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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required “le livre bleu” Terabytes. lonely poets, writers, musicians and artists play here, they wear masks that cover vermillion dripping smiles over sharp little wolverine teeth, they drown their sorrows in their muses - contemporary little monsters – Still Life, they call it “art”, smiles; gothic invested, they adore the overzealous use of the word “lachrymose”, they swallow it up until they’re drowning in the macabre applause, open mouthed no sound, they’re Munch-mouthed, fully immersed, corsetted tight scarlet hung trope groused strings plucked tight, breathless, taking it all in, like they can’t resist it, like they are cannula fed; silently loud as complex cats cradles hawking their self-congratulatory genius, a small unanticipated escape presents, they count sheep here, where all are singular herds, up against a wailing wall, waiting for words like they are silver-tipped bullets shooting straight slip knots around the throat of the hangman’s heart; relief for the sanguine slaughter, vocabulary trollops asleep, they hear the music of astral trumpets, while dreaming of awards, it’s quite the revelation, the exclamation marked notoriety, and the morpheus applause, they wake each morning with a fresh intent, poésie minted, while unseen around them, reality, a larger life bleeds out, the dead celebrate the living here; they are, silent little minotaurs, monsters all rolling sweetly in Agape, making love to fully ripe words as if that is all they have voluptuous, to live and breathe and make love to, morning, noon and night behind closed doors poetic saviours newly baptised, crying and smiling pink-eyed balling their lives up against a wall dropping the bruised into boxes like new sold babies, worth something more or – less, borne anew in their glamour poetry and ancient arts, they produce strange magick in a haunted body bookmarked in the moist velvet folds of misplaced anthology, like a divinely preordained plan of creation they can always rely on, cling to, they are hung up sacrosanct, like an unanswered vintage rotary telephone pinned to a wall, hanging ever-ready, waiting for The Call, forever manifest to possess anew fresh wandering eyes; yet, poetry legs wide open, like a wanton Modigliani, censored, and then immeasurably forgotten, smiling demurely, nakedly silent in a dark corner teasing and inviting, placed just so, on a shelf a distant oddly familiar voice whispers its echoes, “come, come, dear voyeur Rome is inside me!” the spine’s title shouts “le livre bleu il libro blu here here in this infernal place, just for you, “just” justice, for you” “come, come, dear voyeur, find me, where all the wild things are! drowning spectacularly always dancing in the shining redrum shoes in your heaven fathoms deeper with you, 6ft under the hazey light shards,” you then hear that revenant voice whisper low, but crystal clear, “Come find me, come find 7, go slow, go fast, come close, come near, not far, 3 minds, 4 ascending doors, many rooms, no fear I am always here, come find me now, come taste my power, here, and there, come find me now, come find me my dear.” the rhythm never stops the dance inside the hidden orbs, all disobedient pages, naive knaves with their words Liszting in their very own unique worlds, like palm cards red the page like a face marked by war painted fingers, what’s transcribed in the contract cuts sharp and deep like swords, like Wards passive and aggressive, like nurses walking wards like strict nuns unblessing into neat little white cells, charged with checking wilting impatiens behind their curtains, they watch like nightmares smiling gently and empathically, emphatically bleeding out all colour from their decommissioned tethered patients, observed obedient now, rows riding feverish stages like jockeys whipping up a storm, banishing their cancerous Stage 4 demons to their new lovely waiting underworlds like horses on a race track racing, the gamble that paced a life run wide and far too fast - the essence of the sound of each word like eidolon souls bare soled, their rapture rising seen and heard before your wide open windows, terror bites like Halloween, those golden orbs like fresh plucked pumpkins like ghostly glowing coaches ridden, flying lit, in the distance closing fast in burning Chinese Whisper lanterns, rising higher on the poetic neither here nor there, the passengers inside, are seen, and on each face is written clear “a little Life escaping, is wildly driven” such poems are meant for Halloween for the unblessed unknowing Candide Diderot. ‘25 “We Can’t alter the past; what happened can never be undone.” “You’ve torn your dress, your face is a mess, You can't get enough, but enough ain't the test You've got your transmission and your live wire You got your cue line and a handful of ludes You wanna be there when they count up the dudes And I love your dress You're a juvenile success Because your face is a mess So how could they know? I said, how could they know? So what you wanna know? Calamity’s child, Where’d you wanna go? What can I do for you? Looks like I’ve been there too...”” (excerpt, “Rebel, Rebel”/Bowie) “Rome is not outside me, but inside me. Her feverish sweetness, her tragic countryside, her own beauty and harmony, all these are mine, for my thought and my work” (Modigliani) /(John 14 1-4). Terror Bite. “Devoted companion to the extreme sacrifice." Gravestone, Jeanne Hébuterne Terabyte - The prefix ‘tera’ is derived from the Greek word ‘monster’”. Empathetic satire. Slip knot - vs - Hangman’s knot. Modigliani quote/John 14 NIV. Emily Dickinson’s, “Because I could not stop for death”. Metaphor. Imagery. Symbolism. “Creatives”. Poets. Writers. Musicians. Artists. Truth.
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