Aside pleasure of my art works by P Hock

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Very interesting

I'm sorry for naming the Poet Rambo , it would be French Poet Arthur Rimbaud. according to my language we pronounce him Rambo ( Ranbo ) Also thanks to lynne whitfield for comment

Like my poetry, I am always the fleeting camouflage that never can be framed up by a canvas. None brush can depict my feelings; no colour can paint my lovely soul. When I used to write much poetry, fondly, I did not get any answer from my poetic heart. Is poetry my love or I am the love of poetry? I became emotional and jumped onto perplexing decision from time to time and run out from the trail of a lovely spring-evening sunlight. Where was standing a beauty. I did not know it was a beautiful girl, boy, flower, or bird. I didn’t know it was hallucination or emotion even I didn’t know was it my love or my poetry? But I knew, no poetry can appease me until I write up the poetry… so, poetry, poetry and poetry! None poetry could satisfied me, that was result of my huge study of poetry, literature—thousands of books already been read up, my character has been devastated by utopian fairy; being raped by Baudelaire, retched up by one-spring poet Rambo and then, when I was salvaged by my own poetry but it was late then. No, I could not be able it, what an endless hallucination; I always sought to get rid of from the extreme catastrophic life. Oh painful that the poetry! The absolute would come from my inner core of heart. it would come from the obsession of addiction. That would come from extreme illusion of subconscious mind—you may say it ‘mysticism’ `metaphor’ or whatever you say I am far from your vision, I think it was not like worship to the Great Satan by Baudelaire. When my poetry got accomplishment according to my desire then I wanted to let off from writing poetry eagerly and failed repeatedly. Only realization of mine was, life is only for one time, I should get avail it, I should enjoy it but it (poetry) was stick at to me like a tenacious lovely body. I started art works and plunged into deep line and stroke to get rid of from poetry. Going to let off poetry, I was fall into a mirage—the Devi (Goddess) of art: a wily delusive smiling, an endless lascivious ap