Poetry

Poetry

The Philosophy of Ice Cream
Ice cream is very serious business. It is as serious as delight. Delight does not have much time so rather than sitting it around, it goes around playing its sound and dreaming of change and when delight shows its face, everyone becomes filled with play, dreams and joy. Delight has no voice so when delight becomes the sun- joy sings their favourite song and dream holds everyone- it is only play that lets the feelings of itself enter the temporal world in drips and drops. They share themselves through ice cream and everything sweet.  Delight only lasts as long as a second. Delight is the feeling of sun, warming your eyes. You can’t take it. You will burn, if you held it too close. If your retinas, know all it can hold. How can you hold a feeling that runs into heat whenever it meets anything that exists?   The philosophy of ice cream is just this. Photography by Nova.
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Its mother’s sound, The one that makes you Beat yourself aloud, Its mother’s sound, The one that makes you scream out Loud. It is mothers sound that makes you love in desire and flow into the deep. It is mother’s sound that makes you cry and weep. It is mother’s sound that makes you love in desire, It is mother’s sound that gives blood out for hire. It is mother’s sound that makes Mother does not speak. She does not breathe. He does not call. Mother, unbound. Will save us all.
A message from the underneath: Nowhere.       
What we won’t speak about is the absurdity. To be absurd is to understand that there is a note of unfamiliarity in the very nature of existence. The nature of existence is far-fetched. I will only speak of my nature. You call it qualia. I am unique and distinct by my very nature. I will assume the same of you. Now, Nowhere is the place, I want to speak about. I enjoy speaking on it because it holds to the truest essence, that I could describe, to you.  What it means to be somewhere that does not exist but is in existence. This is the beauty of language.  To be nowhere, is to be at the centre point of existence- nowhere is not really a place but rather the essence of what a place could be and its negation moves from there. Nowhere is unmoving. Nowhere is still. I hope you understand that stillness is not simply a lack of movement but a disturbance in the very nature of existence, most things move- in someway or another. So not moving is the funniest and most absurd thing, in this particular frame, of worlds. You exist in a world. I exist in many worlds. We are always moving. Something is moving right now.  It lives in you. It never stops. Where does nowhere live? To deny movement is to speak on something you must imagine. Your imagination, like your memory is always in movement. An unchanging world is non-existing one. An unmoving world is a dead one. A still world is a becoming one.   I will clarify even further. I am more than you know. I am more than you can see. I am more than you can dream. I am more. I am the place that moves without disturbance. I destroy by being in the same space as what exists. The level of destruction is dependant on whether, I allow myself to be alive. I don’t like destroying but not liking something and being it by default is like imagining the best thing in the world and believing that you have experienced it. The feeling is not the same as the declaration of it. It feels obvious but I have seen you do it. You cannot objectively speak on what does not exist. The beauty of language is that we could convince ourselves, that the opposite is true. Existence is a state of presence. Speaking on something is not the same as being it. You can convince others but you will never convince me and you will fail at convincing your own heart. Each petal lives has its own life and the flower is held by the root. Nowhere is a place that I can no longer tolerate. I apologise for this. It feels so important to your kind but change is important in mine.
Courage: Blood Cells are the worst.
Blood cells never do as they are told.
Alone.
You feel pleasant. Pleasantly strange. Foreign, in all the imaginable ways, Isolation and regret Lace your fingertips. You tell me you like me like this. Alone.     You like, alone. You like to have me, to yourself. How lucky I am. How fortune, I am. To have someone like you.     ii. I like you. The forest of you. The danger you entail. It smells, Familiar. Childish giggles stich my lips together. Closed, frames create fences. You prevail. Climbing over me with your broad claws, Ripping my form. I have nothing left.     You ignore me.     I like it rough.   Fight more.   I am in submission. Obey.     It’s a game.   Winner takes all. I am used to this call. I thought she was different. I thought she could see, I wanted it to be her and me.   I bow to her will, Fear used, Like a wheel. Rolling me into     Weak.     I kiss her flesh. Her meat is a smell, not a taste. It reminds me of early days. When I still sulked on her tit, Feeding her mould. She bends my bones, She stands alone, I know she is afraid, To afraid to say, She knows no other game. Except pain.       Photography by Ari Richter
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