mechanical and rusted, we charge forward. dangerously precipitous, dangerously ambitious. dangerously dark, dangerously bright. mechanical and maniacal, trudging nowhere.
where is the line of brutality when defining reality?
i’m thirsty for blood, but i cannot kill.
i’m thirsty for gold, but i cannot steal.
i’m thirsty for fame, can neither sing nor act.
i’m thirsty for love, odds against me are stacked.
i’m thirsty for blood, so i bite my lip.
honesty & tact: dance or battle?
i don’t need your play-doh eyes
shu ti go rah
allah ti ba
go re go la
allah ti ba
ko lah shebah
ko tah shebah
ko ko ki ro
musha diro
allah ti ba
allah ti ba
scooping down to search and pick up this tiny granule, i remember the ostrich egg on which i stood, escorted by a skilled Malay and a cadre of goats. baby goats, the cute ones. it’s pretty incredible that goats can eat pretty much anything. actually i can’t think of anything a goat cannot eat. new list to create: items a goat cannot eat. i grew up in close-ish proximity to goats. more accurately, i saw goats my friends had and kept a smart distance. they had udders that made me uncomfortable. more importantly however is this egg upon which i was standing in the memory of the moment i stooped to scoop.
i see a valley, narrow and long, in a corner of the mountains in my mind. a cool blue lake, fed from the spring of my cooler and bluer heart, shimmers and glistens and kills.
embracing energy vs taming energy
beauty in the shades of shadows and the blackened greens
apologies
to you, sir, i apologize for the time i took a shot glass from the tray and dumped it out to be spiteful.
to you, ma'am, deepest regrets for my offensive nipple.
to you, sir, i’m sorry for cursing at you when you told me to take my white ass back to manhattan.
to you, madam, i’m sorry i spit in your face and slammed the cab door after you stole my ride.
to you, ma’am, i apologize for letting you waste your time with me when you could have been advancing your career.
to you, sir, i’m sorry i didn’t hang out with you and your famous friends.
to you, miss, i’m sorry i made you late for work because i wanted to ride horses and enjoy swimming in a lake.
to you, ma’am, i’m sorry i took you to court after you stole money from me.
to you, sir, i am sorry for crashing the car and the truck and the car.
to you, sir, i’m sorry for knocking your phone out of your hands while you were filming me.
to you, miss, i’m sorry i can’t surf.
to you, madam, sorry for calling you a fat piglet behind your back.
to you, ma’am, i’m sorry i scuffed your shoes while skateboarding.
​
chelsea pier, sunbasking, a man rides his ride by with a perforated plexiglass box attached to the front in which a parrot is perched. flesh flashes in the sunlight before me. scent the air with green onion and clover.
a thread of traffic throbs at a slight slant, under which half moons and rectangles glow.
the air can finally touch my skin with a lingering hand.
away into their future the cars disappear while my future progresses on this bench. the sounds come into sight and fade with equal ease.
my very own anvil to swallow with a spoonful of sugar and spite
swaying both near and far are trees of considerable size; the ones to my left are cracking their concrete cloak. what a dance. a moment of chance.
the sun stings my shins twice, once directly and once reflectively.
i know there is a limit to the burn, so i flinch but remain.
the same but different happened the other day; i was on humpback rocks watching the clouds close in.
the sharp edge of the rocks cut the fog and beyond was gone. an embrace of perilous ambiguity: what direction is two feet and what direction is death.
​
and the rocks became slippery, so i took off my shirt and walked to the edge and stepped down into a crevice on the edge of the cloud.
and there, with exposed skin cold,
i knew there was a limit to the cold, so i flinched but remained.
pseudo flames sprawl beneath my feet with air rushing through my gills
the chairs were velvet and the rug was Persian. the shower was spacious and the tub was gracious; the eyes, salacious.
this voice, not my voice, is in my throat and hand, avoiding my tongue
i keep touching the stove and reaffirming its scorching heat
upon my tongue rests the key
upon my tongue rests the key
upon my tongue rests the key
upon my tongue rests the key
upon my tongue rests the key
upon my tongue rests the key
upon my tongue rests the key
explore more
vibrating rhythms announce the mystery
grapevine tendrils wrap effortlessly across the recesses of my chaotic mind, grasping for recollections. across an echoing expanse, familiarity is found in a crushed velvet couch, deep burgundy. deep within the embrace of the couch i count the grapes, the fruits of my wandering. and i count.
photography, poetry, bradley dakota smith, bradley smith, dakota smith, dakotakotasmith, kota smith, art, multimedia, new York, new york city, urban, surrealism, emerging artist, neoconceptual, conceptual art, composition, writings, prose, new media, visual poetry, urban minimalism, urban textures, shapes and colors, abstract photo art, abstract photography, new topography, architexture, text-based art, text art, text based art, word art, postvandalism, reductive art, concrete poetry, outsider art, words and art, contemporary poetry, new modern, graffuturism, iconoclasm, creative writing, writing, writing community, visual art, visual artist, abstractions, cornell, creative, creative director, art director, artist, https://www.instagram.com/bdss1000
