Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Nihilism is an urban(e) disease.
Suicide is, like radical anxiety, born
in dark, lonesome rooms. In doors,
the mind seeks to do battle and only
finds itself. Outdoors, at least when
the air is right, the destructive instinct
melts away. No one desires to die
on a bright summer day by the pond,
watching ducklings quietly seeking
food, beside their watchful mother,
her beautiful brown feather coat
with a streak of purple at the wing.

Teutonic electricity
(dark nuance of a true lighting)
sung bright to shock, but not outweigh
such heartbeat timpani thunder:

such a blitzkrieg to be proud of.
Brick-laid bullet-scars build the walls
between low pressure out and in;
both depressions amazing

and Munich’s university
storms together brilliantly in
remembered voices and those who
sing now Brahms’ German Requiem.

Will such heavy integration
be the storm my being proclaims
in sounds so brilliantly complex
immersion rejects umbrellas?

last words
of the Madman:
"Christ, we
ought to offer
an umbrella
to Dionysus."

in doors a mind seeks to be a purple wing born
heard, flapped, flown over coasts
under mothers breasts.......

When they heard
the word
"Mother",
they softened,
put their guns down.
She made them
of love,
in flesh-baked
coffee and sweets,
coaxing disagreement,
to braver resolve,
in peace.

She gave them
home,
she gave them
their gift
of life,
when they
remembered
her,
and forgot,
their torrid,
terrible,
forgetful,
selves......