by Dontrell Lovet't
from, [To Whom All Humanity is Dreaming]
A pen, a pad and a dream; that's all the starving artist truly has, colossal haunting, evaporation into reality. Malevolent lassitude are frequent, sporadic bouts of nostalgia; they want to reconcile, they want reckonings, but art has become their predominant, has become predominant, superimposed itself as the vessel in which to channel their self-loathing, they, the vassal to shifting identity. Art is the thing of immortality, the road to immortality, time seems limited, because when one charts their inner darkness, they become not only aware of their impending demise, they can feel it.
They cannot create if they don't eat, or they don't eat if they don't create. Money is borrowed, then given away, always on the verge of utter collapse, their soul is a devouring force inasmuch it cannot devour itself- it burrows, deeper into the abyss of the body, refuses to resurfaces and enrages every sense without fail.
Their life has nothing to do with the scientific method; there is no controlled variables, more over, there is no control. Chaos is so frequent that in time, it becomes mastered, expected, commonplace, a tantamount, their equal. Lovers are transitory in their transitory homes. A few books, a desk, a pen, a pad and a dream- that is what makes it a home and if they fail to feel the comforts of homes, it is when the dream has called upon them to move, to another flat, into the arms of another lover, closer to an immuno-compromised fiction; there is not only a refusal to live anyway else, it is the incapability. Text is started, then abandoned, volumes of poetry are composed, then burned; the philosophical means to become a victim has thus far failed to rear its decapitated head; the void has become immense, vast, finite, a desert's sandstorm that continues its migration over the lush Savannah. Everything alive becomes endangered, Autumn is the only season that becomes the death of things, of all, the earth will soon become a desolate world, a fiber, a fabric of evolution brought to a standstill.
The horizon never stops receding and pain is forever unraveling in the disposition, the inherent, as the dream they dream is the same as when they were fetuses in utero; the juxtaposition to nothing, to no other man, in the sense of a scattered intellect, asymmetrically astute. The only genius is the possession of genius, an unmastered essential that drives man first to success, then infamy, then an indigent death.
There is a pen, a pad, a dream; religion is partially abandoned, if not, completely, family has fled and if they are still present, they are gone. Medicinal cures, psychiatric wards, sanatoriums have been built to house this askew visionary, yet chased to the ends of the earth, launching their words and art into the wind just before the plunge off the edges.
A pen, a pad and a dream; that's all the starving artist truly has, colossal haunting, evaporation into reality. Malevolent lassitude are frequent, sporadic bouts of nostalgia; they want to reconcile, they want reckonings, but art has become their predominant, has become predominant, superimposed itself as the vessel in which to channel their self-loathing, they, the vassal to shifting identity. Art is the thing of immortality, the road to immortality, time seems limited, because when one charts their inner darkness, they become not only aware of their impending demise, they can feel it.
They cannot create if they don't eat, or they don't eat if they don't create. Money is borrowed, then given away, always on the verge of utter collapse, their soul is a devouring force inasmuch it cannot devour itself- it burrows, deeper into the abyss of the body, refuses to resurfaces and enrages every sense without fail.
Their life has nothing to do with the scientific method; there is no controlled variables, more over, there is no control. Chaos is so frequent that in time, it becomes mastered, expected, commonplace, a tantamount, their equal. Lovers are transitory in their transitory homes. A few books, a desk, a pen, a pad and a dream- that is what makes it a home and if they fail to feel the comforts of homes, it is when the dream has called upon them to move, to another flat, into the arms of another lover, closer to an immuno-compromised fiction; there is not only a refusal to live anyway else, it is the incapability. Text is started, then abandoned, volumes of poetry are composed, then burned; the philosophical means to become a victim has thus far failed to rear its decapitated head; the void has become immense, vast, finite, a desert's sandstorm that continues its migration over the lush Savannah. Everything alive becomes endangered, Autumn is the only season that becomes the death of things, of all, the earth will soon become a desolate world, a fiber, a fabric of evolution brought to a standstill.
The horizon never stops receding and pain is forever unraveling in the disposition, the inherent, as the dream they dream is the same as when they were fetuses in utero; the juxtaposition to nothing, to no other man, in the sense of a scattered intellect, asymmetrically astute. The only genius is the possession of genius, an unmastered essential that drives man first to success, then infamy, then an indigent death.
There is a pen, a pad, a dream; religion is partially abandoned, if not, completely, family has fled and if they are still present, they are gone. Medicinal cures, psychiatric wards, sanatoriums have been built to house this askew visionary, yet chased to the ends of the earth, launching their words and art into the wind just before the plunge off the edges.
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