benign-masochism

[benign-masochism]

Reblog this if your blog is a safe haven for ALL non-white, disabled, trans, queer, and/or women, and your ask box is open to anyone who needs it tonight, or anytime, for the next few years.

my blog was created to house my poems, but this week i’ll make an exception, because I want all humans to know, they are welcome here, on my blog, on our earth and in the whole universe, if I have anything to do with it.

[benign-masochism]

Farewell Gallery

In the gallery of my life,.  Paintings gaze down at me,  As if in unmerited reverence.  The colours on the canvas Wind up like wild vines on a wall. Close the chapter of doors unopened.

As I trot up and about,  Trying to figure out, What all these paintings talk about  I find that they are not an image of my soul,  But loosely held fragments of my reality.  Close the chapter of doors unopened.

From the inception of my being,  Where a bud,burst into colours of annoying cries, To the entertained nuances of a confused teenager,  None could highlight how empty my soul really was. Close the chapter of doors unopened.

Empty canvases felt more alive,  Had more going for them- An invested incest between fabric- Empty tables were more grounded,  But I neither belonged to the wind or earth,  To the cold snow or welcoming, warm hearth.  Close the chapter of doors unopened.

I lay down to breathe in the fumes of my redundant existence,  Feeling like an industrial failure that never made it to the workshop.  I reach out to feel the brush of air on the tip of my fingers,  And meet the light that, from the moon, always lingers.  Close the chapter of doors unopened.

With eyes half shut, and my arms at half mast,  I feel the rumble of my disappointed heart, As it fights is discordant thump and beat.  This isn’t the sensation of death, it is far much worse,  It is decaying in a body that is full of vitality.  Close the chapter, shut the door.

[benign-masochism]

Silver Coins

She dropped silver coins in my tipping jar, For a strange reason, I felt covered in filthy silver,  Filthy silver that I sold my own sight Filthy silver that I sold my own might,  Filthy silver, that no good can right. As the coin glared at me with its piercing head,  I could feel my worth being sold to her,  To her, the highest bidder. But how can I hinder The slave trade that happened in a shutter of a second The slave trade that shuttered my generation- to the second. The jingle of the coins, was her crack of the whip,  And, I a little bit whimsical with the seduction of submission,  I laid down my heart, body and soul on her plate,  Served cold.

[benign-masochism]

You put filters on your pictures, Red tint Blue tint No hint At all that these colours will never fade the melanin in yor skin. You put up a wall of glorious quotes and industrial smiles, Pictures of self portraits groomed by a thousand admirers. Groomed and grooming the next generation for a World War ME, Where the conference of battle will be in closed bedrooms And patriotism will be to the individual nation you built in your mind. Filters and walls will always keep the world away from us But, as sure as men cry in the rain to cover up their tears, Your soul's face will walk the empty streets of your city streets, Will you be impressed? Will you be entertained?

[benign-masochism]

LONELY PETAL

He abandoned her because she couldn’t handle the pressure Of knowing that every happy moment had a dark valley following In her head, she was captive to her emotions and phobias They chained her up and plastered her on a wall for all to see, For all to judge and scrutinize the scars on her frail feeble arms.  Joe orchestrated ways to unabashedly bash her self esteem,  Through sweet phrases he slithered into the nape of her insecurities  Her insecurities that he claimed to carry with her  Were now his to string along her emotions and ambitions And dissolve her mind in the acidity of his toxic lies.

Time lapsed,  She relapsed,  Scarred her laps And now he gently places her heart on her laps And, with strict calculation, extrapolates the impossibility of their love On the graph of her endless devotion, now blurred with tear lines.

She sits,  She weeps,  Her lips,  Do sip,  The drip drop Of blood from atop  Her crown of thorns Rosy with blood For all the harm She did to herself,  And on the headstone she carries slowly to her grave,  She places a tiny hourglass, full of all the rubies in her past,  They, a brave mark of the time she had love, courage and colour.

And now, on a desolate field, she lays her headstone,  And with her scarred and tiny tender fingers,  Starts to scratch the dry, barren earth, swallowing dust With a face of disgust.  Every inch she digs, her tears well in the hole of her heart And release torrents upon torrents of a minds bleeding woe On the dusty ground.  It softens,  It opens A world she can be accepted in,  Lonely Dark Barren as the womb of her mind.  Where freaks like her congregate in desolation.

She is a meek freak Quite literally sick.  Merited with abuse and accusations, Paired with the leprosy of society,  For she is contagious and outrageously generous with her condition.

She is a sick freak,  Her ambitions not worth a dime,  Her heart not worth a happy chime.

That’s why she wants to die.  But she’ll always conveniently lie And turn her darkness into a fake smile.

[benign-masochism]

Scarred Tissue.

Why don’t I hide my scars,  Or try to manufacture stories Whenever asked why I do this?  Well,  Stories are a mirage of reality,  My scars are a reality of causality, They don’t have genres to chose from Whether to hurt in horror  Or cut in Neruda’s romantic sorrow,  They are just scars for all the times My mind was weighed down By the weight of heart’s frown And couldn’t find the right words To save the heart from hanging so low So I figured I should only myself, solo Rather than lead others astray, no more. So with razors and broken bottles, I cut and etched my sorrow in red tears, Where I could finally see all my fears. But I keep my scars, I talk to them with every stroke of my fingers, They are the painful memory that still lingers.

So why hold on to the past they ask?  Because they’re a beautiful memory, That I’m alive and not just a fragment of history That they are marks Of a lad headed towards victory.  And, I look forward to what is ahead Rather than the darkness in my head.

[benign-masochism]

Rupture Of Nothing (Tribute to a lad unknown)

We are busy fighting diseases, Forgetting it all eventually ceases- Whether in death or recovery= But we forget to fight the adversary, The very face behind the fear of death, One who steals our good health And silences the big dreamers.

But you, sir, conquered death, Fought it until it gave you Passage to Heaven’s glory.

Many will say you passed away, I will say you live on.

[benign-masochism]

Roliet

Tears are the doorway  To the labyrinth of the heart.  Watch my veins scamper Down my eyes  Feel your reins chamfer Around my neck,  Tonight,  I trade in your soft hands For a noose around my neck,  And your warm hug,  For a kick to the chair.  Don't hold your breath Love.  Don't hold my hand Love.  Don't jest my mind Love.  Let the trap door fall,  Hear my neck snap,  Crackle and tackle  Against the noose. My love,  Our love is still alive,  I'll keep it warm in the grave. 

[benign-masochism]

I can and You

Whales are swimming in the sky I bathe in their warm blue saliva A strange time to be alive-huh? My soles and socks are soaked,  In the rain that flows by and by,  Look at that blue tree cloaked,  Its red roots bloom in winter..  My children, suckle  Suckle at your fathers' breasts,  Watch as your mothers split wood, With a kitchen knife and spoon.  Cuddle with the smooth rugged stones,  They will make smooth your plastic bones. You doubt reality?  Maybe you're a rebel to causality. Expecting to taste the sun And soak in its water Expecting to cut your wrists,  And walk with your fingers.  One and two may never come together,  But "I can" and "you" is a forbidden  endeavor.

[benign-masochism]

To Be Created is to Die

We don't need to be human To love,  We don't need to be animals  To survive,  We don't need to be plants To grow,  But  We need to be alive To die So live.  For death is not an option,  But a luxury for all creation Engulfed in the entropy Of the decaying earth.

[benign-masochism]

2013 Kozlovic Malvazija

Pretty pleased with this Malvasia from Croatia! Lemon, apple, pear, sage, and grains of paradise on the nose. Lemon, apple, pear, sea salt, hint of macadamia nuts and almonds, and grains of paradise on the palate. Unoaked, fresh acidity. Really, really nice. Bring on some seafood risotto!

4/5 bones

$$

Malvasia Bianca

13% abv

CROATIA

[benign-masochism]

ADDICTION

Addiction. Yes The tight bodied girl at the booth when you have a wife and two daughters The gray smoky ring When you have half a lung and dark lips The infamous "bottoms up" When your liver is begging you to stop The silver gleam of a rusty syringe When your hearts giving up on carrying a corpse You see it's not the little puff or silent gulp that kills you It's the guilt trapped inside you that pushes you off the edge.

[benign-masochism]

ADDICTION

Addiction. Yes The tight bodied girl at the booth when you have a wife and two daughters The gray smoky ring When you have half a lung and dark lips The infamous "bottoms up" When your liver is begging you to stop The silver gleam of a rusty syringe When your hearts giving up on carrying a corpse You see it's not the little puff or silent gulp that kills you It's the guilt trapped inside you that pushes you off the edge.

[benign-masochism]

MERRY LITTLE ROSE

There was a merry little rose That sucked up all the water from the hose its leaves were smiling green and her petals perky red. When yellow high sun burned and healthy soil dry turned Played a sad ballad of low note to her leaves oh perky rose. She dreamt of daytime high tide So she closed up as if she'd died. But moonlight favoured her with tears Of a swollen grey cloud amidst her fears So don't give up merry rose Your tears will dry up with all your woes.

[benign-masochism]

PLUCKED ROSE

They sat there in silent shame The symphony of emotions brewed into an endless storm of tears not shown and screams not heard. They covered themselves in obscurity and awkwardness. He had plucked the rose The garden looked empty and bare He plucked the ruby from the ring the diamond from the crown now the queen has no place. He looked at her with a different eye One that had seen the stars and had not been pleased.

[benign-masochism]

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