Cake

I have fallen in love several 
and many times over in my youth.
I enjoy a wide array of varying emotion, 
since I am a very sensitive and creative person. 
It's in my nature to feel. 
Feel I do.

I do not have much to show for it 
except for a much larger cortex,
a mostly jaded outlook,
and a lively green parrot. 

It is in my experience
I have gained a small but general knowledge of the subject 
which believe I shall share with you.

I enjoy writing with generalizations, 
although generally specific, 
they are usually applicable to the point that I unwittingly accept them as a whole truth, 
and no longer just a generalization.
A fault of mine, I have no doubt. 
Makes my life easier. 

Back to the topic at hand

Falling in love is similar to eating an entire cake, in one bite.
Not a cupcake mind you, although I've inhaled my fare share of cupcakes. 
I'm speaking of those large, round, fancifully iced cakes in shop windows. 
Covered in a massive bouffant of icing,
Glistening and beautiful.
Begging to be known 
and to be had. 
Buttercream 
or whatever else you prefer. 

Begging for someone to prey upon it's existence.
"Eat me", it moans softly into the stale air.
Eat away, 
artist eat me up!

Eat I do, 
thank you very much. 
No no, I do not need a fork, 
I'll have the entire cake in one walloping bite, 
no chewing allowed.
Choke myself to death
that's what love is. Hysteria in action.

Enter the old cliche,
"Can we have our cake, and eat it to?"
Well? 

Eat it up as fast as you can, 
fat ass,
someone else could and will come along and take it away. 

Some vomit during the action of inhalation, 
recoil into their own bodies,
choke choke, and gag. 
Eat their own vomit. 
I have followed this pattern as well, 
Surviving on my own vomit for over a year at a time,
all the while denying that it ever tasted awful to anyone who inquired. 
Now I can look back and remember how foul it really was. 

I may never vomit again.
Hopefully.

There are people who actually die, 
trying to swallow an entire cake. 
Literally choke to death.
You know them as the "We's" and the "Us" people.
The halves that found their hole, 
in a whole. 
Those who have completely forgotten who they are
because it just tastes so good, 
so they die 
and forget everything inside. 
This is the saddest thing to me. 

Therapist, anyone?

Others tend to walk by the shop window, 
viewing the cake but never daring to taste, or even smell it.
They are the seemingly brave, standoffish, and wary ones
who we must wonder about
and walk amongst. 
Are they of this planet? 
Everyone must love cake,
Just as everyone loves a great hat. 
I wonder about those people.
They aren't hat people either. 

For I am a fan of love, 
I feel it all, 
I enjoy it all.
The pain, the sorrow, the angst, the apathy. 
It is all the same. 
Just wash it down with a drink,
really wash it down.
Take the bottle and wash away.
It helps when you're choking
fighting to breath
fighting for your life
because you inhaled another cake,
whole. 

Always falling in, 
but never out. 
I hold on to so many old flames.
I use them to my artistic advantage.
Free inspiration, at the cost of a heartache. 
Penny a dozen. 
Who says pennies are worthless currency?
I do. But nickels, aren't. 

The pain, the sorrow,
the choking on the thought
there was never really was anything there.
Vomit it up, 
or wash it down. 
These are the options. 
So, I drink.

I used to drink more, 
Now I drink less. 
I'm speaking generally, 
of course. 

Wash it all down
with a long tasty gulp.
Or a long, un-tasty swig. 
Which ever your preference. 

Are all artists lovers?
Most of us have a tendency to be drunks. 
I wonder.
We must be
I've read about it. 
Always a tragedy of Shakespearean proportion 
waiting to be told.
Most of artists I know, 
Including myself,
have had or currently do have 
a drinking problem.

From trying to force the cake down our throats,
into our stomach to be digested, 
accepted, 
and rid from our bodies.

From cake, to shit. 
It is the inevitable downfall of all food, to become shit. 

The falling out creates such a strong dissonance 
it's unbearable to know that you were wrong
the time you spent a possible waste
and the person you know who was once so highly regarded,
now nothing more than that piece of shit, whatever. 

Tis better we understand this now, 
than wallow in the misery and welcomed, 
often self inflicted pain, of unlove.
Unlove is the uneating of the cake
the upward choking action
Recoil and shrivel and shrink our ego,
A removal from the throat surgically 
that which was desperately tried to be swallowed whole.
Be gone damned cake from my throat.

Wash it down with a drink, 
vomit it up,
may be only to
eat it again.

At least I can get a few paintings out of it.
Meanwhile,
there are people who keep walking past the shop window
and I'll never understand them. 
I'm speaking generally,
of course.