| Wanderings |
[Dec. 24th, 2006|10:33 pm] |
It is dealing with the mundane that hushes fever'd eyes.
Two mechanical birds hover over furrowed brows,
To bemoan such torpid longings.
They whisper a gentle cure to ease the malaise,
and there song
Sings sweetly through airwaves and satellites
and back down through something as simple
as a music box.
The needles slow rotation,
Stretching syllables,
Elongating phrases.
Sweetness, however, is offered
In fragmented melodies.
We've all heard this before.
Through a howling wind,
Through the roar of the sea,
Or through your sweet voice.
We've all heard this before. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 25th, 2006|07:59 pm] |
Yearning swirls a starving sense of urgency,
clanging through the cold corridors of a body's dark spaces.
Twisting stomachs into unabating tremors.
Reason seems adrift in the little ripples sent forth
by delusions of, what seems right, and what really is.
But oh how it sings and cries, and whispers tiny lullabies.
Sending dreams of wistful flares, alluding to the hearts desires.
The anesthetic to peacful slumbers carries with it an aroma,
lingering in coat pockets and once meaningless articles of clothing,
which at one time nuzzled next to the dreamy eyes of ambigeous love.
Call it lust, call it fantasy, call it a hightened sense of dramatics.
There is a remberance of things past, my madeline, my tea, my apparition that will never be.
It will never be a sweet as the first time we leaned back and watched smoke spin spirals
out of our loosely clutched fingers, while watching nights disappear out of backseat windows.
I thought of crimes, and you thought of stars,
but those nights I slept tight, and I slept sound,
I just slept through the images that were really spinin' round. |
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| continuation |
[Jan. 26th, 2006|02:02 am] |
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...eyes follow the gentle sway of lifeless limbs, suspended in eternity, synonymous with the disappearance of hope. Squishing through the puddles of blood that seeps slowly into the carpets once creamy shade of vanilla, searching for clues or at least a simple sign of life. One that eases a still beating heart. Soupy entrails send shivers bouncing over the notches of her spin. Blood, swimming at her ankles tells more than harrowing suicide, it shapes the thoughts we dream of, late at night between asleep and awake where slimy fingers cover our eyes, proving death is but only around the corner. Clammy skin shimmering in the frame of post midnight moonlight, startled from idealistic visions of the future, being replaced with haunting scenes of the ending of time. Death, effects not the ones perishing, but the ones who don't. Short of breath and short of remorse are the ones we cry for. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 23rd, 2006|12:38 am] |
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Old stale light, yellow and dingy, flooding in from tattered drapes, jutting out through the window, sending odd shapes across the stained hardwood floor. Raised just above the bleak light sits the battered record player spinning continuously over a notch on the record, playing one five second clip over and over again. Those notes sing repetitively, devouring the soft air of the once cute cottage, replacing it with a sharp painful noise. Piling itself into ones ear, pinging back and forth through the head, resonating, unable to relocate the entrance or find an exit, spreading the tension further into the body with each sharp ping against soft tissue. Winding through the maze of toppled over furniture and cris-crossed stains, luring eyes with cherry hues saturated into the cracks of faded wood. A sea of spilled blood lays strewn across hard wood, its both stain and sealer, nothing ever penetrates and nothing ever escapes. Hands shake to visions of non coagulated blood spilling from mutilated bodies, mutilated loves of someone else. Approaching the doorway, soles squish and eyes hesitate, shoulders and neck quickly follow suit. Breathing deeply shoulders askew, head cocked and eyes being pulled to the right. It is then the gentle sqeak wafts into unsuspecting ears, rope rubbing dangerously against wood. It is the sound of swaying, she never leaves, she couldn't get out. Pulling oneself into the room, the first step...splash. A pudgy woman of pre-middle age sways with no wind, sheer weight rocking her by the neck, Back and forth, back and forth. The lull of invisible waves tossing her into eternity, sea spilling onto wooden shores, where razors blades rid her of the fecundity of familiar impossibilities. Eyes sunken, and life thinned out of them, this isn't the first time they have been this way. Watching her rock back and forth, snagged by the neck in her attempt to raise herself to heaven. |
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| it's my liver i believe |
[Dec. 21st, 2005|02:36 am] |
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I have been drunk for 8 days straight. I am going ice skating tomorrow with some dude/broads, Which will probably make it nine because who can ice skate sober? I need a reason to stop. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 18th, 2005|10:45 pm] |
Can we spin, shake, shiver, and dance under the dull light of thirty year old light bulbs?
Can it ever be better than the nights resting between stars and sun?
Who thinks of such tiresome dramas, and placing the good things in such a hard to reach place?
Treacherous words fill the void, and I know the melodrama clouds.
Where is it we shall go from here. Up?
Sense. Since that fateful day all direction has become some imaginative word,
inside out and backwards. too dull to call it home, and too bitter to the taste to
consider it love. When we live for that look, what do we do when we faces blend into nothing? |
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| something may be missed |
[Jul. 2nd, 2005|01:00 am] |
Isolation, as it appears to me now, may be a means to an abrupt end. Not one of romanticism, the way we so often read of it, but rather one stained with jealousy. A jealousy of a passing wind through silhouettes of evergreens on it's way to another destination. Or of a soft rain, viewed only from slight angles which show rain passing by the amber face of tall lamp posts. So quickly it drys with mornings first light to pursue another life.
Isolation, personified by such trite prose and un insightful dribble. How am I to believe that this is the only pain the world will ever come to know, my own self-involved dramatic display of hysterics.
This self loathing comes with insatiable thoughts of oneself as the only being with an issue that calls for tears and a lowered head, set to rest in open palms. What if i were seated in front of the eyes i desire to have placed upon me, would I have the words to set things in my favor? chances are my words would be misinterpreted and left for something less than face value. I have settled for something much less. Throwing my thoughts, with the opposite hand it appears, into this modern forum of post adolescent misanthropes who know nothing much of the world, however we all know EVERYTHING about the universe and the way someones else's script should be written. Professional critics we are, isolated we will remain for all of time. We live in a formulaic carefully guided track, which may have separate scenery, but all the same stops. Sip some more, just to get through the day. It helps more than it hurts (with the liver as an exception). |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 17th, 2005|01:37 am] |
...through the soft gusts of silver stained winter wind, her petite lips struggle to part, soon though they slack and split. Yet her tongue flutters, and she spits out a stutter that falls like a bee who seems to have lost his stinger. Hurdling towards a cold earth her thoughts fatally catch the ground, like another suicide. Misplaced lyrics to her song, ears inattentive catch a separate melody that in their minds keep her course in a straight line. However, HER song sings like that of a tempestuous sea which has long since split her ties with mercy. Dragging sea weary sailors from their respected cabins to a watery grave. Thoughts that represent a generation which has a slightly, compared to the last, distorted definition of happiness. The crash of an angry sea brings solace to a tortured heart. Words fall from her mouth with a stern tone, and the tide backs that up with a hungry, desperately awaiting jaw.
Now a mouse squeaks and calls out to the cat in a quiet confidence. Maybe it is the truth we fear, and the soft words we wish for. Or maybe it is the pain we welcome during warm rain squalls, the understanding we share with the devil's wife. Whatever her reason her mouth popped open and out fell phrases with poisoned tips. They kissed the cheeks of unsuspecting sons of generations and generations of deaf ears. AWAKE those darts screamed, and numb their faces became. It spread, freezing neck, torso, legs, and toes. Legs gave out, and down like that warm rain their lifeless bodies collided with the concrete. For the first time a smile spread across her hollowed out face, black eyes lighten and we see a sunset for the first time in this dreary town. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 29th, 2005|02:15 am] |
excite exciter–
empty tatters of what is left of what never was, lay clumsily strewn across window screens.
Speak softly to those spectral bodies whose weary sea legs step heavily on clanky gang planks towards lonesome pubs to remind themselves, death is only something we dream about. Lay still with the air, and the faint smell of rum and lime. Its their lives we seek, their air we wish to breathe. Lonely silhouettes pass through amber circles, each identical to the last, and frozen petticoat tails remain lit in the oceanic night. faceless vapors telling a story merely with the ends of their time worn coats. |
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