Not Knowing...
written by Moralygray 10/06/2013
Humbled... I retreat to that pseudo sanctuary now...
I admit a place not so genuine as one should expect...
What might others think of it? I can not say, not knowing...
written by Moralygray 10/06/2013
Humbled... I retreat to that pseudo sanctuary now...
I admit a place not so genuine as one should expect...
What might others think of it? I can not say, not knowing...
Dwelling there, are one perhaps two appreciable pieces of art...
One sketched by a brave young Artist, who is ebbing towards blindness everyday...
Afflicted by a deteriorating inherited condition...
The piece... An image of his good eye...
A clear example of tremendous vision and he not having sight... Could he see it once finished?
I bought it years ago... For eighty bucs... Obviously, I ripped the poor guy off... It's all I had...
Has he finally lost all of his sight? Does his vision persist? I can not say, not knowing...
The other piece, cracking on a stretched canvas...
Eighties era political satire somehow still poignant...
The style, passé possibly...
Rescued from a shelter for drug addicts... It had been abuse... Had things thrown at it...
It was painted by some unknown junky that may have died...
Died years ago... Died? I can not say, not knowing...
All else on these red wood walls, emboldened unsophisticated efforts to mimic those other dabblers of the medium who went first...
Styles contrived... Californication... A synonym for that impotent sybaritism...
Fake... Lauded... Praised... Highly valued by tacky people... From that LA Milieu...
Bargain basin crap at the discount crafts supply store...
Might there have been some actual intrinsic heart felt meaning to those that praise it...
I just can't get into their heads... I can not say, not knowing...
A Haiku scribbled onto the remanence of a cardboard box that was once a case of Irish whiskey...
It clings to a cheap balsa wood covered door with a push pin... Prominent, crooked, askew, perfect...
Written by a new found friend; brilliant poet Derrick Selb...
"EVENTUALLY SISYPHUS LEARNED TO LOVE CRUSHED FLOWERS."
I'm certain of it's poignancy... A sentiment relevant to a cathartic exit from his own unique tribulations...
Others will see it and be affected so... They will weep and cheer...
A cracked wooden handled ice pick against a colossal block of ice...
I find it now, an epitaph to the pertinence of my guileful, ever so aloof, irreverent muse...
Someone once said, "What you refuse yourself in this world, you will be denied in the next."
I regret my past lives...
My love, a soft scented sandalwood Mala bead on a string of one hundred and eight unrequited loves...
She gave up on me... I've been here before... Unfulfilled, aroused, erect, this side of nirvana...
Each time I am told... I am to be spared pain, But it is the same at the beginning, the middle or the end...
The pain persist... She doesn't want me... She never has, never did... truly...
How could she not have seen that we are one and the same...
I dare not ask her for fear of that dreadful reaffirmation... Nothing...
I can only walk away now... I simply can not say... Not knowing ~
One sketched by a brave young Artist, who is ebbing towards blindness everyday...
Afflicted by a deteriorating inherited condition...
The piece... An image of his good eye...
A clear example of tremendous vision and he not having sight... Could he see it once finished?
I bought it years ago... For eighty bucs... Obviously, I ripped the poor guy off... It's all I had...
Has he finally lost all of his sight? Does his vision persist? I can not say, not knowing...
The other piece, cracking on a stretched canvas...
Eighties era political satire somehow still poignant...
The style, passé possibly...
Rescued from a shelter for drug addicts... It had been abuse... Had things thrown at it...
It was painted by some unknown junky that may have died...
Died years ago... Died? I can not say, not knowing...
All else on these red wood walls, emboldened unsophisticated efforts to mimic those other dabblers of the medium who went first...
Styles contrived... Californication... A synonym for that impotent sybaritism...
Fake... Lauded... Praised... Highly valued by tacky people... From that LA Milieu...
Bargain basin crap at the discount crafts supply store...
Might there have been some actual intrinsic heart felt meaning to those that praise it...
I just can't get into their heads... I can not say, not knowing...
A Haiku scribbled onto the remanence of a cardboard box that was once a case of Irish whiskey...
It clings to a cheap balsa wood covered door with a push pin... Prominent, crooked, askew, perfect...
Written by a new found friend; brilliant poet Derrick Selb...
"EVENTUALLY SISYPHUS LEARNED TO LOVE CRUSHED FLOWERS."
I'm certain of it's poignancy... A sentiment relevant to a cathartic exit from his own unique tribulations...
Others will see it and be affected so... They will weep and cheer...
A cracked wooden handled ice pick against a colossal block of ice...
I find it now, an epitaph to the pertinence of my guileful, ever so aloof, irreverent muse...
Someone once said, "What you refuse yourself in this world, you will be denied in the next."
I regret my past lives...
My love, a soft scented sandalwood Mala bead on a string of one hundred and eight unrequited loves...
She gave up on me... I've been here before... Unfulfilled, aroused, erect, this side of nirvana...
Each time I am told... I am to be spared pain, But it is the same at the beginning, the middle or the end...
The pain persist... She doesn't want me... She never has, never did... truly...
How could she not have seen that we are one and the same...
I dare not ask her for fear of that dreadful reaffirmation... Nothing...
I can only walk away now... I simply can not say... Not knowing ~
