prose poem
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They say there’s no catching up on sleep, and it must be true.
In three decades I have only gotten “enough” sleep for maybe a month. Nights I stay up shouting, crying, letting the Void emerge from under these chewed up ribs and tear apart my day and life and work, shred the love I have for whoever is before me, and if there is no love there,…
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A Despair
It’s end of day and I’m pushing away from my desk in my office in my home where I pour my brilliance and energy. Everyday I am revolted that this office is my studio. The place I make art. The place I read poetry. The place I photograph myself trying to have a good time…
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I love surrealism.
I love the bends and gasps it makes in my brain, melting this and stretching that. That flower is a beautiful face, and those spiders will shelter us from the desert rays. I love the painters of surreal paintings: Miro’s playful lines that lead the eyes to newness, Magritte placing objects in my face, Kandinsky…
Erin Oubliette 