Jedediah Speer Photography

"The Decent into Madness"

Time is a relentless demon.

Hurt is completely unavoidable

 

 

But learn all you can from every tiny thing you feel. From every word uttered, from every thought left unspoken.

remember that perceptions are not truths, and that your perception is not the only one.

 

 

There will forever be another side to every story.

Unfortunately, we will never know everything.

 

 

 

But my god, we can try.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It melts away the sin.

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.

one more selfish love song, from one more selfish lover.

i'll scream jealousy, i'll plead defeat

and tear out another part of me

straight through your heart and under your breath

a simple demise--life's punishment

self-sabotage and "i'll change my ways"

maybe to bring you around again someday.

the sun sets over overdramatics and the night keeps me alive

if i could beg you for forgiveness, i'd never ask for compromise

and those few words you gave me

shot deprication through my veins again

and the sincerity you snarled to me

threw me down around the bend

this might be unfair.

a name and a face distract from what words create

so start as you mean to continue--

take it back or scratch the itch

at the base of your spine, like lovers divine

or complete lunatics.

we know it's in your nature, we know it's what you do,

but fuck your compromise, despite the lives you've touched, that's no kind of excuse.

your words hold no purpose, no world to describe

a shallow hint at a surface to be your demise

step it up or back it down, in the ground or out the mouth

would cutting out be too cliche?

seems no way to escape that fate.

words like poetry entrancing my mind

cutting through versus like hope hypnotized

hypnotic derision, enforcing incisions

picking at scars of neurotic decision

your obsessions in life become the way you die.

What's more romantic than dying in the moonlight?

My perception of 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.

A name and a face only distract from the 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.

there is no time to waste asking, "why?"

I carry your heart.

"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."

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(I carry your heart,

I carry it in my heart).

Ooh baby, when you cry.

     "So what are you doin' after this?"

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."

     I love you.

it's amazing what a little deprivation can do to your art.

sleep depravity keeps the peace

low hostility; leniency . . .

words trickle down and hang in the air

with no ear to catch their break.

  

I ' m  n  o  t  l  i  s  t  e  n  i  n  g .  I ' m  n  o  t  s  l  e  e  p  i  n  g .

Stagnation and admiration--

it makes a lovely view.

But a change of pace might hitch the blame

and chase the haze from you.

Catching eyes means forfeiting a moment in your mind, 

but when you've got to make a choice:

your heart,

or your success,

what will fall behind?

The Rip (Portishead)

As she walks in the room--centered and torn--hesitating once more
as I take on myself (and the bitterness I felt)
I realize that love lost.

Wild white horses, they will take me away
and the tenderness I feel
will send the dog home to me. 
Will I follow?

Through the glory of life, I will scatter them on the floor. 

Disappointed and sore,
in my thoughts I have bled from the riddles I've been fed.

Another Light Moves Over

 

 

Wild white horses, they will take me away
and the tenderness I feel
will send the dog home to me.
Will I follow?

ba da pa pa . . .

She's the phantom of my bleeding heart;

the death of all things new.

. . . I'll come back to this. I promise.

tainted

Crawling on the floor . . .

I've been here before;

cutting through the figments of what I'd die for.
But are there options left in me?

When bleeding out in ink
won't satisfy a need to live and breathe anymore.

whatever words i say

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?

For our Captain Pirateface.

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.



Pornography On The Radio

If I had my chance

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.

post options.

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 . . .

Untitled

here's a hint of my confession--

I'm crossing out the words, but the shape of your complexion marks a hole inside the earth.

The shaking of my spine hints towards a bit of poetry,

but the weight of all the waiting has touched a part of me.

(but devils have come too soon,

beckoning now like a stolen child,

her phantom casts a shadow through you)

All is vanity

You show so much, but still remain a mystery.

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.

"Haemoglobin," by Placebo

I was hanging from a tree
unaccustomed to such violence
Jesus looking down on me;
I'm prepared for one big silence.

how'd I ever end up here?
must be through some lack of kindness
and it seemed to dawn on me:
haemoglobin is the key to a healthy heartbeat.

at the time they cut me free,
I was brimming with defiance.
doctors looking down on me--
breaking every law of science.

how'd I ever end up here?
a latent strain of colour-blindness
then it seemed to dawn on me--
haemoglobin is the key to a healthy heartbeat.

Now My Feet Don't Touch The Ground.

as they drag me to my feet,
I was filled with incoherence
theories of conspiracy--
the whole world wants my disappearance

I'll go fighting nail and teeth;
you've never seen such perseverance!
gonna make you scared of me,
cause haemoglobin is the key.

haemoglobin is the key to a healthy heartbeat.

Now My Feet Don't Touch The Ground.

Bruise Pristine

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?

Bahaha!

I don't study. I don't research. I throw papers together and hand them in without revision. And this is what it gets me:

15/15

"Wow! Your writing is astounding! Thank you for creating a well thought out essay. Bravo!"

Christ, I love college.

A bitter-sweet Cascade

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.

If you're going to take a life, take the time to notice.

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.