What is yours is mine.
Today the sky is the ocean, wild
Drifting here to there and back again
Don’t know where ill go today
Riding the wind with charms
Beads bright, of the earth
Holy shrine, Holy man, Holy Mountain
All but pure; desire, love, pain, hate, confusion and wisdom
A phone line to answers, which we never question
With each streak of beauty
My own sunset evil
In the barrel of a loaded gun
Sycophants claw at my shins
It bares me down
But my hand is steadfast and my will fail-safe
Thunder surges through pristine valleys
Ringing true with every thrust of the trident
I feel divine, shiver creeps down my spine
You are mine, puppet puppy profit
Loose lips sink your ships
While I heist your treasures from scattered depths
- Nicholas Hollier
The Daunting Truth
Viewed from afar, I watch as the decrepit building observes and taunts its more accepted brothers. Wedged side by side in crumbling relationships, the polygamy of bricks. With no choice but to live side by side with volumes of dust turned to rock. You would think a single brick would not be lonely, but how would it feel to never be free of your incased cult? Suffocating in the conjoined nature of your timeless escapade.
Late at night, cigarette smoke escaping lips of trembling ambiguity, leaning on the salient ledge which is the line between asylum and anguish. Ardently staring at the vast panorama; the trees are dead to the world in the stillness of this hour, stripped of the rags which once pronounced their beauty, they are now liberated, nude, it is now that no one pays them any mind. A stagnant voice breaches the soft lull that had lung in air, repeating in a Fibonacci prose. Footsteps echoing in its wake. One voice where there should have been two. Two minds where there should have been one. I watched. I listened. I suffered.
I closed the paned glass window; with its smudged fingerprints and age glistening in the artificial light announcing how we painted our lives, devoid of passion and alone. And how we hid from these truths.
Puritanical self-evaluation. Mirrors screech blindly at me. Spitting derisions from all angles, so I shelter in this unsightly shell, lying in the moist sand of time never expecting anything to grow. In this over-exposed delirium that plays on my subconscious,
I feel the how and heavy damp sits, encased in a frown. I wait, with searching stares through doors of lock and key I peek, there’s a new feature on the wall. I ask who would hide such a beautiful scene. The answer will always be me. Sparkling with old intentions reborn, clear-cut desire severed and maimed. Holding the wounded soul tight in my arms, feeling it whimper, watching it break. Tried to bend it into shape, yet currents swept right under my truculent hands. I sit in a bad music background, forever to exploit the treasures of hope.
Obligatory silence is needed when talking to the wind, it whispers and cries, calling out with newborn curiosity, looking for a home. Yet it’s destined to wander, a soul wanders, my mind wanders. Back in hope and freedom, bourgeois in ado, stalking the light from east to west, uncut in motions of trepid teeth. Mind the subdued glares, they talk in freckles and tulips and wait in shadows grave deep. A deaden mime announces a sycophant, vaster in comparison to awkward flesh of aged wine. Kissing at my toes in high fashion, blind adoration for the freedom of detestation empowered by the knowledge of loneness. Now the wind cackles, now the anamorphous jaw of time snaps, holding us all in cautious embrace.
- Nicholas Hollier