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I've Crossed Oceans of Wine

Updated on February 1, 2016

When I was in college, I experimented with something called "drunken poetry" - which is exactly what it sounds like. It is the process of consuming alcohol before writing to lessen inhibitions with the main goal of having the final product be of a more free and subconscious nature.

I do not advocate this.

If one is feeling stunted, or having an issue with writer's block, it is better to attempt to strengthen your creative ability without the use of any substance - it is entirely unhealthy to think you should/must rely on any drug to spark the creative process.

That being made clear, I do feel that the writing I'd produced during that time (I'd just found some of it in my documents folder) is too interesting not to share. A few of the lines are very very good, and a few of them make absolutely no tangible sense at all. However, I think that the lines within this stream of consciousness could be recycled into some of the poetry that I am writing today, with a healthier mind-set.

Is this unholy? To be drunk on love . . . hate, as if there were a difference and speweing forth subconsciouses that you cannot prove? No, no, no, I think it is just human emotion, de-evolving to evolve and being honest in the moment, though moments do not exist, it is all illusion and a dream within a dream. Just let go . .. is it sacrilage that you should be tied up with a boy that reminds me of you . . .. and I am confused.
I’ve crossed oceans of wine just to find . ..
What? What is it that I have found, just more confusion cascading in a never-ending sea of bitterness. And am I bitter? At you, at me, at us being one in the same. And this cloudy haze both makes me alive and dead. I feel that I feel but I cannot place those feelings in the real world. And 155 is a number of doom. When you look down upon the drones that roam across the barren lands and never think to look up at their leader standing there.
Just let go . . . .
And never show it to anybody. . .
And now is the point where this prose changes, for it will be real, and this being real I shall never show it to another “living soul”
It aches,
This hollow in me,
Unquenched thirst felt only in dreams.
A heart too strong to beat to your rhythm, a mind too imaginative and intelligent to feel at home in this world.

And I wish for . . . the centerpiece of my heart to be taken up by you. An alter. Where many artifacts surround, but you are at the center, the main item of worship. And everything else is a side-glance, and my eyes focus upon only your idol as I kneal at the thrown of life.
And my heart so full it could burst. And I’d be happy, to bleed the blood soaked carnage over your bottechelli angel face as I die. I need a purpose. I could die happily if I knew I was dying for a purpose.

Angst, confusion. I cannot describe it. I need someone to calm me, but do I really want that? So many things left unsaid, or am I just lazy, or are there not enough words in the English language?

I know what I deserve, and it lies in the most sacred part of my psyche and my brain, this spiritually I have been building up on, and I create what I feel, I create what I wish to see. Are we doomed then. . . to live apart. And when you find me, will you be able to catch up? And as a writer it is so frustrating that I cannot find the words . . . maybe writer isn’t the proper world, maybe I am something more .. . .
Sleep, sleep. 155, sleep. Do you know what you are? You know who you are, but do you know what you are? You are, you are . . . my love, and you deserve everything that is entitled to that . . .


. . ..

You beat to the rhythm of an ancient drum, tenderly and aware, against my flesh, against the most tender and sacred part of me.
The sweat from your body drips onto mine, trickle, trickle, in a predicable harmony, to co-mingle with my own juices and form a moist heart-shaped stain on the bed sheet below.
Gasp, gasp, how surprised we are that such an act could bring so much joy,
As you enter and invade, as I have given permission, through the glances, though the smiles, though the tender and light touching of our hands and how I screamed that you make me feel alert and alive and mad, we merge. And our voice becomes one, to sing up to the heavens, in a never-ending crescendo to be heard for all time. A song of lust, a song of love, a song of us, that could never be repeated or remade.


I can’t.
There just . . . aren’t any words. . . for what I feel.

And this won’t be for anyone but myself . . .so let go . . .

How is it that bubbling turmoil can mix with the butterflies of fate in my stomach? Is this not the sweetest seeming contradiction? Is this not the perfect balance of all that I need to sustain me? – the serenity topped with sadness, both residing in the same heart?
Would that I could offer this concoction, mixed with care through the course of a lifetime, to someone who desires the taste of that dish. Perhaps I can eat from their plate – compare recipes. The same base ingredient would be preferred.
Yeast, I believe, for it expands. And is that not what I wholly desire? – the evolution of the soul? Let me answer if for you, yes. For without that, there is no purpose.
There is always something to write about, Marié.
The confident way in which she speaks. The distance across the Ocean.
Your longing for nature and freedom, for aren’t they one in the same?
The imagined lover who will be both strong and delicate as the petals of your favorite flower.
Do you always write of beauty? If the purpose is to evolve and I write with a purpose and believe whole-heatedly that said evolution is beautiful then the answer is yes.
Oh Marié, why do you always ask so many questions?
Because I must.
Because I’m here.

a rapid irregular movement of the eye as it changes focus moving from one point to another while reading on a mixture of wonder and dread a migratory thrush with reddish brown feathers, a gray head and rump, and a noisy call to provide somebody or something with help or with what is needed to achieve something advertise advertise vote in favor of a mixture of wonder or dread expressing emotion me and you.

Mine.

Could I see your dreams unturned and vain in mine eye
if I could tell you of what I would say do not fret for the true world is so near to one such as yourself and all unfolds as you will it
see again the true and do not fear the doubt it is common and human nature
I feel that you suffer too much because of longing
time is not now for longing,
you will achieve your true dreams after death,
for now, “live.”
and we shall see each other soon for me, heartbreakingly long for you
I feel with you.

© 2016 Marié Patricia Nicolina Murray

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