at the stretches / vast edges of the universe touching blurry cusps of existence life wriggles from behind a telescope and sits down at the desk to write. in this moment evidence of a beauty (who has gone away.) bending with the curve of time. the secrets of the moon.
she has these dark eyes black like night black like the painted canvas black like the unlit stage where the moon dances shines glows black like a sheet pulled over your nose somehow darkness moving a fragility a place, a time before the universe was born moon the desert landscape the lustre of 1/8 of a candle yet in this night even a sliver is brighter than all the stars a silver slice of a more magical being
inspired by audre lorde
why do we write things that we know we will forget why give our memories a place to die why these scars things i cannot change stripes on my skin (on the page pens scrape sharp as teeth) in a forest where i fiercely dwell the tiger's kill moans and swells always a sound sleep in a silent stalked grass atop a green blushing hill belly full and howling moon trees hold a solemn silence pieces of my ear tossed into the mouths of wolves scent lost in the wind under the shroud of night a naked body wrestles in the sheets a distant trail of ants converge over the hill a claw uncurls into the sky lamps flicker:eyes open
i believe in the quiet revolution the hum of the garden at tea time, the dance of rain on the rim of a pond, the fingers that pluck to the beat of the heart, the soul that bathes in the glow of a flicker of flame, the pen dipped in hot stroking ink bleeding trails on the page (two leaves of a book that forget their separation), pastel haystacks coloured fuzzy outside the lines, bristled lips on bristled lips after a tour at sea, salty-sweet flakes of the forbidden fruit a smudge on the cheek of Mona Lisa, the man in the moon in the mirror.
look at the sky a web of stars without lines, a game of connect the dots drawn in invisible ink escaping with the moon maybe if we were close enough you could drag your finger through the constellations and feel each thread, strum a song and call it god; weave a patch in the fabric of existence or spin heaven into a spool and save it for a time at sea, letting it out at the quiet of night (or make a home in a corner of the room at the light of morning) hang tiny beads of dew like drops of honey... and sail on, unfold into a map a cornered box of a sphere, the opened gift of raven's chest float atop the sea of stories and creation.
This is another MSPaint painting that I drew today. It’s called “moonlight ball” and it’s a picture of two animals, a wolf and a swan. Like any painting or drawing, it started with a line. A shape. And then it evolved into what you see before you. I don’t know if I’d say that it’s a complete painting, but I’m satisfied enough to share it with you. Unfortunately I can only post JPEG’s to the internet (unless someone knows a way to post BMP’s or other hi-res files?) so if you want the real thing, just send me an email at isaaclouie [at] gmail (dot) com. I guess that is the state of our technology, like how you hear the record music of a waltz through the static and “noise” maybe in the future this will be our nostalgic “JPEG phonograph.” So even art, though blurred and distorted on the internet, can still affect feeling and emotion.
What do you see? What do you notice?
The lonely saw nothing but shadow;
at night, became lost. But the moon,
the mirror of kindness,
glowed gently the light