PE: 5 ways to sabotage your career as an artist5 ways to sabotage your career as an artistMore Like This
"Very few possess true artistic ability. It is therefore both unseemly and unproductive to irritate the situation by making an effort.
If you have a burning, restless urge to write or paint, simply eat something sweet and the feeling will pass."
Wait for an inspiration
The mood is just not right today. Sure, you could pick up a pencil, sit down and push yourself to practice but the result would probably end up in a trash can. Waste of time, waste of material. Besides, the guy that commissioned you two months ago found a professional for the work already.
Expect the success to happen quickly
A year or two, tops, that's all it takes to build a reputation. Being an artist isn't a job like any other, therefore you don't need to work on it every day. No need for
cult chemistry.you were occult to me,More Like This
the fine line drawn between chemistry and fiction.
because you read blindly,
about how i believe in science, not god,
and then the fog clears your head.
i believe in the things i read,
you were occult to me.
you made me blind to what i read.
i read the curving of your neck,
the incandescent swoon of every curse you put on me.
the things i read don’t exist anymore,
they are past
they are past
they are past
it is the cult of you,
the split the spread the threadyou were standing in the lamplight with all the grace and incident of the black seaMore Like This
and i sat with a scrape of skin pressing into the carpet uncomfortably.
a shift of light moved us quietly into arms, some forgotten touch newly placed.
the only stirring in all the world was the moving of our chests
which at their crests would touch—a faithful mythology of meeting.
titular gestures carried italics and lost their momentum mid-air.
we were xerics of this arid landscape brimmed with sea air.
the shifts of light moving our bodies glared ceremoniously,
our puckering sensations forming a stunning tear.
we danced as statues with flesh and touch
more soft and real than our real bodies ever had
and covered the subway floor with our gritty concrete shards
—a bloom of breaking that spread and mixed and marked
that linoleum floor, grounded stone(fire)works.
a warm and gathered silence of togetherness.
the still beat of murk.
Finding Treasures Under the StarsIn a moment of peaceMore Like This
When the journey is over
stones become castles
soft sheets.i feel your chest,More Like This
its deep breaths on my back:
the shiny tack
of this noisy homes back.
only a few degrees, rainy and
grainy and blue
how can there be better things ahead
outside of this bed
and ravenous gloom
in this noisy home
where we're free to roam
as the church bells groan
where we chew our food.
almost half subdued,
where our years are rightly gained.