Made dis here necklace this afternoon. (Taken with instagram)
Ohm Mane Padme Hum is a Buddhist mantra that can be interpreted in a number of ways, and one specifically is “Hail The Jewel is in the Lotus”. The jewel represents the phallus, or the “lightning bolt” that is the vehicle for the male sexual energy. The lotus symbolizes the cosmic yoni from which all life was created, and it carries a very strong female connotation.
The male jewel buried in the female lotus is a powerful symbol in Tantric Buddhism that represents the union of contrast; fire & water, darkness & light ect.
It’s an allusion to the interdependence and oneness of all things, and such simultaneity is often found through sexual intercourse and orgasm.
Hence this sexually charged poem.
namaste
I haven’t uploaded any poetry in a while. This is an acrostic, so it really doesn’t need a title. It might not be by favorite but either was the way I was feeling!
I’m considering posting some spoken word on it…
Well, I already did. But they are private.
Does anyone think this is a good idea?
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It’s on these hard types of days
as the sun oozes to a close,
and the sky is ablaze,
that I know these woes
will fly away with the light
if I open my heart, my eyes,
look past the ego’s disguise,
open my journal,
and write.
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An open palm reposed
upon my back, trickles
down exposed flesh,
and yes, tracing the serene
curvature of my frame,
it careens along the groove
and I swoon, it’s dropping
like the psychedelic
moon on the screen,
squeezing in between
his treasure to retrieve,
his lips, a wisp in my ear,
“Happy New Years Eve.”
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One of my mom’s christmas gifts…
A book of my poetry and prose! Hand-bound by myself.
It’s about 32 pages…
I’m probably more excited than she is. Oh well, it looks fucking awesome.
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I was once in love,
of the deep, probing
variety. This love had roots
that spread through flesh
with ease – burrowed
into my heart as if
it was the most fertile
cache of soil.
Her name was Mary Jane –
green and decadent,
with crystalline trichome skin,
warm hair like caressing amber
tendrils. Her skin was sticky
sweet like citrus fruit;
Her scent a pungent musk
that reaped through
my clothing, clung to my
bed sheets, poisoned my mind.
We loved in the day light, beneath
the shadow-lace of midsummer’s trees.
Trickling brooks embraced us,
treacherous stream beds
cradled us, the humid air
eclipsing us like a gentle blanket.
Layer by layer, I pulled her apart,
frozen fingers trembling
along her skin in the black
haven of the frigid snow drift.
We loved in winters cold,
in nights darkness.
Oh, that perfected flowering
face, that bedazzled
complexion, a potential
allusion to our star-crossed
affection. Fate, manifested
as a skeletal reminder
of the moldy and rotten
corpse of romanticism,
of the delicious possibilities –
her name was Mary Jane.
A relationship uprooted,
leaves holes with tattered
edges that eventually unravel,
like a sinewy wall of comfort
crumbling into pathetic
fibers, or foliage withering
upon the floor of autumn.
I was once in love.
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Two paintings I did recently, that I am particularly proud of because they are totally improvised and original.
Acrylic on Canvas!
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After two consecutive days of rain,
the horizon burst into flames
as your soul left our atmosphere.
At this point in the evening,
if we aren’t already de-shelled
and broken, cracks are crawling
up our spines and we’re on the verge
of crumbling down. The wind blows
our dusty remains to one corner of town,
where we become one symphonic pile
of debris and mourning.
Locked up in our living rooms,
we exhale billows of smoke
that look uncannily like you,
and we breath them in, over, and over again,
hoping that some stoned resurrection
will occur. Many have tried to awaken us,
and failed, sadly the artifice
that proves most effective is your slumber.
If we reside anywhere in this endless
cavern of a town, it is in your eyes,
bathed in dew and fading morning light.
And our memories will stain,
like that dank stench in our clothing,
and the alcohol on our lips.
It is from responsibility and guilt
that we have broken, yet become inevitably adhered.
Rest Easy, Conor James O’Sullivan.
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Made this necklace/choker. It was actually super easy and I really like it.
I become increasingly fragile with every year that passes, as well as stronger. If I don’t change my outlook, winter might consume me as it has been trying to do so for many a year.
During autumn I can feel it slowly descending upon me.
It’s a strange thing to wonder: will I resist the urge to cut myself from this body during the winter season? I don’t know if asking this question is what gets me through, or whether, I have just yet to succumb.
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