cloudypoetry-blog

[cloudypoetry-blog]

… And their voices and words were all

The background to my thoughts, and gains

They became, just noise behind the focus

Of my realm.

 … And even radiant intellectuals hid

Behind my thoughts, for my thoughts were dominant

In my realm.

 … And my thoughts are

About the grasping arm of my soul,

As a hopeful anchor searching for soil,

Not finding the will to accept its loneliness

In still water.

 … And my dreams are filled with hope yet

They leave a hopeless mark

On my resting.

 <Breath>

 … And I am still now with the water

Rushing in chaos above me, lacking

My presence, seeking only a cold touch

On its surface, where my observations keep

Me under.

[cloudypoetry-blog]

Dying Lover

... I don’t know why

I feel angry.

    I don’t know why

I hate everybody.

... Among those I hate the most,

I am number one but you are close.

... I hurt, you say

    My words are sharp.

I ache when I play

    The cruel heart’s harp.

... Never mind my luring charm,

My heart is blue from loneliness.

    Never felt this much harm,

From my own echoing, hollow chest.

... Love itself is penultimate

In dying, I am last, without colour;

    So I lie to hell’s deaf senate:

I was the best, the best lover.

[cloudypoetry-blog]

Escapism

Left the papers the numbers the laptop the folders the letters the calculator the rented books and the life behind and in actuality he started a new one to free himself of dirty cleanliness and hide.

Got into the car and started driving north and not so far stopped at the border for a brief minute looked himself in the mirror and saw no one who was worth saying hello good bye to and he counted from one until two and started driving again hoping to reach the top of the globe and so forth it was the North and the coldest of them all but it was all right.

Canada was great but it wasn’t the place to stay so he left the car behind and got on a boat so he could break the ice of himself and continue the search for the self and he regretted not taking photos of the views and he regretted not bringing more clothes to keep him warm and he didn’t regret leaving.

Healing himself had only one way and it was dipping into the north without anyone’s knowledge. He could have been anywhere, floating on a boat, floating in water, floating in the tub, floating in space; his healing was to be lost forever and not to be found; it was the feeling of his self.

The boat stopped on the Northest of the North for him to get off the ship and join the eskimos whose skin were warm from the cold while his skin was ice cold from the cold, but he did try to recreate the ideal warmth of his origin —

His eyes were blue from nature and the snowflakes of summer while he got older by the minute and he got old by the hour and his life left on a boat for an adventure of a lifetime.

[cloudypoetry-blog]

Anticipatory Anxiety

Waiting Monday morning for an exam I can hardly fail and I might just bite my own tale when it comes to the same day same time next week and I see an F spotting my pupils fulfilling its destiny receiving thrills from deconstructing my false universe.

What is it that makes me better than the people outside the institution where I write this verse from? We are dollar educated and programmed for un-boredom - How will I know where I have to go and what I have to do to find a kingdom that needs a king like me to rule by freedom?

Dumbness, and I can’t speak. I can’t hear your voice I’m concentrating, I can’t see I’m trying out meditating so I can concentrate more and I can be ever-better, sweeter than ever, grow to be taller than ever, use a lever to lift my brain out and celebrate the mind that will break free of the dollars, free of the institutions, free of mathematical and absolutely logical solutions…

And then the “what is next” hitting my head like 1989, allowing for restricted thoughts, receiving a text from the freedom of people: we are done by deliberate accident…

It’s life. It’s less than high power, it’s less than God, it’s lower than the sun, it’s slower than I run, slower than how I revolve around the sun, slower than the turntable turning the record, scratching.

- Backspin -

And we are at the same place where we were, late ’50’s cultural oppressions, supreme creations — both shaken and stirred.

- Backspin -

Dollars on my body, dollars on my head, dollars in my hand…

And we are confused why we turn green, as goblins

Of the free land.

[cloudypoetry-blog]

#sister

And I was reminded once again where I came from, where the path came from and where it’s not going back to —

Escapism is not the feeling I’m looking for but the pistol sounds hit my ears in my head and my destiny in my hand and the bullets in my head telling me to wake up but I’m never going back to my roots where lying is telling the truth, but...

Guarding the truth about successors will never let them break free of their pain when it’s their turn to break, flee from the lies thought best to be taught to them. But they were smarter than their ancestors.

And it doesn’t matter how many times I tell: ”You are worth it” when you think you are not and you get aggressive with me because I tell you the truth about you and your surroundings and the disgust around you eating up your creative genius that is hiding away in the light of your soul, casting shadows of your rulers above your dreams and awaits for the beams of no smoke, no coke, no blow, but real feelings from people caring.

— 

Beams are loving and I am loving you all the time without or with the bullets in my head telling me to go back but I will not go back to tell you the truth again, you are not you again. When were you, you again? You were always smoking the hell out of heaven and trying to alibi yourself out of provoking me but we knew it doesn’t work.

  And I am writing about you, and my thoughts about you, and I wish I could sing about you to the whole world and tell them that you are wearing a mask under-pressure — glowing still, hoping still that someone will steal you away from reality, Tomorrow; but it’s coming for you everyday.

I would invent you but you already exist and I am happy that you were created and you are here, but do something to yourself and do something to the world and leave your mark because it’s beautiful and leave your mark because it’s beautiful and leave your mark because it’s beautiful and leave your mark without narcotics and leave yourself alone for a second and don’t leave your soul behind and feel yourself not going numb from going dark and go high without heaven pulling you up, go fly without green wings, fly on love without flings.

—

I’m tired of convincing you, pushing you, pulling you, crawling from fear, crawling from weakness, knowing not knowing you, crying with my words for you, afraid with the universe for you, baptising myself with poems of this kind for you, aching for you in the deepest caves of the hive of my soul… Your foul world lives in mine and from here it’s a black cloud we blow away with the wind of my kind — I’m not going back. My future is sound, don’t look at what I found, don’t look at me; you will not understand why I’m the loudest in the crowd.

See you, Tomorrow.

[cloudypoetry-blog]

Statement

I’m in my twenties. I’m an Adult, I’m a Kid, a Traveller, a Dreamer, a Student, a Sage, a Writer, an Artist, a Curator, a Friend. I’m a Maverick, I’m in my twenties. (Stanza 1, Original Maverick Statement by Jeffrey Ola)

I’m in my twenties, they say love comes easy but it doesn’t, one thing cannot cease me or please me I’m an adult. I don’t care if you don’t see it, my faults are my faults and I feel how real the world is, the hatred that’s going around – cultural refreshment comes in prices like gold in a pound.

I’m a Kid though, still, and I will not lose this part of me, the child inside of me, the curiousity that drives me to explore and make a big discovery – don’t you listen, I told you I’m interminable! My life is about going and going until I can’t do the impossible!

I’m a traveller, a dreamer to the extent that I think of dreams as realistic, reaching the stars with my hands becomes not surreal but artistic – you can’t stop me with your words: “surreal”, “bullshit”. Choke on my rhymes if you will… Let my stanzas carry you for a while, shit –

I’m still a student, and I will stay for a while, for the time I’m being and that’s worth my while. I’m sorry for nothing because I’m doing everything to learn – you file your bullshit statistics and forecast what I will earn, but money is money and you can’t buy my mind, look at my sight now and find a middle finger

Because I’m a sage, a writer, a creator of all sorts, I will write what I say and will think not to push forward, and yes and yes, that’s not what you all heard! But who cares if you cry about it, cry if you will – let me create while you’re at it, let me build a hill of inventions, getting thrill from creating, bettering lives every second of my living.

I’m a friend, a curator as well – inspiring younglings and build our future in one swell. And while you talk and think not of the words coming out of your mouth, I show and tell for everyone whose coming from the South, or the North – I love my real friends from the beginning and so forth.

I’m in my twenties as a Maverick!

My head is thick and I am ready to go bungie-jumping or freestyling on the radio with Childish Gambino and Kendrick – It doesn’t matter I’ll let someone else pick…

I’m just getting started on this slam shit by being inspired by who I think is fit to motivate me, push me, and comprehend my words that not all of you can see but you can all read – feed your egos and let your first name define your defaults, and I still take your simple insults sometimes: “those rhymes are not rhymes man”. Satisfying you was not really my plan.

These are thoughts put into rhymes, rhymes adopted from my mind to create a statement that was originally articulated by my friend Jeffrey.

This statement is ours truly, and is for you to understand our minds are not the ruly kind. A more honest statement you will hardly find. This statement is a reminder: Being a Maverick is about to go hype and no wonder!

I hope you are listening because this jam was not misleading, you are missing out on the ship that’s about to leave with the Mavericks, top picks, high-top, low-top, Saint Laurent kicks.

We are Mavericks, we are our own slaves, we push each other for we always misbehave… For everyone else: catch our shade on the move – join or fade away and lose, fools!

Or

Join the movement, join the fam, add to the jam from Ola and BVH: friends, creators, writing on a different page.

(Poem by BVH)

[cloudypoetry-blog]

Morning Blender

Screaming alarm wakes me up at 9 am,

I’m snoozing until 11:30, missing my class,

Thinking of you being flirty in the morning

With no pants but my shirt that you are sporting but just now I’m thinking this might be something that you are not supporting; me writing about you being almost naked, but who am I to fake what makes me happy, and I’m not being bad, just happy, feeling splendid, being blended with the thought of you I created.

This might not be related to all those things we talked about, but I have to get rid of my foes, turn myself inside-out, my thoughts are breaking the walls of my skull, and without them I’ll never stay full of myself, and full of you…

— You know, my thoughts are almost always about you —

And the future too.

We will upgrade from regional to trans-atlantic. Our relationship will stay intangible and romantic through the trust I hope to construct with you, a product of our thing, not the one I always refer to, but the one that you have to get used to.

Who am I to talk (hoping this doesn’t seem like blackboard and chalk screaming on the surface) when I just shout.

[cloudypoetry-blog]

Nolan | Spring

Weekend wearing me out like stan smith on every parisien instagram account. Waiting on the sun to show her face downtown in a park, this place goes from light to dark in a second. Cloudy, cloudy, cloudypoetry on a beautiful day, I overhear so many things overhere; children at play, mothers at 'hey, get off of the tree', then 'Ma, ma, I have to pee'.  Blossoming trees, blossoming flowers, blossoming people after April fools, Peers studying for their finals already, April's tools. Music and writing makes me feel like a freeman, building brands, loving life -- Overhearing ' suck it kindly Nolan '. Kids change these days man...

[cloudypoetry-blog]

Drowning Skyline

Cities around me blow up,

But my hands are smooth from Aèsop.

Although smoothness costs a fortune

We pay it, but hold up,

Hold all

Culturally

Vandal thoughts

Around Europe.

—

Dogs barking inside the house,

Can't find the rats, the infiltrators, the mice,

Dogs barking inside the house,

Rats, rats, rats hiding behind your eyes.

Blowing smokes, everyone is high on anger,

Holy smokes by another religious culture,

Holy smokes inside of my house,

Holy smokes, they took my kids and my spouse.

Villains, villains, villains,

They don't feel our pains and feelings,

All this could be a fragile nightmare

Through the darkest night of our culture,

Structured to torture through fractures.

Social media communicating shit,

They want you to not believe in it;

The war going on under your feet.

Notifications pushing on my iphone,

Pushing my buttons too, leave me alone.

My whole world is about to get wrecked,

My world that fed me, led me to believe in peace —

Now I have to figure out I was living a lease.

Eventually my iphone died,

That is when I felt relieved

And liberated, not seeing all,

Not reading CNN, BBC —

Feeling free with no fee,

So much to see

When I'm not looking down

When I walk around the world.

I've been told

“Be realistic“.

I’ve been bold, thinking

“Shut up and watch me

Dream big and do bigger“;

(This should be all of us)

Not pulling a trigger. 

[cloudypoetry-blog]

Prone

Pain, pain, pain, pain,

Discomfort in the main cabin,

Ears popping, nose bleeding,

Which country am I in?

Heart aching while waiting to land,

Playing with my hands and I'm thinking the nose spray tends

To irritate me. I'm wining and dining

And vining on the clouds looking puff,

Looking down the white slopes, white,

White angel dust and other stuff.

Flying above many places making friends and popping my ears like Bose

Popping hip-hop songs in a white Benz, thinking of your little nose;

I'm fighting with my own foes, afraid to lose,

Afraid of accidentally snoozing on all my exams,

Not being on time for my lung screenings,

Being late to witness my own funeral,

Definitely being late on my own burial.

Spending my future earnings on these places under me,

Financing the places behind me; the places where I went to flee from evils,

Listen to seagulls tell me to fly but it was all a lie, or was it, was it bullshit,

Was it when I first flew out of the country alone to see me joint smoking adjoined the water, the ocean, watching the sun go down, falling under water and breathing salty air realising it was already dark downtown when I came up after the last wave in the set, being wet to the core, crying for my past like a little boy slipping on the floor, breaking his knees — no joy — I could never play the game of others being alone, fuck your bullshit, I became prone…

They told me to grow up, grow feathers to fly, but the seagulls already told that lie; I don’t need no feathers to get moving and get fly, I became prone.

My mother looked at me before leaving and had nothing to declare and we had a lot to care for but we took life for granted — it wasn’t just me, it wasn’t unfair — I became prone.

This is a long note as you presumed and you are still reading this I presume so please don't stop and resume the exploration of the darkness in my words, in the mind of a head ahead of the rows in the plane terminal at Frankfurt.

Still happy from the time spent with my no-winged angel, aching from the 45th angle, aching for more time uninterrupted, time corrupted by happiness, not more and not less of the corruption we deserve, I reserve for us in the verse of a beautiful song

As long as You and Me.

[cloudypoetry-blog]

Alibi

Mom, when she raised us how she raised us,

Father, when he taught us of honesty,

Sisters, when they taught us of patience,

Grandparents, when they taught us of acceptance —

Stimuli.

I can’t do it, I can’t do it, when I’m sick and I flip

The pages to close and I study not

But talk of many things wanted — tie the knot

On my tongue! I refer to all the things I use for my

Alibi.

Achievement doesn’t come from me as I rely

On the things I dislike about all the scum of alibi,

Those people who stop you from being a-fly,

Atop the world

I am not in the way of anyone

Who wants to cross the border

Between being someone and the one,

Only myself —

Using alibi to not take myself seriously,

Failing before starting the career without a title

Calling it genius and subtle to steer all the way, but seriously?

Alibi.

Writing my wrong instead of righting all the wrongs

I did for myself, like not lifting Fitzgerald off of my shelf,

Letting my brain melt, letting you r being spelt

Wrong. Wrong — how long until it is realised

How much of me was society, how much I am compromised;

Alibi.

No, it is different, but I might be selfish

Underground listening to Father send me to hell,

But Father I already fell, being foolish, believing.

Stampd by all the words coming out of the mouth,

I will get to the same place if I always run south with my words,

And my lyric-like murmurs of alibis and unhappiness.

Black, grey, white as hell of an angel. I am taken

By all of the lessons I was taught, all the societal pressure,

All the beauties of materialistic values, dishonest leisure,

Pleasure, without a borderline.

Alibi — This way nothing will be fine.

I let go when everything is mine.

[cloudypoetry-blog]

Pace

Yesterday is today in my head,

As I look out the plane's window 

I think of us being in my bed thinking:

Radio.

Looking down on German soil,

All the houses seem so small as crums

In my father's beard after breakfast;

He waits for mum's call on the crums.

Radio.

Wherever I go, information reaches out,

Reaches in, around riches, living itself becomes a sin.

Radio.

Balancing act as the plane turns around to land,

My eyes and dreams are still afar from the land,

Dreams and love come hand-in-hand;

Vertically speaking --

Radio.

Leaking information, dad talks of politics,

Mum loves jazz, and emotional topics;

Radio.

They grow impatient with me,

How I want to be something I don't know

But getting to know in a process real slow,

Emerging solutions;

Radio.

Flying low, about to land,

Time to defend off - homeland.

You don't feel me, I know.

Can anyone hear me?

- you already live in today's tomorrow -

[cloudypoetry-blog]

(Unlikely to) Title

I feel it.

The pattern-less life of feet- Up comfort.

— 

Retort, retort, retort: ‘ Please

Rest in peacefully restless dreams,

singing on “ ultralight beam “s.

My dream swims in my body.

Green ocean under credit card boats,

Dead fish atop the ocean, plastic hearts afloat;

Raise - raise - raise - 

Always absorbing tears of lovely sadness,

Joyful spendings on pop-culture couture.

Less like liberated,

More like consumer chauffeur.

Yeezy creed,

Everyone feels related.

Morning ritual: Instagram feed.

Feeling is mutual; we all fade.

—

It’s all Human Made.

[cloudypoetry-blog]

Sh-opinion-Sh-opinion-Sh-opinion

Railed to fail when I think of green, and LVMH destroying the youthful aspirations.

Nailed to the ground by a father I found.

I'm bound by my age to wait to create. 

A late age to be alive, where ambition seemingly fails.

Seemingly fails to convey the rebellious thoughts of the artist's ways.

Ye wants to work for Hermés,

Going against everything else he says --

But I'm still going to play my game;

Famelessly creating patches of colours from my own paletta,

Loving no Hermes, LV, but Margiela - LA, SF, Pasadena --

Hello.

A muse, tripping in Juliet,

Bread and butter, 

Flatter, murmur,

Hello.

You are no Kanye, Pablo.

[cloudypoetry-blog]

Game Strong

We game the play,

Preventing our life to be grey,

And if we may just be here still,

I will kiss you on the bright-side in May.

Say, there will be time.

Roll on the grass in the ray,

Stroll smoothly.

Summer will be the time of the poll,

Unable to move like “Polly”.

The name of the girl that Kurt sings about,

Almost the same thing, when Trump is around.

—

We were strolling though, without politics,

Feeling everyday like a continuous fling,

With your finger-ring-ring without a bling.

The world spins around

What’s mine, the world,

Feeling higher than fine,

Doesn’t matter if my card’s declined…

Find me under the bridge,

I paid too much for the alcohol in the hotel’s fridge.

Overbooked space,

Over-hooked on you when

You over-looked the degree

Of loneliness from the clean sheet spree.

Over-stepped the obstacles multiplying —

Flash fast game over

For the bad wishes.

Higher than level one-hundred,

I wondered, pondered about

The reasons I bought to be happy.

Slowly I zoned out,

Zoomed in,

Thought of you,

How we flew in the same stream seamlessly parallel,

Meaning-full.

Fill the pieces, feel the spring-like breezes.

We are strolling in the park in May,

Until the lights are off, and I can kiss you in the dark -- hit play.

[cloudypoetry-blog]

Open

My feet are cold from the wind sliding in

Under the window that is open, we are flirting.

My head is on the table and I am talking to a computer

Who is you at the moment, Who are you at the moment?

A second passes after another and I read a love letter to you

And I hear you breathing heavily and I imagine you too,

Don’t worry Dear little girl, I think of you and I feel your thoughts,

And I feel my twisted swirling soul crawling out of my body

Only to crawl closer to the microphone, and whisper -- I love you -- ,

But the mic is prone to my soul and saying these words would be foul

A-fault. And it might hurt us rather than pushing us towards those close dances

You are longing for in those Johnny’s cabins around the world only with me.

Dance classes are not even necessary, but I know -- that is what you want Kid,

So dancing slow, dancing, looking low, dancing slow, show your face to me

Again, again I want to see you and I miss your eyes looking at me up close

At me. Coming at me, you see me.

My head is still on the table next to the computer and the window is open and I hear you but you are not here with me, but I am

Open.

[cloudypoetry-blog]

Whatever that means

Whatever that means when something is missing and meaning is what I'm looking for... Alone but not lonely, searching for beats sounding ' we ' and nearly found it on my own but it doesn't work like that -- Whatever that means. And when the Facebook notification leans on my desktop and my endorphins pop the bottles and emotions start floating atop my vessles... You wrote me again and I am fly from it And Far from you -- far from you but still, I will see you soon, and just a simple ' hello, how are you ' stimulated a long distance romance having nuances every second of our days -- I'm having troubles expressing myself. -- I have feelings which are out of this world but I cannot find proper words to express the train of emotions travelling express through my body. Happy emotions, raw emotions, claw-like scars that I like in up-and-down motions... Emotions close to feelings of opening a window on a spring day being blinded by the sun caressed by a soft breeze and smelling the beautiful scents of blossoming flowers after the morning rain. Far away from you but I mainly feel a kind of good pain -- These are just words... Another message leans on my desktop saying: ' Whatever that means '.