Sweetness Invades and Escapes by Beata Sienkiewicz (namjoon book recommendations TXT) 📖

Now or Ever?

Rising twin smokestacks, almost motionless, originating from cigarettes in dimly lit room;
constant dream-like state, Aura, energy, eternity, the blood slushing on the insides of veins asking “when will it be my time?” or does time come now or ever?
Ethereal layers, atmospheric cosmos, burning and exploding amongst the hypnotism of evangelism;

Beyond the comprehension of time, love and logic;
beyond the adoration for the martyr;
or inebriation in the sweet summer, yes the smell of roses so sweet the sweetness invades and escapes each of the senses so overwhelmingly:
by autumn it is hard to remember and by winter it is forgotten.


Speldor Arise

I wish to find simpler a way
to grant thee a kind and glorious day.
I search to mend those gone astray,
but with thorny hearts, we solemnly lay.
Beseeched and hunted, we walk as prey,
to breathe and shriek as motive for they.

Amongst moonlight thoust scratches at other’s eyes
with none of thine own to passionately despise.
In great rolling fields, craze woes and lies,
but never revealed, the lonesome dream dies.
You may conceal with meek and clever disguise,
but amongst concluding days, splendor shall arise.


Not Poets

Not poets,
but initiators.
Not creators,
but destroyers.
Not lovers,
but believers.
Not philosophers,
but failures.
Not dead,
but dying.

And definitely
alternate beings.
And new-aged disciples.
And schizos mumbling to allah
in a manhattan suburb,
trapped inside golden gates.
And psychopaths
contemplating existence,
believing they saw jesus
in a jail cell
or a crack house.
And addicts searching for needles,
bleeding and crying and shooting up,
banging on typewriters throughout the latest hours.
And realists contemplating suicide,
creating manifestos and encyclopedias,
confined by society's stigmas.
And niggers burning confederate flags
dodging klan members
and double-barrel rifles
in the black of a hot deep-south summer night.
And racists plotting genocides
reveling in the hatred of defeat
dying for redemption.

Not poets,
but faceless wallflowers,
buried underneath all of your dirt.


In Regards to...

In regards to all insomniacs who share my woes,
every dead poet in recycled clothes,
the strange credibility only the expired know,
what's worth holding on to and worth letting go;
in regards to all which ebbs and flows,
addicts getting by on last bits of blow,
civil disobedience penned by Thoreau,
the ideals that exist only for one to outgrow,
the ambulance men scorn after the lifeless Monroe,
the bloody ear of a dreary Van Gough,
each forgiving red cup which overflows,
you and I have suffered, and I know it's so.


Search for the Fleeting

Revisit past life trapped in corner of time,
solve enigma with use of varying substance: feeding heads floating in floridian suburb with floating body connected by strings to
everlasting life,
light's everlasting--shines throughout bits of precipitation, invigoration, and
deterioration,
clouds shake subtlety in layered still-life sky.
Neo-90s club morphing shades of blue, cigarettes chain smoked seeking sensation of death,
the search for the feeling, or the fleeting.


Poor/Rich

That which drudges across the dark, wet Californian streets draped in soiled victorian clothing;
that which remains anonymous, obscure;
that which intimidates and initiates;
that which rummages through dumpsters--pools of expiration and who bit into what and who is biting into whom or that?
That which is addicted, evicted, restricted;
that which is shit on by society;
that which must shit with the dogs, like the dogs, filthier than dogs;
that which is poor
is rich in experience.


Details

A common misconception
in a bar somewhere,
in a big city,
on a long night,
after a long drive,
before a long kiss.

A girl screaming
in an alley somewhere,
in a run-down city,
on a dark night,
after a convincing lie,
before a few drinks.

A natural disaster
in an artificial world,
in a pixalated dream,
on a beautiful day,
after it's all said and done,
before we realized it was wrong.


Road Leads West

Smoked marijuana
in Dallas park:
luscious green
grass.

who to channel?--
Ginsberg, Garfunkel,
Stegner?

Oh yes,
the best,
the road has always led west,
he once said.

Joint pains after three days
of sleep deprivation
and recreational participation,
drifting across an emancipated nation,
I am and was the epitome of civilization
when we joined hands to escape damnation.


The Cat Chronicles

Jasmine

Jasmine, who wakes to the night,
"parting is of such sweet sorrow."
Your screeches will haunt me tonight,
but I will endure them again tomorrow.

Your fleas shall crawl and bite my skin,
but still my foolish hand extends,
because to you I must give in,
for I understand your loneliness.

Jasmine, you howl out those feline screams,
forever untouched by human hand,
you've fallen asleep upon sunbeams,
but still you beg and tease and demand.

Bella

Bella, do you lie beneath fields of grass,
your eyes and tounge eaten out by flies,
your body now a motionless mass,
forgotten and alone in your demise?


Whiskey is Enough

This girl is the kind of girl
who likes to read Hughes,
and likes making out in a dark backseat
in the middle of the night.
Whiskey is enough
for her.

Inviting smile.
I want to light her cigarette,
break the dense air outside.
Florida during the summer
kills me.

I hear laughing,
I feel light.
It seems nothing can go wrong
ever again.


It Departs and Returns

Sometimes in december
I think
about
the year.
And I am at a loss for words
for reasons
I did not expect.


P.O.V.

Flawed because
seeing
became
more important
than
feeling, believing, knowing.

Flawed because
their creation
is flawed.

Flawed because
instincts
ceased to matter.
And gluttony
is king hereafter.
Let the lynchers
hang from the rafters.

Allow a revolution,
a new-world constitution
where we'll all be union
and preach of evolution,
a far-fetched solution,
for all unjust institutions.


Witness From Afar

Smoking cigarettes
and marijuana
by candlelight.
Wolf-dog curled
in my bed
asleep.
Almost alone
by myself
in Las Vegas.
After watching television:
2012, the Nostradamus effect, John Cusack...
bootleg version from marijuana dealer.
But the world is not ending,
though it would
be beautiful
to witness.


Unbeknownst

The fucking sirens...
they always blared.
And the goddamn gunshots
scared the dog.

"Too much crime."
"The drugs come easy and so does the
pussy."

But
I found an unexpected fondness
for the
lost souls,
the beautiful ones.
Our paths crossed
like perpendicular lines
for some reason.


Loathe and Fear

I was hearing many things
then.
And had many unhealthy thoughts
as well.

It seemed so overwhelming
that
I felt
it could kill me.


Blissfully Unaware

Prompted by observation,
my dissatisfaction with mankind
led me
to a
figurative mecca
of
Truth.

And Truth
is not what is heard,
nor what is believed,
it has been skewed.
human is suspect,
Truth is victim:
Truth
is simply
fact.

And feeling,
emotion,
the fuel to our selfish fires,
are chemicals, signals, in the brain.

Humans, coaxed
this way and that,
tongues like dogs and teeth like daggers,
plunging towards desire
in hope of a generic reward.
There is no separation
between man and filthy beast.
Why must it be denied? When we are denying our inherited selves,
untrue to the genius science granted.
Consequently,
untrue to whatever is
seen fit.
Consequently,
wild savages,
unforgiving in nature,
BLISSFULLY unaware,
unable to comprehend
existence.
following whichever institution
appeals towards fear
and the strange desire of security.

Understand:
it is beginning to look very silly to me,
like observing an ant farm
as
impulse-driven creatures
march towards
Truth
which stemmed from a belief
which remains in the realm of the unknown
never to become fact.


Monday

Burying Fitzgerald
in an unmarked grave.

Bob Dylan on the pavement
thinking about the government.

"Later, Fitz."
"You were a good fish."

A rainbow gathering,
a secret happening,
in the woods,
in Ocala.
Spread the word.
Keep it quiet.

Is Andy Dick
still in the closet?

Hey,
play the guitar
and I'll sing.


One Night

The hollow stares
of the hollow youth,
we are those
that die as cattle.

The shaking hands
behind the shaking truth,
we are those
that do not matter.

The unity
of truancy.
The purity
of the fear to flee.
We're not jailed
but we're not free.

Stolen liquor
goes down quicker.
Bitter chaser,
one more to waste her.

Stumbling,
mumbling,
fumbling
for
each
other
in
the
dark.


A Fear of Fears

I will convey
this feeling
the best
I can:

Something like
electricity,
something like
a craving,
something like
cold hands
grasping
my
legs
so
tightly.

A fear of fears,
the idea
of something
worthwhile.

Hesitant but tempting,
painfully unattainable,
today
wasn't
a
good
day.

Disconnected for the wrong reasons,
I feel selfish
but I want more.


Dead or Dying

I saw
a dead or dying homeless man
lying on the sidewalk
outside a thrift store
on a cool winter Sunday.

My mother cried.
Another woman cried.
They held each other's
shaking hands
and prayed
out loud.
They looked into each other's
frantic eyes
while the homeless man
lay motionless.

"He's dead,"
someone said.
"No he's not,"
someone else said.

Sirens
coming
closer.

His blue fingers
twitched
once.
Hope,
salvation,
gruesomely beautiful.

White, thick spit
hung out
his open mouth.

It's strange
how temporary
the realization of precious life
can be.


Exhilaration

This girl
is free
and open.
There are no strings
attached
to this girl.

She's wild
at heart
but
unassuming,
exhilaration flows
through
her
very
being.


Life in San Francisco

I don't eat
much.
I smoke cigarettes
and I smoke marijuana.

I have distractions,
lovers without needs.
I have the world news
and I
have a
naive
heart.

I have some
issues
with insomnia.

The city sings,
or screams,
or cries.
I float
above reality.

I'm
losing
my
grip.

I am in love with your
hands.
And that girl's
heart.
And that girl's
eyes.
I am in love with
puzzle pieces.


Nothing