A Portrait of My Musical and Literary Life

I’d rather be locked away where nobody would want me save a few reaching arms and shallow, longing hearts. 

Still my pulse until all it mimes is the throb behind some eyes and some hands and some breath breathed while the moon still shone and cold air illuminates it.

Forget the words “family” and “want” and “faith” and “hope”, all for the most foreign and wont of any feeling that may reside in a lack there-of.

May-hap be sad forever with the few souls who still want me for my base value; my base uses and base dead-weight lionized.

I’d rather be locked away with no food and eat away at a few reaching arms with shallow, longing hearts.

Still my pulse until everyone stares at my limp shape and feel my neck and breath cold air into me on a moonlit canvas.

Forget how to communicate: all I will remember is my family and what I wanted, what I may not have believed in and what hope I ever had.

May-hap nobody but the dead enjoy dead-weight, with its base immortality; its base uselessness and base weightlessness.

When there is nothing, there is nothing.

Not even you, not even gravity.

1.) I am so uninspired today

The babbled brook: a hunter’s nook;

They give no muse to me.

2.) I have not felt so low in a while

The sun, the stars, the endless sky;

They are farther than they have ever been.

3.) I cannot get out of bed

Your touch, your skin, your cheater’s grin;

They do not rouse me any longer.

I would like to lie here and lie to myself some more

I just see it, though.

3.) Everything fell whilst I met you in May

The dove above: the symbols of love

The hunter took his bow to them.

2.) Everything shows me my mind is on trial

The world (your world (my world));

The illumination amongst them only brightens falsity.

1.) Everything is in my head

Your skin, your touch, your cheater’s grin:

The things that are born of a cheater’s heart.

I would like to get up

I just can’t see that happening, though.

Brushing the tree-line, a rocky crag juts from the Earth overlooking the midnight meadow. If one would stray from the dirt road at 10 o’clock and venture through the woods, you may find him there — alone. 

Willows blot out the landscape to the west of this vantage point, and deer wonder in the valley without a care. The stars at night are clear as day. No clouds would dare contest your eyes. Grass untouched by man fills the outline of mossy-rock; insects hidden underneath make some shrill, some delicate cries. The air of magic is about when the fireflies come out and time stops its turn when midnight meets the atmosphere. 

“What a beautiful place,” thought the giant. He was splayed out upon the crag, a visage to the deer prancing below. “I have seen all I need to see with this night; life has been embodied in this monetary set of moments.” That was it. There were birds. They did not speak tonight, but there were always birds. The birds, mostly black, but scattered among various shaded of blue jay, robin, and canary to create a stunning display; these birds stared at the giant.

The grass below the crag and mountain was soft. Yes, one hundred feet below the crag, there was grass as soft as grass. As soft as the plushest pillows. The moon alighted this all and created an inviting scene. All of this night was inviting. The deer stopped their dance to stare. The owl stopped its hunt to stare. The giant wailed, no-one heard it but mother nature. Mother nature cannot heal a broken creature without time. There was no time. The mountain and crag shook with the relief of weight. The giant fell one hundred feet from the stony ledge. The ground shook upon impact. The giant had fallen to its death. Nature resumed her play. The birds flew away in a flurry. The deer pranced; some regarded the giant. The insects had never broken their chorus. The owl caught a mouse. The willows kept weeping. The grass was soft.

I have not a lovely sight while writing this. In a classroom, a loveless place, with many people whom I assume do not have a range of control in their endeavors. Strictly speaking, this would be seen as an advantage in the effects of this writing - I am calling it writing because “letter” would require my sending it through post. Rather, I will leave it in your interest to see what I have to say in the least triviality obtainable with such a work. Stream of consciousness is more or less the idea behind this, it may seem more a poem at times, but that is the lace of affection I bare for you showing through. 

The reason I take no care in the positivitiy of a usually sadly perceived world is simply: I would hope for you to be surrounded by such a thing. I would gladly give up the selfish ambitions commonly contained in my romanticist heart had this been the case. There is no doubt that my writing to you is reflective; most of my work is of this nature, yet I would believe this to be persuasive on the same front. Although I am not a sage in the way of words, nor will a single foreign ear hear my name uttered in fame amongst their house, I think the least I can strive for is your match for my longing. So I reflect on events we have discussed.

Had I not seen you, this would not have been made real. There was not much else at that time - not much else for me to reflect upon, nor a worry in the world grazing my mind. That freedom could have been naivety, but it contrasts strongly with the feelings conceived after the event. You appear and some truth happens; a spring of something new. It was frightening, the thought that truth in the matter of love is something I had not yet felt. You can see this is a suit I commonly partake in, and the only goal I have set for myself is to know this simple aspect down to its razor edge. Still you broke down the monolith of prophetic and philosophical zeal that once stood proud in my virtue. Fairly, priorities changed with the origin of a new pursuit; my smile was crooked with this as though my demeanor was tainted, but I came to the conclusion that it was out of the overbearing sense of urgency I held in joining you. I still hold that conformation close as I write this. 

There are three paths that appear followed in the strange settings (as you can see through my wording): longing, affection, and love. Some would argue lust as a subject at hand, but it is in the path of affection. Personally, I would hold all subjects as a path of love, but writing is easier when these things are minimalized. You take a piece of each with me.

There is not a fault I cannot overlook, there is not a ‘morrow I cannot wait, there is not a thing I cannot attempt; there are words I cannot form, there is not an amount of emotion I cannot find, there is not a thing I can do to change your mind.

I believe in both a “once love” and recurring love; the process is dependent on the person. This is relevant because I have felt similarly before, I have sought after a Rose that I could never see. The beauty with you is that you are here, you are real, and everything I see myself looking for. Not a replacement, but a new start. It is not that there will never be another start. There will be many more in my time. Earlier I stated the urgency and it is prevalent; there is nothing for me but to attempt. 

And so I do.  

Wilted you are becoming in my mind

The world is moving on before I am ready and though I try, it is useless

It’s not the state of art that’s changed, but fervor and temperance less than steadfast

And not a sun that’s setting down, but your eyes that show in separate rays

I shut out the sky: and black and cold and hearts and feeling to see what you could do with a wicked tongue you never even bore

A doublet when I say “I am not waiting anymore”, a triplet to refuse to settle the score

Hours that tick-tick-ticked away; the beams shown -face so well grown- is aging

Aging or being cursed [purged]

Can I be any more ready to let go?

Though, where are you God, where are you Devil, where are you malicious affection that all mortals seek out?

Seek out in the shape of a Rose

Some in a beating organ, some in the country of France, some in the smell of air

Fancy a better idol for a writer that you had such a wonderful name

Giving cause more literal to put words to

Lionize and make into a sculpture not attuned by its inspiration

Carved of stone to be “unchanging” as love

Immortality struck by immorality as a Dorian Grey

Flawless page writ by such sage as a Gatsby

            Someone wrote about me once too, the author was impenetrable. It was morbid. It was sickening to be so well known by another yet so far from conceiving my own figure. If I ever did that to you, there was no intention. At least I don’t feel that I know you; never before or again can it be that perfection perceived you are to me.

Look at your lips

Look at your sunken eyes

Look at how pale you are

Look at how broken up I am over this

            Flowers cannot kiss

            Flowers have no need to see

At least in my dreams Roses don’t lose color

At least my past will hold you faultless and my thoughts will carry you as beautiful

Even when the world forgets to let you stay that way

I haven’t been writing much lately and for that I apologize. To those few who actually read these- the wait will continue. I’ve been reading on the national level (sonnets, poetry, etc.) and have come to realize that my work is not where i’d like it. I will not be posting any more until I have made my craft what I would like it to be and have improved drastically. I’m going to leave this post up, but when I put up anything new I hope you see it as the true art I’m am going to make it to be. 

                                   No more messing about,

                                         Alec Ray Kurth

Falling asleep is such a tax these days

For my weary mind has been stuck with it

Oh, what a toll we can endure to pay

When in such a fashion our faith forfeit 

Words and words enough; I give you my plight

And stand to bring the world my story in sin

In hopes that my flawed and written down light

Will urge you-come to find a home once again

What’s the sight I can now make from afar?

Some aura must have sheathed the quill for me

As though some gold could rise: gems of the tar

Let coarse, homeward dove- rally and be free

Yes, the lighthouse we built has shown the shore

Yes; brought sand to ship with hearts at the moor

Who could possibly know the meaning of “chance,” until you have met it, and have basked in the mysticism of it? To all of those closest to me, chance was the gleaming eyes of a never-forgotten-day. Eyes that stare down upon you, never glancing your face, but keeping your gaze; locked in transcendence that no other bond may know. The deepest crevice carved into one’s greatest stems, so that every inch may be traced.

            Eerie landscapes never brought love to my heart; the thought of the unknown was a common psychological stimulant, but never enough in its own. I would have followed her into the night; however, feeling my way through each cloak she left in her wake, the aura she composed with pure presence is astounding.

I didn’t follow her.

Chance found me.

            A Telephone has never been known to me, to be such a medium of emotion; joy. This poise which spoke through a language so well known to me, yet foreign. She knew what my confusion would become; she let me follow her at-last. “Wait for me, I will not let you alone. Wait for me.” Perfection.

            Perfection in all ways a man could find a woman perfect. In the senses, comparison of opinions, mannerisms, the simple elegance of speech and the amazing glow that shown through her unconsciously. An Adam never found such an Eve , nor did any poet, artist, or literary genius give way to such an inspiration. “You will never wait for me; time is too much.”

“Why must wonderful things fall apart?” says one Great Man to another. “Because, patience is impossible,” and that was the end of it.

            The only sense of love is lingering. The lasting impression of every moment you wish you had cherished ever more tenderly. Moving from picture-frame to picture-frame, a bedroom as interesting as its inhabitant, a bracelet now lost; where did it all go?

            Even she now knows the words I would say to her, yet hide behind this pen to speak: “I’m jealous of the way you breathe in life and blend with the bright city landscape. You go out at night experience the sound of the underground. I miss you.” What may complete you will be what motivates you. Living for an endless goal to fill the void; not one left, but one grown. I’ve seen her on a stage, she sees herself on a greater one. I see her on a greater one. The fact that she has aspirations such as these is all that humbles me in the knowledge that she is a human being, not an angel sent to keep me hopelessly wandering.

            I’m baffled; confused as we first met. I do not seek a way of returning to such beauty. Some would disagree, “for a romantic is nothing more,” but this is for myself. Maybe to write of a perfect light is to own it in your own-right, but carry on. You will find another, my friend. Not someone of such stature, but of great comparison to your golden remembrance. Another one to own the night, to own your nights and all that sleep that may be willfully sacrificed. If her memory flows so deep in your veins, sir, seek out a kindness greater than this motivation. She won’t come back to you; keep these pages.

Ravaged by dreams

Is where she found me

That angel named “Lady in Grey”

Awoke from my sleep

Where visions could lead

My heart to your’s for a day

That angel above

Let go lonesome dove

With feathers; catching as coarse

And with simple call

My mind had left all

But pressing my lips against your’s

Grey Lady at side

I took on a stride

Like no foot has ever before

Bound wood to ship

And set on a trip

A voyage with hearts at the moor

For two hundered days 

And evermore nights

The wind kept steady and still

Yet on came the noose

Dove-herself had let loose

Rain and Wave bore to ship at the will

Upon island below 

After storm I did row

To the nearest depth of sand

No more promised kisses

That feeble black mistress

Broke my heart when offered my hand

Now throughout the ages

I bring you these pages

Carved hard through the bark with a stone

In chance that your mind had changed over time

And dove would choose-not be alone