Breakfast

The sun is a bastard.

Awake in your bed

With your back to me,

I feel sensitive to your indifference,

So I withdraw into thought.

 

Is it odd that I want to

Share a tooth brush, or

Drink out of your cup?

I want a woman that doubles as a fork.

 

I suppose it is time for me to leave.

But your hair may disagree,

As It reaches out toward me,

More of you that I’d like to eat.

I know I must go, but you,

So perfect in form, sweet sounds,

Far off in dream, no doubt,

Far away from me.

If only I understood women.

 

I’m of a cannibalistic persuasion.

 

These lovely shape-shifters sleep

While I tip toe through the house,

A cat burglar,

stealing little sweet respirations,

In search of the bathroom.

A dollop of toothpaste

On the chewed index finger

Of a man who just wants it to feel right.

I brush you away,

But I wanted it to be different,

Blast the morning,

I’m sorry if I manufactured this distance.

 

Mustard

 

I would have given anything

To be back in bed with you

Wrapped completely in lies.

 

You hated the way your voice

Sounded asking those early morning

Questions, – swirling thumbs,

Mephisto waltz spinning at 45 rpm’s.

 

I waited while the birds

Were most talkative, flying

About naturally looking for sex,

I thought about grand churches

In Scotland where we could get married.

The sun commanded the leaves

To change color,  and I saw you.

 

I don’t see god in anything.

I only see you, just you.

Status Update

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by a world that never asked for them in the first place. We sink in the staggering debt obtained to try and build a life for oneself.  I howled with the blue collar in the taverns, pounding beers and well drink specials like my ancestors before me. We all left behind different things. What does success mean to you? Am I the only one disconnected? Alone and beleaguered in a basement apartment. Enslaved by a piece of papyrus. The house you bought is overpriced. So is the water. All those things you wanted didn’t suffice, It didn’t give you the purpose you thought you needed. We will lose touch, and no one I know is happy. Keep yourself occupied with your technological advances, pay attention to the pointless so you cant  access your heartache, better to distract your sadness. We have no idea what is going on in the world, but we care about the unintelligent and the callous. We follow people who are celebrities for no reason at all. We are soon to be extinct and it may be for the best. We don’t even know how to properly dress. We skinned our knuckles trying to prove ourselves in the eyes of people who won’t matter in time. Our forefathers revolted, right or wrong they wielded fists and intellect. We partake in pissing contests and cry in corners at holiday parties. We miss how things used to be. We search for the right person to share our lives with by fucking our way through the talent pool. If the earth has her own consciousness, she hates us all and I don’t blame her. I hate that I wanted the same things as you. I’m embarrassed by my genus. All I wanted was a voice and love. I lost the things I love to disease, mortgages and a shortage of babysitters. We are petty, stupid immoral creatures without proper perspective. And everyone I know is a liar. So naturally I fit right in.  I lied when I told myself I was living. Please remind me never again to take the seven. It’s so fucking depressing.

 

The Unreasonable Horologist

If I wore a watch, which I don’t

Because of the sweat I’d know I was behind time.

Time is relative but no relation of mine.

I might have missed it.

I am almost certain.

 

I feel the truth, and God knows nothing.

 

Do I still have a rendezvous with life?

I wonder when I will begin to live.

Introspective, on a jaundiced cot,

Oppressed by the droning of wavelengths,

Discontented by the clicking of puny arms,

In the basement of a pre war building,

Grappling with the thought my life is without meaning.

 

I sleep with the rodents.

They shit on the table I eat at.

There has to be more than this.

We miss out

On the best

This world has to offer.

 

New York City is a home I can’t afford.

I sleep in my clothes plotting my departure.

If I could wind all the clocks back I’d love to start over.

Winthrop

We haunted a dilapidated house,

A compromised structure,

A curse rivaling the bloodline of Ushers.

Once worshipped, a peculiarity of temperament

Anointed in bodily fluids, please take off your shoes.

The portraits say a thousand words

But look much better on fire don’t you think?

Am I the only one who didn’t- it doesn’t matter.

A sprig of truth grows out of the broken foundation,

Through the fragments and putrescent tarn.

You are better off, but it would have been nice to know.

 

Les Amants

Surrealist painter Rene Magritte was born in Belgium on November 21, 1898. He studied at the Academie des Beaux-Arts in Brussels from 1916-1918. Magritte’s early work varied in style, ranging from Impressionism to Cubism. He earned a living in his early days working in a factory manufacturing wallpaper and creating advertisements for local businesses. It was when he moved to Paris in 1927 his career began. He had his first exhibition and became a fixture in the Surrealist movement. Magritte would become successful, with exhibitions held all over the world in prestigious galleries. He would also publish many articles about his concepts of art and the possibilities within the realm of the paintbrush. Magritte died in Brussels on August 15, 1967.

While Magritte acheived fame for a number of his paintings, the series of paintings which fascinate me are The Lovers, or Les Amants. Magritte painted these mysterious works in the summer of 1928. Each painting depicts a couple, the title implies they are in love, only the couple has their faces obscured by white sheets. The paintings present to the observer a moment in time. In the moment the lovers appear to be tender and passionate, posing either cheek to cheek, embracing in a kiss or standing closely at each other’s side. It is rumored to believe the paintings were inspired by the suicide of Magritte’s mother, Regina Bertinchamp. In 1912, when Magritte was only 14 years old his mother suceeded in an act she attempted numerous times before which must have deeply affected Magritte. Bertinchamp was unhappy and depressed throughout his childhood. One night she left the house and drowned herself in the Sambre river. The Magrittes searched for her, following her footprints to the river, where her body was discovered with her nightgown wrapped around her face. The theory behind the paintings being influenced by Bertinchamp’s death, consciously or subconsciously, is merely speculation. Magritte denied any correlation between his mother’s suicide and the shrouded faces in the paintings. Magritte did admit he enjoyed the attention and being referred to as the “son of a dead woman.”

What does that mean? A question Magritte was probably asked many times.

“My painting is visible images which conceal nothing. . . They evoke mystery and indeed when one sees one of my pictures, one asks oneself this simple question ‘What does that mean?’ It does not mean anything, because mystery means nothing either, it is unknowable.”

Is that the honest truth or is Magritte’s answer also shrouded in a sheet? Was this response simply a way to avoid revealing the truth behind his work? What do you feel about The Lovers? What do you see in the paintings? What comes to mind when you look at these images? Is it that love is blind or something deeper? We view and acknowledge a level of intimacy but also a separation. The image combined with the title evokes the notion of passion while being divided. When we fall in love are we forthcoming and honest with ones we share our beds with? I do not think we ever truly know the people we fall in love with. The white sheet could be a metaphor for the lovers being guarded against each other. It may be the defense mechanism that allows us frail humans an illusion of safety. It presumes that we can not be harmed if we never give ourselves away completely. Do you feel comfortable sharing all your thoughts with your lover? Do you believe that you know everything about your lover? I Think majority of people would confess they do not feel comfortable and are sadly doubtful they are privy to all information. There is an apprehension that occurs with being honest with a lover since it constructs vulnerability. I feel in many ways we are all walking holding hands with our veils over our faces, concealing our feelings and secrets.

Could the death of Magritte’s mother, the sight of her dead body play a larger role in the creation of The Lovers than he alludes? Is the white sheet a representation of death? Or are these the portraits of lost love? They may be the equivalent of the photos of past lovers we shelve, or stow away in shoe boxes. Hiding their faces so we do not have to be reminded of those we used to fall asleep to like old songs. Magritte manipulated perception, encouraging the betrayal of images. The Lovers may no longer be in love and that is why they are covered like corpses. Love has died and has been enveloped in a white sheet to spare us the indignity and the heartache. The sight alone could be too much to bear. I want to know what kept Rene Magritte up at night? I personally, wish I could sleep at night. Was he troubled by the fragility of the human heart? Or does he just want to entertain the thoughful and heartsick? Magritte paints a mystery by obscuring the identity and the facial expressions of the lovers. We concentrate on the embrace, we consider the brevity of the relationship, but still there is some secret. The secret is subjective depending on the viewer’s perception. Do we all wear masks? What do you think is the reason Magritte’s lovers are masked? I think, love itself, is dying to know.             -originally published on May 1, 2011 by Sean Gabler

 

 

 

Rudimentum Novitiorum

 

Our hands were right where they were supposed to be.

 

There is something to be said of connection,

Of swooning eyes, but remember nothing is ever clean.

I told her I was hers as she fell to the Earth.

We laughed, and I hopped the fence.

The long blades of grass held us afloat,

While the bricks of the buildings blushed,

And all those people walking home from wherever

Pretended not to notice us, and pretended not to appear envious.

They’ve forgotten the fundamentals of love.

For they have all lost what we have found.

I’ll remind you in the morning where

to find our love if we ever misplace it.