“…he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day.”
Ernest Hemingway giving his thoughts on writers in his Nobel Prize acceptance speech.
In The Blur
A frothing wave
coughed a glimpse
and there had been
perpetual movement,
excitement that builds
and shreds into the world
in a squawk, and uneasiness.
A sticky writhing,
a passionate fleeing
into foreign limbs entangled,
melting, and pulling.
An extrapolation of pink guts,
flesh pressed against blackness’ ceiling;
a bloom of breath
twisting over the void
like water from an urn
delicately poured into an abyss.
Ive never seen anybody get shot in real life
I’ve seen worse
I’ve seen mothers cry
Growth as an Artist
I went into the bathroom
and I sat there crouched over
the waters, waiting.
Then it began and the
shit slowly started to flow.
and it was a good shit
after a few solid logs,
but it kept coming.
full turds fell more
and more from my asshole,
as if the shit would never run out,
and my stomach began to feel empty
and more and more crap fell,
when finally, there was a brief pause,
where I sat, staring at the wall,
and a quick gastric build,
and then a heavy splash
startled and shook the murky waters
of the porcelain tub
and there lay my stomach,
intestines, and throbbing heart,
soaking, marinating in waste.
