Life artist
@enigma69er.bsky.social
A wandering penitent, caught in a Groundhog Day purgatory within Waiting for Godot, roaming village to village, seeking meaning in life’s tender absurdity.
Read the prose bottom to top - starts with a title and picture
Read the prose bottom to top - starts with a title and picture
Any Time – William Stafford
(3rd Stanza)
Daddy, tell me your best secret.
I have woven a parachute out of everything broken; my scars
are my shield; and I jump, daylight or dark,
into any country, where as I descend I turn
native and stumble into terribly human speech
and wince recognition.
(3rd Stanza)
Daddy, tell me your best secret.
I have woven a parachute out of everything broken; my scars
are my shield; and I jump, daylight or dark,
into any country, where as I descend I turn
native and stumble into terribly human speech
and wince recognition.
August 19, 2025 at 10:09 AM
Any Time – William Stafford
(3rd Stanza)
Daddy, tell me your best secret.
I have woven a parachute out of everything broken; my scars
are my shield; and I jump, daylight or dark,
into any country, where as I descend I turn
native and stumble into terribly human speech
and wince recognition.
(3rd Stanza)
Daddy, tell me your best secret.
I have woven a parachute out of everything broken; my scars
are my shield; and I jump, daylight or dark,
into any country, where as I descend I turn
native and stumble into terribly human speech
and wince recognition.
some nights
the pain wins.
but some mornings
you’ll hear the birds again—
and maybe, just maybe,
you’ll remember
how to sing.
the pain wins.
but some mornings
you’ll hear the birds again—
and maybe, just maybe,
you’ll remember
how to sing.
July 22, 2025 at 1:44 PM
some nights
the pain wins.
but some mornings
you’ll hear the birds again—
and maybe, just maybe,
you’ll remember
how to sing.
the pain wins.
but some mornings
you’ll hear the birds again—
and maybe, just maybe,
you’ll remember
how to sing.
but still,
you sip your bitter tea,
feel the clock breathe against your skin,
and whisper
this too shall pass
like a cigarette prayer
to the blue smoke ghosts
of your better days.
you sip your bitter tea,
feel the clock breathe against your skin,
and whisper
this too shall pass
like a cigarette prayer
to the blue smoke ghosts
of your better days.
July 22, 2025 at 1:44 PM
but still,
you sip your bitter tea,
feel the clock breathe against your skin,
and whisper
this too shall pass
like a cigarette prayer
to the blue smoke ghosts
of your better days.
you sip your bitter tea,
feel the clock breathe against your skin,
and whisper
this too shall pass
like a cigarette prayer
to the blue smoke ghosts
of your better days.
you want to reach for her
but even the air
feels heavy.
they never tell you
that healing is mostly waiting.
mostly being alone
with the click of the clock
and the loudness of your own name.
but even the air
feels heavy.
they never tell you
that healing is mostly waiting.
mostly being alone
with the click of the clock
and the loudness of your own name.
July 22, 2025 at 1:43 PM
you want to reach for her
but even the air
feels heavy.
they never tell you
that healing is mostly waiting.
mostly being alone
with the click of the clock
and the loudness of your own name.
but even the air
feels heavy.
they never tell you
that healing is mostly waiting.
mostly being alone
with the click of the clock
and the loudness of your own name.
you think about the final door—
not because you want to walk through it,
but because it never locks.
somewhere else,
a flame you once followed
doesn’t dance tonight,
held still by her own merciless fire.
she too burns in silence—
another body betrayed
by the script of pain.
not because you want to walk through it,
but because it never locks.
somewhere else,
a flame you once followed
doesn’t dance tonight,
held still by her own merciless fire.
she too burns in silence—
another body betrayed
by the script of pain.
July 22, 2025 at 1:42 PM
you think about the final door—
not because you want to walk through it,
but because it never locks.
somewhere else,
a flame you once followed
doesn’t dance tonight,
held still by her own merciless fire.
she too burns in silence—
another body betrayed
by the script of pain.
not because you want to walk through it,
but because it never locks.
somewhere else,
a flame you once followed
doesn’t dance tonight,
held still by her own merciless fire.
she too burns in silence—
another body betrayed
by the script of pain.
this too shall pass
the steel went in
like betrayal,
but quieter—
and now you sit,
left arm bound in time’s straightjacket,
wondering if
you traded one devil
for another.
it hurts.
not just the bone,
but the quiet,
the hours that crawl
like dying dogs
across the linoleum floor
of your mind.
the steel went in
like betrayal,
but quieter—
and now you sit,
left arm bound in time’s straightjacket,
wondering if
you traded one devil
for another.
it hurts.
not just the bone,
but the quiet,
the hours that crawl
like dying dogs
across the linoleum floor
of your mind.
July 22, 2025 at 1:41 PM
this too shall pass
the steel went in
like betrayal,
but quieter—
and now you sit,
left arm bound in time’s straightjacket,
wondering if
you traded one devil
for another.
it hurts.
not just the bone,
but the quiet,
the hours that crawl
like dying dogs
across the linoleum floor
of your mind.
the steel went in
like betrayal,
but quieter—
and now you sit,
left arm bound in time’s straightjacket,
wondering if
you traded one devil
for another.
it hurts.
not just the bone,
but the quiet,
the hours that crawl
like dying dogs
across the linoleum floor
of your mind.
until the song
that is your life
falls into your own cupped hands
and you recognise and greet it.
Only then will you know
how to give yourself to this world
so worthy of rescue.
by Martha Postlethwaite
that is your life
falls into your own cupped hands
and you recognise and greet it.
Only then will you know
how to give yourself to this world
so worthy of rescue.
by Martha Postlethwaite
July 11, 2025 at 12:05 PM
until the song
that is your life
falls into your own cupped hands
and you recognise and greet it.
Only then will you know
how to give yourself to this world
so worthy of rescue.
by Martha Postlethwaite
that is your life
falls into your own cupped hands
and you recognise and greet it.
Only then will you know
how to give yourself to this world
so worthy of rescue.
by Martha Postlethwaite
Clearing – Martha Postlethwaite
Do not try to save
the whole world
or do anything grandiose.
Instead, create
a clearing
in the dense forest
of your life
and wait there
patiently,
Do not try to save
the whole world
or do anything grandiose.
Instead, create
a clearing
in the dense forest
of your life
and wait there
patiently,
July 11, 2025 at 12:04 PM
Clearing – Martha Postlethwaite
Do not try to save
the whole world
or do anything grandiose.
Instead, create
a clearing
in the dense forest
of your life
and wait there
patiently,
Do not try to save
the whole world
or do anything grandiose.
Instead, create
a clearing
in the dense forest
of your life
and wait there
patiently,
I am not a weapon.
I am not a wound.
I am the first light after exile,
the kiss that heals,
the man who stands naked
before the gods
and does not flinch.
I am not a wound.
I am the first light after exile,
the kiss that heals,
the man who stands naked
before the gods
and does not flinch.
June 29, 2025 at 2:17 PM
I am not a weapon.
I am not a wound.
I am the first light after exile,
the kiss that heals,
the man who stands naked
before the gods
and does not flinch.
I am not a wound.
I am the first light after exile,
the kiss that heals,
the man who stands naked
before the gods
and does not flinch.
I carry centuries of silence
woven into my spine —
and yet I break it,
every time I choose to love
instead of retreat.
woven into my spine —
and yet I break it,
every time I choose to love
instead of retreat.
June 29, 2025 at 2:17 PM
I carry centuries of silence
woven into my spine —
and yet I break it,
every time I choose to love
instead of retreat.
woven into my spine —
and yet I break it,
every time I choose to love
instead of retreat.
Insight to the Inner Flame ⟡
I was forged in fire —
not just the blaze of youth,
but the quieter flame
of fathers who did not speak
and mothers who could not rest.
I was forged in fire —
not just the blaze of youth,
but the quieter flame
of fathers who did not speak
and mothers who could not rest.
June 29, 2025 at 2:16 PM
Insight to the Inner Flame ⟡
I was forged in fire —
not just the blaze of youth,
but the quieter flame
of fathers who did not speak
and mothers who could not rest.
I was forged in fire —
not just the blaze of youth,
but the quieter flame
of fathers who did not speak
and mothers who could not rest.
3.
If forgiveness can rise like the morning sun, if memories can mend where wounds have been, then perhaps this ache will give way to a gentle renewal. In this fragile space between heartbreak and belonging, I wait, hopeful, for a chance to find her light once more.
If forgiveness can rise like the morning sun, if memories can mend where wounds have been, then perhaps this ache will give way to a gentle renewal. In this fragile space between heartbreak and belonging, I wait, hopeful, for a chance to find her light once more.
June 25, 2025 at 12:35 PM
3.
If forgiveness can rise like the morning sun, if memories can mend where wounds have been, then perhaps this ache will give way to a gentle renewal. In this fragile space between heartbreak and belonging, I wait, hopeful, for a chance to find her light once more.
If forgiveness can rise like the morning sun, if memories can mend where wounds have been, then perhaps this ache will give way to a gentle renewal. In this fragile space between heartbreak and belonging, I wait, hopeful, for a chance to find her light once more.
2.
Though the days have dulled my senses and the distance has grown, I still carry the sound of her voice, soft and serene. The ache of what i’ve lost rests deep within, yet a quiet ember of hope glimmers — that understanding and grace can find a way to guide us back from the edge.
Though the days have dulled my senses and the distance has grown, I still carry the sound of her voice, soft and serene. The ache of what i’ve lost rests deep within, yet a quiet ember of hope glimmers — that understanding and grace can find a way to guide us back from the edge.
June 25, 2025 at 12:34 PM
2.
Though the days have dulled my senses and the distance has grown, I still carry the sound of her voice, soft and serene. The ache of what i’ve lost rests deep within, yet a quiet ember of hope glimmers — that understanding and grace can find a way to guide us back from the edge.
Though the days have dulled my senses and the distance has grown, I still carry the sound of her voice, soft and serene. The ache of what i’ve lost rests deep within, yet a quiet ember of hope glimmers — that understanding and grace can find a way to guide us back from the edge.
Through the Silence
1.
Amid the madness of the world, and the slow fading of a cherished bond, I am torn. Yet I remember the spark in her eyes, the warmth of her smile — moments still whispering through the silence, reminding me that beauty outlasts storms and breathing life back into my beloved.
1.
Amid the madness of the world, and the slow fading of a cherished bond, I am torn. Yet I remember the spark in her eyes, the warmth of her smile — moments still whispering through the silence, reminding me that beauty outlasts storms and breathing life back into my beloved.
June 25, 2025 at 12:33 PM
Through the Silence
1.
Amid the madness of the world, and the slow fading of a cherished bond, I am torn. Yet I remember the spark in her eyes, the warmth of her smile — moments still whispering through the silence, reminding me that beauty outlasts storms and breathing life back into my beloved.
1.
Amid the madness of the world, and the slow fading of a cherished bond, I am torn. Yet I remember the spark in her eyes, the warmth of her smile — moments still whispering through the silence, reminding me that beauty outlasts storms and breathing life back into my beloved.
We were two deviants,
a Spartan and a daughter of Albion,
finding, for a moment,
the gods inside our flesh—
and tasting them
without shame.
a Spartan and a daughter of Albion,
finding, for a moment,
the gods inside our flesh—
and tasting them
without shame.
June 13, 2025 at 9:14 AM
We were two deviants,
a Spartan and a daughter of Albion,
finding, for a moment,
the gods inside our flesh—
and tasting them
without shame.
a Spartan and a daughter of Albion,
finding, for a moment,
the gods inside our flesh—
and tasting them
without shame.
V. What I Carry Now
I carry the scent of her storm on my skin.
The echo of her gasp
lodged deep in my ribs.
I walk differently now.
Like a man who has seen
the other side of the veil—
not heaven,
not hell,
but something far more carnal
and infinitely holy.
I carry the scent of her storm on my skin.
The echo of her gasp
lodged deep in my ribs.
I walk differently now.
Like a man who has seen
the other side of the veil—
not heaven,
not hell,
but something far more carnal
and infinitely holy.
June 13, 2025 at 9:13 AM
V. What I Carry Now
I carry the scent of her storm on my skin.
The echo of her gasp
lodged deep in my ribs.
I walk differently now.
Like a man who has seen
the other side of the veil—
not heaven,
not hell,
but something far more carnal
and infinitely holy.
I carry the scent of her storm on my skin.
The echo of her gasp
lodged deep in my ribs.
I walk differently now.
Like a man who has seen
the other side of the veil—
not heaven,
not hell,
but something far more carnal
and infinitely holy.
he held a totem
that buzzed like Hermes’ wings—
placed it at the altar
between her thunderous lips,
and called forth tremors
fit to wake Poseidon.
We made a ruin of the room.
And in that wreckage,
we made something sacred.
that buzzed like Hermes’ wings—
placed it at the altar
between her thunderous lips,
and called forth tremors
fit to wake Poseidon.
We made a ruin of the room.
And in that wreckage,
we made something sacred.
June 13, 2025 at 9:10 AM
he held a totem
that buzzed like Hermes’ wings—
placed it at the altar
between her thunderous lips,
and called forth tremors
fit to wake Poseidon.
We made a ruin of the room.
And in that wreckage,
we made something sacred.
that buzzed like Hermes’ wings—
placed it at the altar
between her thunderous lips,
and called forth tremors
fit to wake Poseidon.
We made a ruin of the room.
And in that wreckage,
we made something sacred.
IV. Of Sinners and Saints
She was blasphemy with a halo.
A nymphomantic hymn
disguised as flesh.
And I, once a soldier,
once a man of honor,
found my sword discarded at her feet—
content to worship,
to serve,
to kneel where she bloomed.
She was blasphemy with a halo.
A nymphomantic hymn
disguised as flesh.
And I, once a soldier,
once a man of honor,
found my sword discarded at her feet—
content to worship,
to serve,
to kneel where she bloomed.
June 13, 2025 at 9:09 AM
IV. Of Sinners and Saints
She was blasphemy with a halo.
A nymphomantic hymn
disguised as flesh.
And I, once a soldier,
once a man of honor,
found my sword discarded at her feet—
content to worship,
to serve,
to kneel where she bloomed.
She was blasphemy with a halo.
A nymphomantic hymn
disguised as flesh.
And I, once a soldier,
once a man of honor,
found my sword discarded at her feet—
content to worship,
to serve,
to kneel where she bloomed.
There was a great roar.
Maybe it was hers.
Maybe it was mine.
Maybe it was the world ending
exactly as it should.
Maybe it was hers.
Maybe it was mine.
Maybe it was the world ending
exactly as it should.
June 13, 2025 at 8:39 AM
There was a great roar.
Maybe it was hers.
Maybe it was mine.
Maybe it was the world ending
exactly as it should.
Maybe it was hers.
Maybe it was mine.
Maybe it was the world ending
exactly as it should.
III. A Sacrament of Salt & Honey
She fed on me like Persephone on pomegranate, pulled me down,
deeper than Hades dared to descend.
The earth gave way from the weight of her joy.
She convulsed with the violence of rain gods, casting holy floods upon my thighs til I forgot my name, Sparta & time.
She fed on me like Persephone on pomegranate, pulled me down,
deeper than Hades dared to descend.
The earth gave way from the weight of her joy.
She convulsed with the violence of rain gods, casting holy floods upon my thighs til I forgot my name, Sparta & time.
June 13, 2025 at 8:39 AM
III. A Sacrament of Salt & Honey
She fed on me like Persephone on pomegranate, pulled me down,
deeper than Hades dared to descend.
The earth gave way from the weight of her joy.
She convulsed with the violence of rain gods, casting holy floods upon my thighs til I forgot my name, Sparta & time.
She fed on me like Persephone on pomegranate, pulled me down,
deeper than Hades dared to descend.
The earth gave way from the weight of her joy.
She convulsed with the violence of rain gods, casting holy floods upon my thighs til I forgot my name, Sparta & time.
And I answered with fire,
with hands dipped in the Styx,
with fingers that sought
the trembling source
of all forbidden rivers.
with hands dipped in the Styx,
with fingers that sought
the trembling source
of all forbidden rivers.
June 13, 2025 at 8:31 AM
And I answered with fire,
with hands dipped in the Styx,
with fingers that sought
the trembling source
of all forbidden rivers.
with hands dipped in the Styx,
with fingers that sought
the trembling source
of all forbidden rivers.
II. At the Mouth of the Oracle
She opened herself like an omen.
No priestess at Delphi ever prophesied so clearly.
Her thighs made thunder.
Her mouth knew the sacred names
of gods I had long forgotten.
She sang them—low, unholy—on her knees.
She opened herself like an omen.
No priestess at Delphi ever prophesied so clearly.
Her thighs made thunder.
Her mouth knew the sacred names
of gods I had long forgotten.
She sang them—low, unholy—on her knees.
June 13, 2025 at 8:30 AM
II. At the Mouth of the Oracle
She opened herself like an omen.
No priestess at Delphi ever prophesied so clearly.
Her thighs made thunder.
Her mouth knew the sacred names
of gods I had long forgotten.
She sang them—low, unholy—on her knees.
She opened herself like an omen.
No priestess at Delphi ever prophesied so clearly.
Her thighs made thunder.
Her mouth knew the sacred names
of gods I had long forgotten.
She sang them—low, unholy—on her knees.
I had wandered far,
Sparta in my blood,
dust in my beard,
desire coiled in the marrow like a serpent
too long asleep.
She met me not with words—
but with lightning.
And I, fool of Olympus,
let myself be struck.
Sparta in my blood,
dust in my beard,
desire coiled in the marrow like a serpent
too long asleep.
She met me not with words—
but with lightning.
And I, fool of Olympus,
let myself be struck.
June 13, 2025 at 8:26 AM
I had wandered far,
Sparta in my blood,
dust in my beard,
desire coiled in the marrow like a serpent
too long asleep.
She met me not with words—
but with lightning.
And I, fool of Olympus,
let myself be struck.
Sparta in my blood,
dust in my beard,
desire coiled in the marrow like a serpent
too long asleep.
She met me not with words—
but with lightning.
And I, fool of Olympus,
let myself be struck.
“Chrystale, Daughter of Thunder”
A hymn of reunion between the Nymph of Rain and the Spartan Stranger
I. When the Sky Cracked
She came from the north,
with a voice like rainfall against stone
and hips like prophecy—
a Mancunian siren
with vowels round as moons
and eyes sharp as Dionysian shards.
A hymn of reunion between the Nymph of Rain and the Spartan Stranger
I. When the Sky Cracked
She came from the north,
with a voice like rainfall against stone
and hips like prophecy—
a Mancunian siren
with vowels round as moons
and eyes sharp as Dionysian shards.
June 13, 2025 at 8:25 AM
“Chrystale, Daughter of Thunder”
A hymn of reunion between the Nymph of Rain and the Spartan Stranger
I. When the Sky Cracked
She came from the north,
with a voice like rainfall against stone
and hips like prophecy—
a Mancunian siren
with vowels round as moons
and eyes sharp as Dionysian shards.
A hymn of reunion between the Nymph of Rain and the Spartan Stranger
I. When the Sky Cracked
She came from the north,
with a voice like rainfall against stone
and hips like prophecy—
a Mancunian siren
with vowels round as moons
and eyes sharp as Dionysian shards.