eatartdaily

creative writing & photography

While Homer Slept

20840711_700979030103642_7176831531602470961_n

CHORUS OF PHILOSPHERS’ WIVES

We were ladies,
we married our husbands.
We put up with their nonsense,
on a daily basis.
If you take the whole of female suffering
with men and expressed it in fabric,
you could use it to bandage the earth’s bleeding.

What was wrong with our men?
They wanted it all.
They wanted a beautiful house,
strong sons,
and they wanted to be androgynous
men, in ornately designed
amphitheatres
in and out of the mind,
impersonating goddesses of the iron age.
We could have murdered our husbands,
so easily. They mostly fell to bed drunk,
completely helpless and susceptible.
We could have murdered our husbands
so easily, but of course we couldn’t do that
to our strong sons; it was not in our place,
to teach them, the hard way.

We gaze out of our windows sometimes.
Sometimes our gaze wanders into the timeless Aegean.
Sometimes we can sense pity for us,
but are proud ladies,
resilient.

Our husbands all call simultaneously for their dinner,
WIFE!
We sigh.
Collect our sighs and release them into the skies,
like doves.

 

Fills the spaces up

I stay up all night.
I write.
Sometimes in Japanese.

It means nothing to me.
Emblems of straying.
Colonies of exceptionally chalky loneliness,

I redistribute them across the cave walls,
the stalactites,
and the stalagmites, although.

I would not dance with Franz Kafka.
He was too graceless,
and I am brimmed with the grace, of Aphrodite,

the goddess of Cyprus,
the goddess of beauty, love,
procreation, and pleasure.

See, I was a woman once,
circa 600 B.C.,
remember me, my treasure?
Someone in the future.

I was a woman once I said, and
one of my gifts as a woman
was the language of mermaids.

With the mermaids of Homer,
for example,
I have swum

with the dolphins,
the turtles,
I have swam with the octopuses

and the whales, I swam with the apexes,
I am of my mother, and of my father
but my spirit belongs to eternity.

I sometimes sit perfectly still
as it leaps out of my body
like off of a diving board,

into the tranquil purple seas
of infinity
and I sit back, not dreaming any of it.

When I swam breathless in the sea,
beautifully,
a female poet, circa 600 B.C.

Bowl 5

20170809_140348

What keeps art alive.

I promise the last poem was not just another excuse to post another photograph of English roses I took on Thursday when it rained all day (I took an umbrella)

20170809_140344

Lust is in the mismatch

20170809_140419We talked.
I lost.
Beared the cost.

You ran.
I chased you.
Idiot.

Caught you.
Don’t leave me.
What you want.

How could you.
Not want me anymore?
First of all

try not to step on the public roses?
Second of all I just wanted to get laid.
It took me so long to realise I don’t want a

boyfriend, and if I did, it wouldn’t be you.
Cut the shit.
We were together a week.

It felt infinitely longer.
20170809_140416

Art in four bowls

Bowl 1
It was a place to have begun.

(I am using the past participle
form the verb to the best of my
knowledge to reveal something
occurring without knowledge of
the subject, for example, Shakespeare
is a language that is taught 
in which
case who teaches it is not given.)

Bowl 2
To state it has a geographical location would be untrue.

(ie, it is not a place you can find
on a map, and you will only
know you have been somewhere
else when you find yourself
back at the point A where you
started, with a clear sense of B,
although you have not moved.)

Bowl 3
Where your spirit longs to be.

(Earlier, I suggested losing yourself
in art, 
and I understand this is
uberfluous, and I had no designs
to be some sort of devil’s advocate
or worst, an evil avocado. And it is
not about the artist, is it? It is about
the work of art: a work of art that
bathes you inside and out, that
returns you to the world brand new,
like a baby.)

Bowl 4
What are mornings actually for?

(In the morning the heart feels so empty.
When you went to bed last night It was so full.
So full of glory and joy and music.
Is it your heart that is empty?
Or just your stomach?)

Bowl 5
Always a bit more than what was expected; what keeps art alive.

The beauty of a person is (eccentric)

You may decide to trust a charming man, because you are bored. But make sure you charm him back, because he is so easily distracted. A charming man could be spending his time tweeting or reading Zadie Smith novels or listening to the musical stylings of Beth Ditto instead.  The game of love could be won if one sits on a park bench and waits for summer. But imagine the patience unnecessary. The endurance. The beauty of a person is striking The brush stroke of Being at the exact point when knowing one’s self worth and humility coalesce.  We live in a world inhabited and consumed by rhythm and music. How any of us thought we could find liberation through meaning I don’t know.  One’s so-called random moments, quirky impulses and eccentric past times glue more and are truer to the odd and oblique pattern of universe.  No need to stress. Identity is merely a preconditioned social artifice designed to enslave you. Think not what I am, but what I do. Then:
Lose yourself in art.

Never sleeping beauty

It was
a good night’s
sleep, but
I wouldn’t write
a poem about it.
Ok, maybe
just a small one.
Who am I
to defy
the preciousness of time?

Questions about gold

rosessesssesewewdsWhat’s this?
It’s gold.
What gold?
To hold.

Rot gold?
Hot gold.
Dropped gold?
Real gold.

Shot gold?
Lot gold.
Not gold?
It’s gold.

What’s this?
It’s gold.
What gold?
Get a hold

Of yourself.
See what’s
in your hands.
What’s everywhere else.

What gold?
Enough gold
to fill
a Klimt picture.

To hold?
It’s yours.

What happens when I encounter Sleeping Beauty on a very rainy Wednesday afternoon

august

Sleeping Beauty,
sleep,
for another one hundred years,
because if you wake up you’ll be in tears…

as the prince is actually a dominating bear with too much body hair,
with leather, dildos, and connected hoops hanging in his closet,
and a whip for what he calls ‘your booty’,
so stay asleep Sleeping Beauty

because soon your face will be on Tinder,
and it will then be late to hinder
the cataclysmic cynicism, the utter loss of hope,
all, burnt to a cinder,
because the prince is actually a pig in a Gucci suit.

Ignore the desire to leap,
stay asleep.
Your duty is now to snooze,
to stay on cloud nine,
floating among the stars in a catsuit,
dreaming of a man actually worth your time.

Sleeping Beauty
You are so beautiful,
and your hair.
Would you mind,
terribly,

if I brushed your hair?