We cannot hope to understand some people.
You must have met one of them, them crazy erratic dark people more beautiful and intelligent than anyone you would love to care about. It was like they were truly special and truly damaged. They say people like that went through a tremendous amount of trials and tribulations, a light-less tunnel in which they slowly found themselves, by clumsily groping at their faces, their bodies, their souls. There were always only two endings. They can emerge like sun-rays after a thunderstorm - light and fresh, with a radiant and kind glow, ready to once again take on the world, or they can find out that they can no longer remember or make out what they had looked like - they had never really left the tunnel, they cannot, and they have grown comfortably numb.
If you don’t know Sage, and you read a poem of hers like this:
am i a person or a place? i am a place, mostly. a dumpsite. to you. i mean i would let you run your dirty hands all over my body then allow you to dump things on me. sometimes they are pink, pink plastic. or white substances. pink and white make a good combination, don't you think? strawberry milk. strawberry meeeeeeeeok in the dark
on the roof
on the ground.
why would you just throw it
first strawberry milk, next intangible words like 'i would like to marry you someday' and 'you are special'. why am i special? is it because i only operate in the darkness? is it because i touched you (better than she did)? i couldn't touch them even though they were naked and dancing and fucking an inch from my nose. i have never been good at swallowing. you want me to swallow? you didn't, you let me spit it out. but i didn't want to. it was nice, having you inside me. i never wanted to open my mouth again after the first kiss. i wanted the air you expulsed inside me
it smelled of bulgari pour homme soir. did you notice sometimes i would rub myself against your body? i wanted all of it on me. i love animals, i love animals. you loved me because i was an animal, correct? if you don't remember just lift up your shirt and look at your back in the mirror. sorry, i'm not. those are love marks, why i love you. love is a concoction of horniness and carelessness.
i don't think i know what love is.
perhaps you have ruined me with that strawberry milk. i never liked strawberry milk until i met you. now i know what your love is
it is strawberry milk and scratches and fuck me fuck me fuck me
You might, like I did, form an impression of her that would resemble as I had described earlier.
Sage's visions and ideas are stunning and unrightfully so. Sex, love and death are her favourite haunts for poems and she wishes to express that all these usually taboo subjects are natural and should never be shunned. If they appear stunning or even anything slightly out of the ordinary, it can only mean that society does not see what she sees.
Her poems exude a dense cloud of sorrow and self-deprecation, which is reminiscent of the dark and destructive vortexes that certain relationships can create. She believes that her poems and themes are more powerful when they are raw. She believes good writing isn't about technique; it’s about rawness.
What surprise then when she says she does not write when she is not sad. The tunnels may be dark but they provide excellent catalysts for artistic growth. Perhaps writing is catharsis, which drills tiny holes into the walls and let just a little light in.
Her favourite quote is from Hemingway, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
i was not a child
when you stripped me bare
pulled out an organ and
stuck it in your mouth
when you taunted me to
open, o p e n the window
before you climbed in and
i let you taste my eyelashes
was i a child then?
you made me hysterical once
fingers almost killing
thought as you sank teeth into
heart, maybe we should do
healthier things like love,
or make love
after you rolled over
said only needed somebody’s skeleton
i grabbed my skin and walked home
i left something behind
the next morning
my heart came in a white box, wrapped
in the sheet we had dirtied
teeth marks etched into hide
i can’t (won’t)
abandon my childish gait
was i not your favourite
Sometimes you don't have to understand. You just have to accept and love, but sometimes you cannot help but to ponder what goes through their minds. Most of the time there will be no answer.
But it is okay.
It is still quite a spectacle.