mind.wolf

"erosion, stringent inhalation, decay. is it to no fault but the square tumult? the porous belt..."

Mon, 27 May 2013 18:21:00 -0400

“erosion, stringent inhalation, decay.
is it to no fault but the square tumult?
the porous belt strung around my waist.
i am no more i am no more i am no more”

- myself

"A certain Florence. The Mausoleum. The mind is an organ. A certain Florence. Playing along, the..."

Sat, 27 Apr 2013 08:13:00 -0400

“A certain Florence.
The Mausoleum.
The mind is an organ.
A certain Florence.
Playing along, the surfaced hymns.
And silent and active, and the night pivots.
This frame of mine, crowns of stone, erected breath.”

- myself

"Sometimes it is important to belong to no one, and to be no one."

Thu, 25 Apr 2013 10:32:00 -0400

“Sometimes it is important
to belong to no one,
and to be no one.”

- myself

"there are worse evils."

Wed, 17 Apr 2013 08:54:00 -0400

“there are worse evils.”

- myself

"I’ll tell you this.. I’ll tell you death comes closest when your can no longer hope- I..."

Thu, 21 Mar 2013 16:07:56 -0400

“I’ll tell you this.. I’ll tell you death
comes closest when your can no longer hope-
I can, no longer dream- I see patterns breathe-
The floors inflamed by a most driven scurry.
The thorough need to create.
The tarry. The ocean waves.
And you can feel it almost silently.
And if I caught your discomfort, forgive me.
I intake the fluid tears of bathers.
The skinny cat’s ribs bridge against her fur.
I’ll travel the night until I break it.
I’ve wanted to cry for so long.
I’m resolved Tina.
I want only, a few more months.”

- myself

"Fine, here we are The madness increases. The spiral, terrible circles and night. Venetian plaster..."

Mon, 11 Mar 2013 23:37:16 -0400

“

Fine, here we are
The madness increases.
The spiral, terrible circles and night.
Venetian plaster and my hands stomach
an uncertain birth. My hands tremble you see
with the purest longing- fingers mirror the
provoked will of crayons grasped.
I long for white, and blues- bring me
the sun for these pages- bring me the
mule hours of work. exhaustion.
I resist your sleep.

And here it is,
Right hand construction.
Left hand structure.
That which escapes is birth.
It is conviction led by abandonment.
It is consistency in blindness.
The human discipline.
The old symbols destroyed.
All in the name of the sublime.

”

- myself

"o ato não vai acabar"

Fri, 08 Mar 2013 06:45:57 -0500

“o ato não vai acabar”

- myself

"at the point where you can no longer see, you become a beast, you are monstrous. is this the climax..."

Mon, 25 Feb 2013 14:59:00 -0500

“at the point where you can no longer see,
you become a beast, you are monstrous.
is this the climax of our hearts?”

- myself

"the damaged parameters beg of your forgiveness. and i would stand there with the shining cries of..."

Thu, 21 Feb 2013 18:58:00 -0500

“the damaged parameters
beg of your forgiveness.
and i would stand there
with the shining cries of violins,
and strike the rivaled smiles
until pavements bellowed.
i enjoy this demise.
it is the darkness that is most tender.
it is in kissing you my dear, Isobel
and knowing that after today,
i will never play you.”

- myself

"the mind fights crookedness and seeks perfection. a structure built by design. repeat institutes..."

Wed, 06 Feb 2013 15:55:36 -0500

“the mind fights crookedness
and seeks perfection.
a structure built by design.
repeat institutes comfort
institutes structure.
but if the object is broken,
if it is vulgar- then the mind
is forced into abstraction.
a response to the unaccustomed
creates strife. the mind straggles
and is aware and retaliates.
the mind seeks perfection.
it fights crookedness.
the left hand is crooked
the shutters curtain my sight.
the symbols are broken and suspended.
rigidness flails the vigor of drums on page.
and i scratch this surface.”

- myself

"the man is a sinner"

Sun, 03 Feb 2013 13:47:00 -0500

“the man is a sinner”

- myself

"to be able to sit and stir and spin. the heater spits and does nothing. the winds are a howler. and..."

Sun, 27 Jan 2013 17:51:00 -0500

“to be able to sit and stir and spin.
the heater spits and does nothing.
the winds are a howler.
and with my cross i cringe
and i curse and i twist.
and i don’t expect god to love me.
i don’t expect him to know why
i go into his cathedral tombs.
why is it that the end feels so close?
the room mutters behind me.
that grey-blue evening.
i drag its birth through memory.
knees tremble and still,
i fight these stairs.
fluid fume, you hiss with
a coward’s warning.”

- myself

"i will curse the moon for its selfishness and i will burn every steeple who dared to touch your..."

Thu, 17 Jan 2013 19:33:00 -0500

“i will curse the moon for its selfishness
and i will burn every steeple who dared
to touch your sky. i felt this urge with gusts,
that turquoise stone stung like thunder.
that utter, clenched and swallowed.
that which breathes our end.
i worship the souls of men dead
and praise their echoed humming.
against my chest with sudden beating,
i struggle to eat, i taste nothing.
should i fear the narrowed corner turning,
fled by distance from your eyes?

all that i paint will find you.”

- myself

"come to me! come to me golden muse and rise. the night designs this offering. I die, bemused. I,..."

Tue, 15 Jan 2013 01:40:00 -0500

“come to me!
come to me golden muse and rise.
the night designs this offering.
I die, bemused.
I, the man fueled by the cruel
taste of longing.
dissection.
the molded ceiling rots.
twists, crooked twists and drops of water,
stop at my hand’s reaping.
I loom. I rue with knees seeking.
the walls hold vacant my shadow’s furnace.
the candle bursting.
golden bloom, let the lines enter.
let them find me, shelter and doom.”

- myself

"for crayons and oil pastels and paper, my shadow burns. i cannot smell the cinnamon, my shadow..."

Sun, 13 Jan 2013 09:20:00 -0500

“for crayons
and oil pastels
and paper, my shadow burns.
i cannot smell the cinnamon, my shadow burns.
i cannot see without crayons and charcoal.
the coal miner- celle qui aimait vous n’est plus.
pluie de plumes, plumes de pluie.”

- myself

"this is Siberia. the rations are half. the climate is rough. the hours long. the sleep empty-..."

Wed, 02 Jan 2013 20:07:00 -0500

“this is Siberia.
the rations are half.
the climate is rough.
the hours long.
the sleep empty- haunting.
dreams are labyrinths with
turns and fury waiting.
this place is Siberia.
my mind possessed.
I open blank gates with
a heaviness unweighed,
those that none can see.
I, a slave to its towering
am without peace.
I blame no one.”

- myself

"I believe within us lies a great unknown. I believe that each of us, depending on our own..."

Fri, 28 Dec 2012 18:56:00 -0500

“I believe within us lies a great unknown.
I believe that each of us, depending on our
own experiences and circumstance, possess
deepness, a mystery surrendered and disposed.
I use myself as subject.
I use my left-hand as a gateway.
And with it, I can pierce blindly.
And from it, I can only widen the gap.
I can, through fostering- through a most
disciplined approach, sink into endlessness.
To sink with eyes and stomach.
That vision which appears slowly- that which I see
and hold unto. That moment arrives and is new.
As both hands, both left and right close.”

- myself

"i felt no grave. i heard the sound. it followed, sailed, sung. the single kiss of whispered..."

Fri, 28 Dec 2012 01:26:30 -0500

“i felt no grave.
i heard the sound.
it followed, sailed, sung.
the single kiss of whispered tales.
no wind, no vacant crowing.
the burning frail ember.
no laughter. no home.
immortal and poor.”

- myself

"to summon with great strength that which exists and is hidden, requires blindness. I can thus rely..."

Sat, 15 Dec 2012 20:25:28 -0500

“to summon with great strength that
which exists and is hidden, requires blindness.
I can thus rely on no other approach than that of passion,
as it is undoubtedly and most earnestly my only truth.”

- myself

"A certain glimmer and I have lost all control. Magnified, I move under the spell of its glow. I have..."

Wed, 06 Jun 2012 20:43:00 -0400

“A certain glimmer and I have lost all control.
Magnified, I move under the spell of its glow.
I have re-purposed the function of the canvas.
Its entity should be lifeless and casual.
As a corpse is marked for burial so too
shall my canvases be. And my approach
will be sudden and I shall strike it with the
careless blow of passion. For that which has
been buried will now be excavated and I,
the gravedigger of canvases shall embark
on a journey of spirit- where recklessness,
empowered by desire shall be met with reason.
Reason shall be found from within its depths.
For the canvas is my rival and to face it blindly,
armed only by my will should bring me further
into its grasp- deeper into the unknown.
An unveiling of its most hidden truth.
I search with endless devotion- governed by the
humming whispers- the masters of my mind.”

- myself