
Gnawed on its blood filled veins, draining it to feed his craze.
Take this heart and mend it softly.
The last before you?
Oh! His tapered fingers ran along its tattered cords
Plucking melodies of copper hatred,
Handled like a curse than a beloved reward.
Take this heart and mind it with patience
The last before you?
Oh! He stroked his bristles with a frail hand, neglected from the last heart he smeared while she hung by its last strand.
Take this heart and soothe its fears
The last before you?
Oh! His drunken lips ran upon her core, singing songs of mutilation
While her tears regretted ever loving the man she so long adored.
What it would be like
that when you die,
you can relive any period of time
even though the world was never at a prime
To go back,way back
would be lovely,
experience something new
that doesn’t seem to exist
Longing for the old
the wrong generation
as if a calling for you has been sent
trickling down the steps
Awaiting the arrival
of something you’ll never get
maybe you can relate
knowing I’m not the only one
who feels misplaced~
This is what I doodle and see in my head:) it is drawn with pen and ink and a lot of patience.
To buy this go to http://society6.com/dzobel/Doodle-World-1_Print
At some times I’m shouting,
At others I’m just sinking.
But I keep constantly doubting
Everything that I’m thinking.
So just lie to me, anxiety.
Because it’s clear to see,
You’re inside of me.
You can hide for weeks
Then decide to be
The closest thing to propriety.
And while depression adds variety,
I’ll show it to society
That I’m a poet in all entirety.
It’s just the way words flow and then collide with me.
But I know she knows there’s nothing she can do about
The way she feels sometimes.
It’s low and grows from the inside out,
While she’s burying smiles and digging up lies.
If only there was a way to shade the doubt,
Then maybe she’d still believe in the sunshine.
But everyday when her decay starts to sprout,
She stays blind in the darkness, until her mind re-aligns.
I believed them;
I fell into a pretend world,
streaked in utter artifice,
brimming with false promises, fanciful delights.
I was bound within
the webs of a beautiful fallacy,
for if nothing I still had faith —
but it was this that made me wooden.
A loveless faith holds no blessings;
it paints fantasies over failed realities,
it heals a heart with broken nightmares,
it creates truths from the ashes of deceit.
Such was the wretched faith
that left me broken, dangling
in the grip of illusion,
mindless and motionless.
So they tell me I am a doll,
hollow and porcelain.
And I smile; I believe.
What more can I do?
You tuff guys be wearing vest
For what i am, i don’t aim for the chest
One head shots I’m trapped within
Inside Tormenting the mind of the weak
Break you down within a matter of weeks
Casting a shadow over all you know
Make you doubt everything you thought were
Dragging your soul into the mouth of the abyss
taking you to the place where i used to live
and leave you down their like the worm you are
let you realize the life you lived
Taking and taking and never once gived
menace to my society, you’ve had your chance
Now welcome to your new realty
“Is companionship carrying an assortment of Chinese restaurant paraphernalia?” The setting sun painted the horizon with deep contusions. As it fell into the night I couldn’t help but wonder what would be next. You stood in the doorway facing me, your gaze drifting from the eyes of the owl clock on the wall down to your tarnished and torn shoes. I spoke to the window; I couldn’t look at you. “If it isn’t, I really don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t want a pet, any creature that has to depend on me for survival shouldn’t be depending on me for survival. An ageless logical puzzle with the conclusion at the heels of the premise, it is a mind numbing reality. Is it having a collection of movies that you can’t get enough of? Or maybe it’s chasing something whimsical, like a great multifaceted wingspan that was in a dream. Yeah, it must be something obscure and symbolic like that. You see something that touches your heart and you want it. Selfishness is one half of companionship anyways. Passion is probing along the lines of boiling water. It’s hot, so hot that you can’t touch it and the steam will scar you if you don’t play your hand just right. I guess that commitment is growing a plant. You water it every day; you make sure the sunlight is adequate, perfect even. You want to keep this alive.” But the effusive requiem of verdant passion died out in my voice as it cracked on the last word. The end had come and gone many sunsets ago and there was nothing to remedy the situation we put ourselves in.
You laughed hysterically at my musings, my curiosity and desperation must have been entertaining there in the kitchen among boxes filled with appliances and memories. Why else would you mock me, spit on me, defile my feelings? I was a salty breeze from the sea drawn from some foreign wild wind. Had I brought sheets of rain and sand to purify our skin while the lightning and thunder illuminated the sky and left the shore trembling for more? How pitiful I felt when you laughed, I was thinking back a passive moment between us on far off dunes when I was the mime who mocked, you were the talker and thinker. We must have switched places somewhere on the side of the road; did you ache from being near me so heavily? Nothing of what I said to the window was love, it didn’t matter. When the wind blows I’ll be there again, tracing the electric currents of the storm systems with a ballpoint pen. I chased you like the tail chases a kite through violent squalls. You said that you had somewhere you had to be. I didn’t ask where, I really didn’t want to know. The rain of my tone stopped, the timid had storm blown back out to sea. The owl clock panged away eight chimes from noon, an indication that you were waiting impatiently to leave, so you did. It stopped the minute you walked out the door, the owl must have known that it wasn’t needed there anymore. The sun had fallen leaving the October twilight bruised and bleeding as clouds kept the moon from clear view. Only swift passing glances were permitted of the bold, bright red harvest moon. Your shadow lingered on the walkway like the credits of a movie with the lunar satellite above you, still half hidden. I didn’t know how to feel then, but things change like the seasons. Nature is great, powerful, and beautiful beast that devoured memories and gave birth to new moments. We knew this home like the palms of each other’s hands. Palms don’t change, just the size of the trenches of lines in them. There was nothing ever in my life that I knew better, knew more intimately than our kitchen and my palms. Now, with all of the pots and pans packed away the house was empty, something far away that I want to forget. If only I weren’t the reflection goldfish, a vassal dependent on you for survival without benefits of short term memory loss. The owl should have struck another hour. It should panged away nine chimes while I stood alone with my hand resting on the sill of the window searching for the moon.
I painted the walls of the kitchen white a few months before, you never wanted them white. You said it was back luck, that you were always dealt the losing hand if the walls were bright. I bought a shining steel fridge to replace the one we drew on with crayons, also so I could see your hand while we played card games and drinking. Your superstitious nature was just a point to exploit for me. The doors of the old fridge were tentatively approachable with monsters and stick figure masterpieces, recreated comics from the morning newspaper, and random offensive slang or absurdist antics. I wish I could have understood why I had to do these things the same way I wish I didn’t know you’d never be home again. The tea kettle always told our secrets or whatever we wanted hidden from one another. The words would always be spewed out with the midnight howl of the water, each type of tea sending another barely audible whistle-so subtle it was almost body language alone. The moon eyed me from behind the clouds, behind the window, behind my hand that rested on the glass. The rusted autumn dead trees, their branches sprawled like claymore debris into the horizon above the park, of course, the park where we met beneath a similar moon.
I was about to leave the apartment, pulled along by the moon’s enticing gaze when I noticed it in a corner, a seemingly useless, dilapidated, and empty pot. I remembered the vines we used to grow, the small delicate turns and muses of neon green wings and leaves were almost visible along the barren shelves. Such fragile and furious life forms they were dying twice as fast and burning twice as bright. I didn’t want to accept that as our fate, but as the shadows grew beneath the sanctity of the moon, I knew. I cleaned out the drawer filled with fortunes from various Chinese diners; I read them dismally and remembered different moments in time. They hung on the small strips of paper like tombstones, just there to remind me that this happened, this passed, this is gone. I closed the door once everything was packed into the car, I couldn’t bring myself to get in and drive to the hotel. I needed to walk. With everything packed away and the walls bare, only the windows and the view from outside remained the same. I ran my hand along the mailbox and wondered why I let you change me so drastically. I was once an inquisitive burning creature like the vines, not a miserably fearful goldfish; a disparate shell of a man like the moon behind clouds, I couldn’t decide who I was from who I am. I followed the moon and again wondered where exactly I was heading beneath the faded quilt of twilight.
The clouds had all fled the sky, parting themselves as I stepped lightly down the street with the moon ahead. Before we met I was like those who absently strike judgment upon whom they grace in passing, paying far too much attention to the autumnal palette of faceless smudges that wore itineraries above their gaping heads. Through the dim lit footpaths of life, like the paths I roamed so freely on that night, I never counted myself as a guilt ridden man to deny the simple rights of judging a fellow human. He who is without hypocrisy is to become something inhuman some perfect dream of a deity who can maintain the scales. I saw the iron wrought gates of the park, so rustic and familiar; an obelisk of strength and passing. I meandered through the gates to low clouds of darkened strangers, park benches, and light posts with aloof steps like a circus act to mask my perusing of fluorescent reflections in the unfixed, downcast eyes of strangers. I chose roles to play while I feigned affection to the same story, with lightning strikes and thunderstorms, amidst blinding tragedies and miraculous rebirths in the hidden oasis of life in the undead cityscape. I needed feel like an objective observer, the silent cameraman on the sidelines of the show. Am I the dog walker, tugged along by my means to an end? Am I the pensive newspaper reader, with some other place I should be? Am I the child climbing the trunks of trees despite the chill on my lips? Effortless situations poured from me, as if I salivated over a bloodied slab of fresh cut meat, how delicious and intoxicating the scent of life had become. Couples may have passed by; embraced hand in hand, side by side, on bikes, or blades in love or in distant intervals of pushing and shoving one another. But I didn’t notice. Emotional distress carried like dandelion seeds through the trees on the wind, painful thoughts and train wreck situations become captive to the fiery hands of falling leaves. They would find themselves soon held in a stasis until the hiemal season came in full swing to sweep the vestiges of life that still remain hanging from the trees. My vibrant sinewy eyes searched not the bruised twilight sunsets for identity but the particles and persons closest to them, zoning in and emulating the essence of exotic panthers during the hunt that arch their shoulders and pass in warning, and I knew that if I got too close I’ll be eaten alive. You were one of those I had judged with casual askance, we grew close in my curiosity. I remember all these things and more, more of the imprints left behind in the park by my younger self and who I was to become, who we were, who I will be; but to you, I was a mime who wanted his eyes as a significant mettle before the majesty of crimsons cascading from the October harvest moon hanging like a halo over the park.
Stories fold
you into
my ending
of blending
you into
the flowers
of
which
you
peaked.
There is darkness
mending
you
into the lights of which you seek.
Fear nothing for the strength
from within you
is your voice
to let yourself breathe.
I’ve been acquainted with Insecurity for a while now, it’s been such a long amount of time I can’t even pinpoint, nor am I able to estimate, the moment when She decided to barge violently into my life, without so much as an invitation. She is brilliantly glamorous in every aspect, and this in turn causes me to over-analyse and question my own appearance. What must I look like next to such a captivating image? She is absolutely charismatic, in every sense of the word. She makes me feel invisible and non-existent; when She’s around I go unnoticed. She engulfs me with a blanket of insignificance; She is more intelligent, more beautiful, more talented, more spontaneous, more sophisticated, more courageous, and much more fun than I am. She is a better version of me.
She’s constantly lingering over me and observing my every move; She grabs everything I set out to do and takes it one step further, making it better. Every so often, Insecurity likes to summon the suppressed macabre details of my life, and have them shadow every positive emotion I have. The images She conjures within my mind show the best things in my life and the people I hold dearest to me— happier and better off with Her, instead of me. She could replace me; She’s better at everything that I pride myself on. She never forgets to remind me that She could make life better by a tenfold, if She were in my position instead. She is exceptional and I am less than mediocre by comparison. Her overbearing presence is perpetually projected onto me— making me feel extremely unimportant. I see Her everywhere, She surrounds me with people that reflect Her. She shakes the very core of my identity; it falters and I lose myself.
She enjoys planning invasions and attacks on my life. Associative regression occurs a lot more than I’d like— with Her hovering by my side at all times, it is inevitable. Sometimes, I manage to ignore Her. Sometimes, I can block out her constant stream of taunts and whispers about how She is an improvement of myself, and She is who everyone would prefer over me. But no matter how much I try and disregard Her words, She finds a way to force Herself back into my life, through the barriers I have built to keep Her out, and I revert back to the person I am during my weakest and worst moments. It pains me to be that person again. I have strived to be detached from Her, but She is like a stubborn stain of deep crimson upon a white shirt that refuses removal. She makes the worst of me resurface and I am thrown back into my abyss of melancholy. She calls forth Loneliness, Isolation, and Despair to accompany me here in this bottomless pit of misery.
(Original post here)
To retrieve a forest’s gold
And weave its hidden paths.
A Pursuit of men—friends too dear
To lose, with love
They prey and peer.
Two huntresses decide to spin:
Revolving headstones quiet smiling
While the hunt’s declining
Back to back they’re a ring around the
rosies
creeping ‘tween guardians of green
seemingly asleep but
they’re alive to search like these
Two Huntresses: with a crimson
net they’d never spare; this twine
shines, their own red hairs
they love to share.
But their rushing, it hushes…
Idling in spiraled awe; “such naivete” whisper the trees.
And both huntresses like gravity
return each other’s stare…
Her lush eyes, through parted lips she sings:
The reeling begins.
Laughs choke their throats;
now hot volcanic columns
burst! bubble lava that
sears, misted over by cool tears
But still they melt in heat;
Skipping laughter bounds
around cemented rests—
Life bouncing on death
How alive they are
How dead the hunt.
Two huntresses they sink:
Into rain-flushed dirt,
“Or the other’s flesh?” they think, blink
Their eyes and “huuuuuuum” a purr
only honey could hear; this loving lure
echo-locates their faces
in the cemetery’s swirling spaces.
Toes like wriggle-worms
burrowed in filthy glee; pink
into coppered earth, squish
and squish and squish and
goo and ooze their bodies
lose all separation from the
grounded earth, its warm hearth
within their skin-chambers
liberated!
No “she” and “she”, only “we”.
No her and her, an ecstatic blur.
Two Huntresses:
They sway to smile
and smile to sway, caught
in timeless time where
each other’s hands
Provide the only anchor.
Like twirling tops must
at one point stop,
So they fell.
Fingers blued in berry juice,
A new gold uncovered
And paths woven, they had looped.
Where did their friends get to?
Two huntresses regained the hunt:
Today they pulled a lovely stunt.
