Tag: Art
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“Sketch of Homey Cottage” by edenbray.
A white stripe daubed across, broken up from left eye to right there is the cottage
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Of Poetry and Fire (Analysis #1: “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot).
“And in short, I was afraid.” T.S. Eliot reveals it all here. We can go home now.
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Happy Blog, Happy Life.
Buckle up, kiddos. We’re going to learn how to be happy. Or at least try to.
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Let it die.
Turn away from the resuscitations there the dream warrants the saplings, she in the lithology of life, the posies leach in mother’s touch, stands retracted in the tears from the ocean, weeping in the enchant as I feel the shame of the eventide; the last breath to the inhabited throes of the shore if swallowed in the vanity of torpor, a slumber to the tower of ice in the stars alive
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bloom.
Desert, her eyes are morsels to the jasmine and roses once grown from her wrists, between the flowers in each white finger, whilst the moon falls, leaves barefoot in winter, deserved for posturing an abyss this dance, like an atramentous sea;
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For mercy. (Updated with audio recording).
An epilogue of a vista in father’s ocean eyes; the echo of the dream fallen in conniption a chrysalis of fuckery
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Eyes #2
Eyes lissom, lost twinned in amnesia of darkness wrapped around the orphaned dream interwoven alone leave me alone
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Forgotten (to silence).
Stare at the ceiling, I am an afterthought, dreams cast forgotten memories in twilight’s tongue rivaling alone
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Early dark.
In our face like waves, receded with flickers That are evasive in our bones with ferity Void of discovering dreaming, these fluencies In evocative tremors, prospering the pigweeds In the fallen dusk arcs upon the belts of snow, Appearing to crawl, swaddled within a darkroom In the depths of your mind
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Unquiet Light.
Originally posted on Pseudopsychosis.:
When the hand lays on sights, dead, That collapsed dust from earlier time, That acceded some time beyond the winds, lead With the lining, cried at first breath. Doth the rooms that kiss the gold of night As when the mutters of veiled chance Bested the light that silence commended, strife,… -
Valhalla. (Prose)
It is in the beige evening by the willows and a café restaurant with the golden leaves and their shards on the grounds, covered in a cleansed rain. It is in the illumination of shatters that broke beyond the pale sky that not only writhes among itself, but will be only among a frail sight like memory, a seed into the dead fruit of tree.
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I’ll Remember.
As I touch the river that trembles upon my weak sunlit torrents upon a gentle lick of lilac, And I shiver upon the pale wisteria of the eventide like a wounded deer, For I wonder upon the dark lavender skies, and their cracked gentle weeping rivers That glint upon the surface below the Acrylic golden trees, and their blossoming tormented thunders
Pseudopsychosis. 