OF INSIGHTS IN PROSE POEM
The modern form,forms a mystery when you look away from reality form in nature,when we gave form to her in stone,metal,clay and plastics. They all change a plastic form in front of our eyes ,when we live for decades and generations.It is like a tall wall ,finally melting by destiny.
Now hold my hands to form my hands.
Don't give a farewell form
In our farewell.
"We are all wounded survivers ,alive but devasted selves , fragmented,isolated,the condition of modern [hu]man ", said Stephen De Staebler,who did human fractured forms and figures,to escape death.He left all his living forms with the world ,two weeks ago at age 78.
"Art " he believed "tries to restructure reality ,so that we can lieve with suffering"Suffering of form that is,or form of suffering.He was fine and factual with women and men's form,and his forms always looked alike,never metaphor of irony,but always a tragedy.Tragedy of form,is surrounding us,but tragedy alleviates with love,not vulgars,if we learn to save our love and lives from vulgars..
Love is our form,ready and available if we are ready and available to be flexed and figurative,even when we disfigure them or as trying too...
"The human figure is the most loaded form..",once he said."It is our prison.It is what gives us life and gives us death."
It is human-men and women-who form their prison .After all it is a prison of form too.To flourish with us.
It arrives with rationals and it is a part of far and near future.Form is prisoned with us,in our prison of form in life and love and death.
This cafe is not Jean Paul Sartre and Simn De Bouvoir's cafe.It is too loud for me.I leave the rest of my thoughts for another time and leave...
I go to footnotes
After my pedicure
When forms are
And my skin itches to form
a new form
if form is ready for footnotes
EVEN WINGS ARE DISFORMED AND DISFIGURED.
By noon time