Chronicles from the Gutter. - Page 2

Till my heart stops beating, I'll sing a closure song to each and single bum.
You are caught in a wave taking you into a voracious hurricane deep within the blue.
You never pay attention to what they have but to what they forgot behind...


People bring their sickness and insecurities into relationships. Each individual- that who didn't find freedom within- will find it a convenient platform or a pedestal call ot whatever you want but on second thought a pedestal is reserved for a one man show, the couple on the other hand is a circle and sometimes it becomes vicious, it's a ship and it sinks, cause theirs a hole you see, that we need to fill, a 'beance' as a paranoid French human thinker once said. As I said they find it a suitable ground to spit their demons out. Hoping that the other will be his or her savior. Aah for a second they forget that Hell as we know it is the other. And its always absolute.

Those fishes who dabble and shiver in front of the glass...what do they want? They have pink and green stones and a heart on a stick waving up from still water.
I unfolded the tied ropes of my curtains. For a day I thought I should contain my exhibitionist drives and experience privacy and pleasure intimacy with the curtains wide open.

I'm waiting for the stars, the dusk is still at its end, I'm going to lay down on the ground and lose everything I am in the skies, I will be in total forgetfulness of everything I know, I will stare so hard till everything becomes black, a second of disappearance and when you come back you will feel homesick and the need to go forward into the dark.


I will die when I finish the tune of my life. And all life that is held will be your killer. Sprout it out, even if they will stone you when you fall into that pit; that bridge that you cross every single day to market your vanity on a beggars hand.
Hazy under the summer sun. tall cement buildings, ivory towers that we break for seven years of disillusionment.
Oniric warnings given to me in a language I don't understand. In the mornings i read the dictionary and learn all the words starting with a and ending with z.
shush your singing birds or let them loose to the silence that comes with freedom.
Leaving bloddprints behind, will the person behind this mirror save me, will I become all that you see?

A heart of fire wakes up the sleeping mountains. What seems to be a well from which you quench your thirst is in fact a memory carved on your statuette skin.

I love watching the people, call it tender paranoia. With time you get to know their little daily routines, things they forgot about theirselves, is consciousness a commodity for the community?
Yesterday I had to kick for one last time my neighbor out. He refused to leave when I asked him with a drained out attitude, so I threw his shoes off of the balcony but which ended landing on a 5 year old kids head. Why does that have to happen for cryin out loud, can't it avoid popular mishaps? Land there just plain and dry? This made him laugh in the cruelest ways, a laugh that gives you the feeling that 'you are not getting it!'. I have trouble controlling my anger with him, just like the one I have with my mom. She, with her persecutive concern and him with his primitive morality. I resemble my mother to that spider whom's infants get clutched in the web that she weaved for herself. I'm not born in a flower that blooms by the coming of the light, I'm born in a spiders web, invisible for an early naked eye. Inertia. A feeling that you get when you sell your soul. What's my cause? In the name of what do I consider myself trustworthy living? Don't tell me beauty or love, tell me something I'll understand and breath.

I always tell myself that I should write an precoce death note. You never know! I'm in a constant state of body endangerment. My hearts not right. I always feel that I could die any minute now, mostly cause I'm careless about myself. 'and the love that I feel is all in my head'...yet another song sang by a sad child.

The first thing he said when he entered the room was ' change this song, you are like a broken record'.
It was a lie, he was just looking to pick on me, I never play Nick Drake in front of him. He made himself comfortable with all the poison on his tong, kicked off his shoes, stretched his feet and started zapping my music. I tried to keep my mind off of him by sticking yellow stones on one of my walls.
He caught himself laughing by surprise when I threw his shoes out, so in order to make it right he threatened me of throwing out one of my paintings. They are made on wood so they would break if thrown from a great height. He took the plank and ran out to the window facing my apartment. I found it a convenient situation to close the door on him and so I did, to hell with the painting, it made me realize that I didn't like it anyway and I came to the conclusion that a painting is right when you refuse to give it away. A painting should be an limb for the imagination, you can't imagine selling or giving it away to someone else.

I have a mother inside telling me to wait on myself. Mothers are always delusional aren't they? I love grinning over my misery; my humiliation makes me feel human. 5 is the witching hour but I'm waiting for Khamis. Coincidences and parallels that's all there is in a superstitious mind. I used to believe in nothing not even myself hence I became the mirror of everyone else. And now it feels like my heart is avenging me. The presence is absence. Burning cocoons on top of my lover's grave, I want to piss off the gods and let them take me away. Boredom is the worst enemy the devils flower once said, and I believe him, I believe in anything that defies me. And yes that's why I love you. I look at you with hollow eyes when you have all that I have to live for in a glance. Cold! My blood feels as cold as the snake that ravels into the stone under the mid-noon sun. Melting stones and purging blood or is it murex through my mother's womb?

..

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I think of you whenever I feel human. I lost you the minute I was born. Theres a home for you in my head and you light a candle every time I go to bed. The surreal is real it's only something that will never be born. It wants to sleep under water. All I can take is hot showers and it takes me back by burning my skin, my unholy wings, takes me back to the memory of icarus. He stoled the snake out of the pine tree and empty pine trees is all I paint. Do you remember when I was a seven year old, wishing upon a star, wishing upon a religion. I waited and I waited for thousand nights for my porcelain angel's to turn to real...but they didn't and I thought I understood why but I still don't.

i always had a hard time finding freedom in what i draw. i fix an image in my head and then paint it. but this feels like adding life to a corpse. lately i watched this french movie "la belle noiseuse" and the artist had the same internal procedure as me, only he exteriorized it. so i said the heck with it. i gave up on my pride, on my cautiousness to find freedom. does it fo the same for me? am i in what i do? am i drawing reflections of my life or a dream? which part of me is real?
sometimes i say to myself "enough with philosophizing Patil! just do what you seem like you want to be doing" and when i do what i do, i feel taken away, like nothing around me matters anymore, i feel unexistent in my body, i become a movement.

These are great.

Great writing! It's draining-it's exhausting-it's so good!