The produce of tears.
Coupled with my unlikely feeling.
She had a warm heart and soft skin.
Consoling the weak.
Pressing my lips against her.
Reciprocating.
Our minds were split.
She never looked.
Brought together by my undoing.
A poem by Noir.
I heard sounds that change a shape.
The lost of blood had proved her fate.
Consider fate a destination.
Something that moves with its own inception.
Look at a blade with intention.
To slice, cut, or stab a product.
A product you no longer cherish,
Her pain you no longer need.
Mistakes are few and far between.
But sometimes they evolve to bloom.
I had to stop the intention short.
And become her intervention
A poem by Noir.
Taken from my first exhibition:
British-Caribbean Native-American artist Elio Escoffery is a practicing photographer/poet who has been experimenting with written, typo, and sound art for the past three years. His work deals with deep emotive psychological and sociological feelings of unrequited love, murder, relationships and religion. The recorded piece is works lifted from his collection entitled Yellow Tape. His initial inspiration ranges as far from Parisian poet Charles Baudelaire to alternative music genres such as Horror-core. However, his main consistent inspiration stems from his adoration of his partner Cecilie, who provides vocals for this piece. Yellow Tape is about the primitive emotions that we all possess. It’s an uncensored trail of thought that comments on the admiration of violence in society. The censorship of action and language we express to one another depends on the amount of trust or intimacy that we share. That’s something to be fearful of and to admittedly want.
Resting laying in a prefer state.
Waiting for my mind and hand, to shake and meet.
I forget at times how I enjoy the test,
finding joy in my twisted thoughts.
Sometimes it get’s hard to prevent.
The touch of a girl is my forsake.
The burden of screams she laid upon me.
I prefer the silence that I inflict.
Inside me I feel the confusion.
Thinking out loud with dazed actions.
I feel some comfort when it’s over.
Hoping tomorrow never comes.
A poem by Noir.
