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the era of trampoline floors
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hi skool The emotions that bubble up,
Fizzing from your finger tips,
staining the already worn carpet
as it licks its lips across the floor.
Passion doesn’t spit both ways.
Would it feel like dancing?
Eyes holding onto another
with hands discovering
new found love on the small of a back.
Or perhaps more like breaking.
Love snapping into sixty seven bits
sixty six mice greedily grab, devour,
while one bit is left watching
the other dregs collecting dust.
To have heart and soul ripped from its cage
and placed before the eyes
which have been stained
with sin for so long.
Arms carrying ink cartridges to a lover.
Dripping dry the entire way,
so that no new romance novel will come
to existence,
and the empty printers will, too, cry themselves to sleep.
One set of two irises, two pupils
is all humanity receives
to view a universe so massive
the eyes of God would need broadening.
“But no, passion doesn’t spit both ways”
No bouquets of hyacinths to fill the summer daze.
Our weakness turned blue as the sea
where the muted telephone was fed.
Refusing to feel anything but lonely,
yet never as alone as the hopeless romantic.
i really enjoyed this by the
i really enjoyed this by the way
love fizzing from your fingertips
"Let us talk of this quite humanly. Ah, wretched is the man who never has felt the compelling urge of love to sacrifice everything out of love, and who accordingly has not been able to do it! But then when he discovered that precisely this sacrifice out of love might possible occasion the other, the loved one, the greatest unhappiness - what then? The either love within him lost its resilience, from being a life of power collapsed into the introverted rumination of a sad sentiment, he was a deserter to love, he did not venture to perform this work of love, himself sinking down, not under this work, but under the weight of this possibility. For just as a weight is infinitely heavier when it is attached to the end of a rod and the man who lifts it has to hold the opposite end, so every work becomes infinitely harder when it becomes dialectic, so what love prompts one to do for the beloved seems again in another sense to dissuade from doing. - Or else love conquered, and he ventured to do this work out of love. Oh, but in the joyfulness of love (as love is always joyful, especially when it sacrifices all) there was nevertheless a deep sorrow - for this sad result indeed was possible! Behold, he therefore brought to completion this work of lofe, he offered the sacrifice (in which for his part he exulted), but not without tears. Over this - what shall I call it? - historical painting of inward live there hovered a dark possibility. And yet, if this had not hovered over it, his work would not have been that of true love - O my friend, what hast thou maybe attempted to do in life? Tax thy brain, tear off every covering and lay bare the viscera of feeling in thy breast, surmount every barrier which separates thee from him of whom thou readest, and then read Shakespeare - and thou shalt shrink from the collisions. But Shakespeare himsellf seems to have shrunk back from the genuinely religious collisions. Perhaps these can only be expressed in the language of the gods. And this language no man can speak; far, as a Greek already has said so beautifully, 'From men man learns to speak, from the gods to keep silent.'"
Soren Kierkegaard
Nice
Very good, it seems mysterious and modern. I like it.