if we've conceived the secrets,
what births the dawn to this endless night?
the equinox is set--we have no innocence left to kill
divide and rule the scattered remains
it's gone down now--too insane
and i've got scars that used to be veins
so why such idle hands?
hell enlightened to pretend
why do people pity them?
and the sour thorns caught on your tongue
shot insight through my veins again.
I let the ghost into my bed
'cause the chains won't keep--
forever asleep and crawling back into my head
blink a blind eye, coinside--
fade away or set it free.
fear and grace within a smile
with the dark shooting through your heart
your eyes will close and heaven knows
what's t lie beynd
meaningless, but not to me.
fighting back hysterically
anxiety will keep me near;
disreguarding all i hear
undeveloped, unrefined
but of course, truly mine.
can't escape it--
not today
the past will find me anyway
I've got a sory to tell--
blink a bind eye and tel it well
but literacy isn't all it's cracked up to be
when words fall on deaf ears.
shove a doorway into my soul;
and spill me onto the page until
I'm satisfied with the results--
ever insatiable, like clockwork gears.
like a child's fucking toy
lying charmed and corroded
but can aesthetics be enough to save a soul?
scream sanity, or plead defeat;
one half you, one half me.
Myperceptionof time, of distance, of boundaries, of depth . . . Is fucked.
Really, truly, honest-to-Christ.
But you know what?
What seemed eternally outside of my grasp is finally only eight hours away.
Conceivably so!
In the time it takes to sleep, I could drop my heart in a gutter.
554 miles, and it still seems close enough to reach out and touch.
Maybe I'll reach out and touch it some day.
I'm worried about writing . . .
There are two worlds, you know. And inspiration can pour out of either one like a leaky kettle, whether or not you have your tea cup ready. Who has the eyes to see this? And do those with the eyes have the time of day it takes to make note of it?
I do love having a job. I do love being able to afford things and return what has been given to me. But what kind of price am I paying for it?
Everything has it's price. Everything has it's place. Make your money, because it leaves you faster than it comes your way. *Sigh*
Everyone's an acolyte, just like me.
I can't make the two worlds hold together.
Jul 26, 2010
Anameandafaceonlydistractfromthe images that written words create.
The ambiguity of a silhouette is what makes it so enticing.
And I'll continue to be that voice in the dark.
who could flourish under florescence? the light makes my eyes burn and the waves of debasing makes my stomach turn. fingering my plug while i'm waiting for enlightenment, kicking to the curb, under some kind of confinement.
"Bea says that the art of reading is slowly dying, that it's an intimate ritual, that a book is a mirror that offers only what we already carry inside us, that when we read, we do it with all our heart and mind, and great readers are becoming more scarce by the day."
The question seemed casual enough . . . I couldn't hear any hidden intentions in his voice. Maybe he was really just asking.
"You going straight home?"
That sounded like an offer. Maybe . . . maybe not? I had actually been planning on heading home, but a night with him seemed like a much better idea.
We curled up, wrapped in a wool blanket; his head on my shoulder. Every once in a while he'd gaze up at me with his dry hazel eyes and just look for a moment. The liquor on his breath was warm, almost sweet . . . familiar. It mixed with his personal smell and sent me spinning back into my memories.
He looked up at me again; his tired eyes searched mine, and they betrayed everything I was trying to hide tonight. And we kissed . . . we kissed passionately and lovingly as though we hadn't kissed in years.
Naked in every sense, he pulled me closer to him and turned me to face away.
"What's this?" I grinned, expecting some kind of game. But when he answered, his voice was sincere.
"You're beautiful."
He said it softly, in a whisper that sent chills down my spine. The words he spoke made my eyes glisten in the stillness and my lungs stop dead. I had never heard him say it that way. I had never heard him mean it so much. It went through me like fire.
We laid together for a while. He slid his fingertips across my legs and stomach, he kissed me silently in and out of dosing, and he spoke softly to me:
"I still keep that picture of you in my room . . . I was looking at it the other day, thinking about you . . . Thinking being with you would make me feel better."
"The past few days I've had this insatiable desire to fuck something up. To break something. I don't feel like that right now . . . I love you."
fighting for passion in a stagnant lullaby
a creeping repetition at the base of his spine
cut from a phase he can't antiquate;
if there's poison in ink, someday he'll escape.
stirring the words in the hopes they won't tangle
stirring and blurring and resenting the angle
caught in a fit--or maybe a plight
desperation dwelling; our god justified
after the flesh when naught else is left
driven by anger, contempt, or regret
dying to feel like we felt yesterday
so live in the past, or lead him astray?
reaching out with two glass hands; crystallized, but who decides? discretion is a ductless gland, but do you really want it? pregnant with discrepant flair, ebonizing aspiration-- dark to the heart but cold and bare; will it take you anywhere? sacrifice your wounded mind, cannibalize humanity where love and resentment intertwine and break the bridge to sanity.
The atmosphere held a soft silence. He laid his head on her lap--like he always did--and contentment flooded into her. She would have been happy with the silence; She hadn't thought twice about it . . . But he gave her something better: "I love you," he breathed, barely above a whisper. And they filled with warmth, then. Right down to their bones.
Days go by—gentle as a lamb with a lion’s head—but time doesn’t exist in the nights we spend alone. I’m forcing the river to flow, and I’ll keep it going until I pull this thorn from my side. You’re in the back of my mind—a time bomb ticking like a cheap clock—becoming accustomed to the force pushing you ahead. “Stay with me . . . “ Is that what you said? As if I could depart. Still, you’ve left a mark on the monument of my heart like acid rain as I lay here charmed and corroded.
A sharp blow might tell me something different than would time, so should I wait? Or should I re-align my insides? Could we justify the actions? Or would your reaction flood into me? I would die for you, but I’ve never wanted anything less than this. Just one kiss from a lover’s fist . . . (deliver the blow) No one will know.Anti-anxiety could fly free if the water runs red and warm, but even in capsule form; it can’t do too much harm . . .
I used to know the shape of your vanity--the weight of your obsession--but I sold it too short. Too much could never be enough when city noise cuts off progress, but I hate the way you dress and the colour of your eyes up against the horizon line.
When the sunset moves from hilltops to skyscrapers, it's too apparent that we're not together. Those ten minutes could be bliss if it was all we needed to live, but you still have your center stage dreams. You're raising the temperature 100 degrees while I'm chasing ivory keys... (do you think about it? do you think of me?)
The acoustic hanging in the air won't get us back to anywhere, but where do we belong? Locked inside a compromise; a systematic complication (flirting with my irritation). If I could play it off as an easy mistake you could call me a liar with every breath that you take. You said you would have stayed away if only you knew, if only you knew I'd understand the way I do. But I'm begging you to listen. To hear.
I need you to believe in me when my face burns and stomach turns and my voice can't help but shake.
Brooklyn keeps you standing still, but it's only a test of will. Will I really love you? Best wishes, I do, but I'd tear you apart with these matters of the heart, and baby . . . that's not what I choose.
Have you ever had one of those moments before? Where your vision cracks over in purple, and recollection dissipates infection overrides perception, and suddenly you're on the floor? When your world changes place and fades to defiance, and your complexion abates beneath a pale colourstain?
When something doesn't work out, when things don't go the way we'd wished (with every fiber of our being, we wished!), our world comes crashing down. Every time, the heartache stings just as badly, if not worse than the time before. It doesn't matter how often your heart is broken . . . weekly, monthly, yearly, or daily . . . It makes no difference. It always comes again.
I saw a woman hit a robin with her van today. She didn't even fucking notice; she was on her cell phone. And that robin lied in a crumpled mess in the middle of the road.
She was small. Christ, she was small. Her beautiful blue eyes had been stained grey with old age, and her bones had turned delicate over the years. She was the beauty that time betrayed. She was surrounded by an abounding grace I could never dream of seeing replicated.
staring out a publicated window, wishing i could see what all you see laying out the past like the distance on a map . . . hearing your broken voice sing.
three am, but neither one is sleeping. one of us must surely know why? stretched across your bed; hearing your voice inside my head but when will you ever decide?
and you keep tossing out those theories, developing a taste for what used to be.
i've got a headache, but i've never thought so clearly. the city lights-- a broadside through the rain with a paler shade of blue that i half-wish i never knew and a lifetime i wish that i could gain.
Still, i swear to you i'm not a liar. i never said a thing you didn't know. and while you chase acoustic chords, you drink a little more . . . hanging your, "i'd like to be alone."
And you keep tossing out your theories-- begging me to breathe, so listen to me developing a taste for what used to be . . .
our hands are cold, but winter's almost over with devils' sought to break these fateful nights the sun is warm against your skin; thin but so divine. barely dead, but babe . . . we're still alive.
when you take away the binding, I still have nothing left, besides this pain in my chest and this state of unrest, but oh . . . it's just begun. and I will not live and let live. Broken bottles break the silence, adding texture to an otherwise flawless night. smooth as glass, but left in shards like the monument of the heart but tonight, she wants you to know and tonight, i might just lay myself down with a little more hope than i had.
Build me a proper brain that absorbs what I'm told I need to know. A brain that stays cool around the stem and secretes a lot of serotonin. A brain that I can discipline and that cooperates with my other organs. A brain that shuts down at night and takes a rest, and functions without waves the next day. A brain that comprehends time the way time should be comprehended. A brain that learns useful things. A brain that remembers reality.
Build Momentum
love me destroyer, please love, bring me dread from the head of the house to the foot of my bed
Reflected in your eyes, I find the weight of the world and the passage of time.