Happy Birthday

To one of our fine fellows, as posted by Poetic Outlaws. And we do wish that he had chosen to remain with us, but the monster inside would just not be silent. It was not of mean spirit that he stopped his life here. When the torment cannot be withstood or silenced by alcohol or drugs or personal heavens, then the only option is suicide. Did you know that by far the depressive’s way out is a gunshot to the head? To silence the monster.

Fijo—Fixed—Attached

White fijo de dust and scare
buried alive under five floors,
Closed in a concrete mountain,
What a desperate dig co ‘ hands.

Fijo without a body anymore, touching,
quartered by the shrapnel de ‘ na bomb,
No more nose and lips, no eyes,
in the evaporated air, with no grave.

Fijo light like a butterfly
That from my empty breast you seek milk.
You and me with no more strength in this stable
While holes he kills himself and if he fights.

Fijo drowned inside the black sea
or choked inside a hold.
Three years that I feel you, and now I don’t hope,
that you have come save on the shore.

Fijo you left for the guera
And you never came back home,
You are the last thought of every night,
you are first when I wake up every day.

Fijo cor tight lace still ar arm
Barely covered by ‘ n sheet.
I want off, but I can’t do it,
I don’t want you to stay here alone.

Fijo who falls asleep inside a bed
In this dark hospital room,
The more you don’t cry, the more nun complains,
I don’t want to fight anymore and it’s bad.

Fijo you disappeared that night
Inside a night that has no end anymore.
Another spring is back,
but bring flowers that only have thorns.

Fijo beaten to death tortured,
For days and days inside a room.
Who knows how many times you called me
When hope gave up on you.

Mother. Mother.
Mother you know the pain in my heart,
You who know what pain is,
I will accept my destiny in silence.

But take my baby in your arms.
(Marazico)

William-Adolphe Bouguereau, Mercy (partial), c. 1876, private collection

William-Adolphe Bouguereau, Mercy (partial), c. 1876, private collection.

Others Sayin’…Thoughts For Today

So, I make art based on the idea that death is a part of nature and can be beautiful too. Nothing I like more than seeing nature take over a dead/abandoned thing. Not your usual post but, I thought this group might appreciate it. Enjoy!
How Does Your Garden Grow- Coz 2017
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“I wish to weep
but sorrow is
stupid.
I wish to believe
but belief is a
graveyard.”

― Charles Bukowski

Poetic Outlaws · 3 hrs · “I wish to weep but sorrow is stupid. I wish to believe but belief is a graveyard.” ― Charles Bukowski
Above Both posted on Facebook
So for myself, on this fine day of sunshine and outside noises, I’m off to the store for the necessaries of shelter-at-home: Wine and Cheese and Chocolate. Well OK, maybe a small bottle of Vodka. Speaking of, I’ve heard that liquor sales in Ohio are at a 203% increase for the year so far. How’s that for saying something?

Che

The times are too difficult right now to offer any comments other than those of revolutionaries.

When you know I’m dead
Don’t pronounce my name
Because he would stop
Death and rest.
When you know I’m dead
Say strange syllables
Pronunciation Flower, bee,
Lagrima, bread, storm.
Don’t let your lips
Find my ten letters.
I’m sleepy I loved,
I have reached silence.
(Che Guevara)

And so it is with me, the same with the ten letters.

Oh Dear

And Oh My! I saw this and could only puzzle over it. I don’t know the artist or the location or the time period. Someone did point out the shoes, suggesting the Netherlands or Holland. I suppose the time  period is irrelevant. But I don’t know the suggested meaning. A title by the artist always helps a great deal. At least it could point us in the right direction.

the psychedelic museum

The Psychedelic Museum

I understand that meaning is subjective and we can take or give whatever it is that is suggested to us. But. When I look at this I wonder if it is the skeleton of the person who lives here or if the skeleton is waiting for the person who lives here.

Or. Does the skeleton not exist for the person who lives there, the unbidden reminder of the death that awaits us all? Is it a specter? Is it that one place is set and the other is forever waiting for what or who will join us?

I do note that the skeleton is quite tired, his (or her) head tilted downward. And yet, the candle is still lit, and is new. In any case, I am fascinated by this portrait of puzzlement. Oh…oh…another thought. Is it perhaps Time that is waiting and dying at the table we have yet to join?

So you see, wouldn’t a title help? Or is one of the central reasons this is so enchanting that we don’t know?