FN – Featured Artist
Death Becomes the Heart — Book I
Inspired by original manuscript: https://www.amazon.com/Death-Becomes-Heart-Naomi-Phillips/ hell is not a place but exists in a place i've heard of. people are not evil, for if that's your catch, it is the nature inside of all things that is. there is no devil, only the sour face of god. what has she ruined, other than the tiny world inside us? and for that, love—the candle that dies at the sight of our reflection? it was burnt before it was set before us. the self is responsible. the self is responsible. self-centered, though we pretend that were a "bad" thing— if love could really know the difference between "right" and "wrong," or, for that matter, if anyone cared enough to regulate it... even god. to think such an entity could take sides in such "trivialities," but, for all we know, sHe may be open to it... love thyself, for dost thou love thy neighbor. shine upon me, great sun, upon my corpse— my cadaver, as it peels into the screams of your greatest hour. for if god knows all our shit, sHe must know— the ways we'd undress each other and laugh. i write for her, but should i? she lets love burn... or maybe that's me? perhaps we do what we know best: set fire to the village so we're all that's left to tell its story. the dream lay unattended as its victims feast in the halls of valhalla. her hair in flames like rivers of blood and vitriol. me, left dripping and orgasming at the deprecated shadow of her ghost. i know she's found another lover, but i don't care. none of it will work. at best, this wildhead of love is a failure at self. she was never mine, never for me—for there is no such thing. i've used her only as a tool of myself, to dance the part of purpose at the wounded knee of survival: inventing her lips, those burning black strands that go on forever, long thin legs with little button toes, big breasts with dark oversized areolas, tiny ass sculpted like the rest of her commanded physique, and that portal into dreamsphere at the very edge of what entices and confuses universal conception. The stage was set before me to love myself— for this relationship i know will last/till death do us part. burning my desire, flickering my empty casket. setting off the moon to chase the sun, over and over, until the record concludes its vinyl feminine, and the music dies. when all that's left are blood-creamed walls and that terrible click-spin reminding us silence was better. she's not for the faint of heart because that heart is black. charred in wedding pyre—devoured by the soulless grip with the hardest might, from the darkest wish on the coldest night. death has become us... though beneath it, under the six inches of soil that separates the new from the forgotten, the moon has peered its browless head over the horizon, whispering something new is about to begin: what then of us begins to fill. by LORIN DREXLER
What is Gen Society?
Gen Society is an art space blog for visual art and creative writing collaborations, and other randomizations. Hosted by writer and musician Lorin Drexler, this online venue is an expressive experience for those interested in the world of the arts. It is a poetic journey through the hearts and minds of contemporary artists in practice and a reflection of those that have long passed.
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