Monday, July 25, 2005
9:56PM - don.t think of collapse.
hmm, a northern chorus may just be the best band I've heard since the appleseed cast. and that's saying a lot, seeing as how apcast is my favourite band... I don't think i've felt this enshrouded in hopeless integrity for quite some time.
the circulating house of morning and day and night
this house of
influxing planetary demonstrance;
a room farther removed at its end -
far from the long, front parlours; and the sun shining through them.
the evening room;
- shrouds of solace -
In it – great esperances of peace.
beautiful words for ugly, boarded up things –
-“exelsior” /ik-sel-se-er/ n. : (fine wood shavings used for packing fragile items) –
and this, this thing,
Waiting Room of Aching Inactivity.
The heart pulses in different places -
lips thinning, tears flushed
to strengthen resolve,
Staving off the embolus.
I’ve decorated the corners of my eyes with images of You
And at every turn of the shoulder, each slight of the head
There You are again…
I am weakened with want
At any moment,
The room could explode with rapture
Rubbing shoulders, wet lips salve the nape of the neck
An alcove of true rest…
...but he eloped long into the distance; darkness there overtook him
his smile swallowed in the throat of his understanding
escapism into truant sorrow;
diversions best kept to the self
He, thinly veiled.
Her – somewhere;
-painting white rooms with direct thoughts
her heart on the windowsill.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Friday, July 22, 2005
I haven't had
vegetables or chocolate
all week, but
now I have
broccoli and bon-bons
and that nifty hazelnut
spread Mehmeh's Mommay
so y-a-y, I may
but I'm comin'
mouth moves with imaginings
lustily frothed under fingernails - Lunges -
I, lunging thirstily
after the nevus shadow soothing my bedroom into
the blithesome tongue taxes me
handprints at the windowsill
subpeona the severity
and your oblique carefree-ness; enough regard
to judge beauty, pale between the bed and the moon
I, monstrous amongst the stavesacre sheets
my hands mangled them underneath
clothes are rent and mind grows rakish
too easy to say, I Lust After You, Heartily.
There is something there, of a Nimbus, and
I, overly-religious -
warming worship over my lips.
I'm aching Love, in loss of blood, lust distemper
seething, quicken, do it, sever
the sylvatic tongue, warmed blithesome
runes run over skin wax cold
it's an apt milieu for a chrysalis
hibernating eyes pierce
face the wall
and the transcendant You.
Monday, July 18, 2005
i'm being raped of good ideas, blindsided by bad fortune. car dead. computer crashes. five thousand music files in a vortex of oops! so sorry! and every state line my lover crosses reminds me punchingly of the time difference... the more thought i give to my true desires of life, the more I realize that what is truly desired, is a divorce from the desire itself. And, as I have asked to be placed in the perfect, uncompromising will of the Gods, this novel idea is being heavily reinforced. This lifetime, though mosquito-bite brief, has afforded a mountain lion's share of indellible fuck ups; a miscarriage of sorrow. And I am slowly finding out that all the affluence in the world - the short times I have possessed it, and the long, sleepless nights I have spent pursuing it - these things will not make me happy. Every desire I have is a conditioned stasis breathed down from a generation of over-achievers. I don't care about real estate. I hate clothes and cars and money. I've already had one heart attack. All this is a poison stirring the marrow in my bones to fish food. I've never been like the rest. I burn incense and, afterwards, swallow the ashes. I sit in the backyard making arrows from saw palmetto branches, throat singing like a Suomi woman, scaring the little girls next door... I'm so different from them, but I'm such a teachable subject. Mmmhm, oh yes. I have a corrective and contrite spirit and can assimilate knowledge and apply it quickly. Oh yes, I have learned their teachings well, and I am stuck in their ways. Get me out. All I want, is to sit in a corner all day, reading and meditating. Fresh paper to write on. And walk in the mountains for days on end. And make sweat-drenched love to a wolf. Well, something like that.
but I have to be 23, with a college degree, and have a savings account with a six month reserve, drive an Infiniti, and have at least mid- to upper-level employment.
if you have to apologize to everyone you get close to, for a nature made second to you, which you still see as something unsure and unnatural and warranting apologies, then that nature isn't genuine, and you aren't living in accordance with the true nature within, and you're just a brainwave rendering on a neurological printout of a paradigm of short lives and trap doors.
or maybe I should just stop reading Sylvia Plath, because every time I indulge her, terrible things happen... I'm so open to everything. I realize now that the planetary alignment is like a happy family of hunting knives, hidden in the cookies.
And I like sugar a lot.
watch me slip into the wound of God's bliss.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
behind this mask of a face,
of surface skin and delicate muscle,
there is just water,
just a world full of water shut up
roundness of my head,
waiting to gush out of my eyes.
Monday, July 11, 2005
After waking up; throat thick with asphyxia, the palpable heart finds equanimity. We're doing better. A thousand songs circumvent my mind, uplifting, both indie and indian; wish I had a year to listen to music and nothing else. Day seems poised for accomplishment, ripe for the taking. Careful planning; and the simplicity behind everything is revealed. I create my own pressure. Life isn't as dramatic as I would make it seem. A callow immaturity sheathes potential. I'm just a child, wanting nothing else but to remain childlike in the face of a beguiling world. Procure puerility, I say. Things are well. I gave my two weeks at work. Almost free. (Um, I should find a job though.) Mountains in the horizon. 32 hours to get there. A few months 'til the journey. Started a poetry journal called "facing the wall." It's being written as I actually face a wall. I hate poetry. Got hooked on nick drake and we're playing guitar again. A palate surrounded by suicide on all sides; plath, drake, elliot smith. I'm not ready to grow up. But I'm ready for a bigger playpen... salon today. shoe shopping, maybe. tazo chai. thinking of a place where I could walk that's both safe and stimulating and doesn't involve a mall - cause my feet are primed for some super walking. eh, a whole thing of espresso tonight. owl eyes stave the night away.
Friday, July 8, 2005
There is no shortage of warmth where the sun is concerned. A steady trail of it lathers the arms. Golden globs of denizen light; down healthy forearms, attentuates at the fingertip in a point; pure light clings on to skin, even as it flashes fast across youth. Children look to her all the time - the one with the perfect speck of polar white in the nexus of each onyx eye. A somewhat grown version of their pygmy selves; grown with a gleam of assimiltude. They are one and the same; a wheat field of child-minded faces, one face worn and plain. And good features are held back well, for fear that exotic intoxification would alter the visage of the quietude hoped to portray. I’ve driven death into a corner. Death has driven me into a corner. Look around, there is no corner to shrink into, only a box of inescapable probability. Death lies ontop, I underneath. Death becomes her. The rollercoaster heart, where emotions swivel, swirl, drive through, now a pretzeled-up closed track – no way though; numbness… sun redeems me, right? Everything shifts an inch, in its confidence; shoulders squared back, held tilted back, lips pushed out, stomach held back. Everything shifts an inch in the unalterable streams of good karma. Some religion says that even satisfaction is unpossessed, as the assurance of its failing is sure to follow. Buddhists turn me on. We'll find out, she shrugs. Houndstooth mini-skirt moves up an inch. Acrylic nails, with an anticipatory lift, inch up a bit. Honey tendrils of hair, tousles out an inch – the whole thing. A music video life. B-movie experience. Deity of a wind machine. A matte finish to the end of emotion.
An avalanche of possibility – I’ve an eagle-eye opportunity; to transcend, to experience at will. The hand duly noted the transgression, and the mind pondered it well. The voluntary sacrifice, evoked only by the confidence afforded by the other’s willingness to sacrifice. One sacrifice redeems the other, one never has to see completion, but may be harvested as dischord later. But sacrifice in mutuality is a sanctified avowal. It is the deepest foundation of trust. I am callous, and yet still chase cathexis with mecca-like vigor.
There is no basement floor strong enough to stop the collapse of this heavy heart. [Yeshua...] A dark cloud washed up on my shore. It may have come from Asia, we don’t know yet… caught a marionette trying to escape down an alley. There was nothing holding up the strings but imagination. A garter belt fell from the sky. A drunk whore, deep in the gutter - teeth, white; polar. She doesn't belong there. Put two and two together. I'm hot as hell, and wet as fuck. Antithesis is hard to look at. Oxymorons are easier on the eyes. Surrender to primal scream theory. My silent stare from which I scream.
Wednesday, July 6, 2005
calm portraits of wild horses
four legs fishing for
earth marrow, soil, suggestions
the sweetness of the pursuit...
like the honey that quickens the spine
a heart perfumed with lotus desires
and a mind stirred to superiority
how delicate the teeth, in the undressing stretch of the smile,
the wind stirs it, the light shirs it
how capable, how timeless, how free - I,
possessing nothing, absorbing everything...
bliss trickles softly
lips twitch at the touch
protrusions of destiny
underneath that tumble of hair
the smoky chambers of new oxygen too
and a smile which swept me away at first glance to
a haven of assured confidence...
how I weep with understanding.
the blood tingles with conviction.
I'm about to become everything.
Monday, July 4, 2005
"Some say love it is a river
that drowns the tender reed...
Some say love it is a razor
that leaves your soul to bleed
Some say love it is a hunger
an endless aching need
I say love it is a flower
and you it's only seed
It's the heart afraid of breaking
that never learns to dance
It's the dream afraid of waking that never takes the chance..."
Thursday, June 30, 2005
She was plagued to bleeding by insatiable thoughts of destiny, an avalanche of apathy rattles her intellect, apple scabs rock the charm. A separation sincere, divine - blessed by two destinies. On one side, the submissive sensualist, the picturesque, album cover girl; the art star. And, on the other, the portrait of a Dorian-escent boy, a thin reed of steel, a pale fire, tales of beautified sorrow; the arthritic emotional visage of a well-tested conqueror. How can she decide between these two great loves, when the one most loved lies miles outside both of them. And she stares out across windows worn with pulpy rain, at the saturated landscapes of human movement. And she wonders if her love of her, and her love of she, is strong enough to overpower the hatred she feels for her self. Mmm, I think so, her strength can encompass my insecurity... Eyelids sealed, sweet-tears secretion, a mind bathed in rememberance. Her body, obeisant, fitted to a windowpane prostration. Lips lifted ever so slightly, air and moisture - mental projection. Octave chords and a positive drummer - oxymoron. And I hope she feels me, and the crushing calm beneath the chaos of my schizophrenic piano and its loose tongues. Life, let up a bit. Nothing is real today.
post.script. :: tonite, I hit rock bottom.
"Art is the response of man’s creative soul to the call of the Real.”
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
yours is a heart that ebbs with goodness. boys with caufieldian complexes - gosh, they're beautiful. woke up hungry for sleep. so tiresome, breathing in gaping breaths, the aura heaves with exhalation, bent at the knees in exhaustion. breakfast of black coffee and funyons, and what the hell have you become. you, the vegan, who once drank nothing but alkaline water and the dryest, freshest food. an incubator of health, now a husk of artificial flavors and preservatives. dairy products. cheesecake cravings. lobster pasta. your writing sucks and you never read for pleasure. only detailed books on sign language and chakras. where's the dostoevksian influence. the nights spent drenched in anais nin and hot tea. oh, the venting that must be done. strip my stomach lining. I give up.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
so yesterday I'm in the [shhh] GAP and the legends come on. and I have no choice but to sing and dance along. you know, fuck along everyone else cause I've a tendency to detest other human beings as of late. ("fuck along," yeah, I like that). and so this song comes on next (this very song) and I drop everything, enchanted; alien ears perk, doe eyes widen, mind searches database - I don't know this. see, people think I'm addicted to shopping for the clothes, but really, it's the music. like everytime I walk into hollister and want to scream with all the furor of teenage angst borderlining true, bonafide psycho rockin' out cause of the loud indie stuff, or wondering why they play house in abercrombie... anyway, the really tall, good looking guy is flirting with me as he rings me up and I keep looking up at the ceiling as if it's a teleprompter and asking him what's playing. he gets confused, has no idea. i look forlorn, pacing, eyes wed to the ceiling still. he asks an asian man. he knows not either. good looking guy looks genuinely forlorn. fuck along. i steal his pen. i scribble lyrics on his counter. yeah, yeah guy, how attractive is that. i walk out singingly. got what i came for. search engines are great. goodness, journals are dumb.
Her skirt went swishing through love-stained branches; two ivory impressions on a marigold litter of leaves and summer-fed soil. She resolved to keep her eyes straight, though the trees were tinged with husky pine scents and the faint echoes of hatchlings on high. She said she'd like to kill herself. She said she'd like to do a lot of things. She had avowed to never be inspired again, neither by word nor touch nor vampiric kiss. Her countenance was one of happiness, her chest, though, held broken hearts. And her heartstrings, stretched taut and snapped, stripped of gold lining, were splayed out from her mouth. But smile she did, nonetheless - with charming, crooked, white, emo teeth, and bronze strings too - from the depths of her, out. She had never worn braces, and the feeling was unfamiliar. Abandonment slept in the corner of her smile, and a history of hindu gods she rendered to the bonfire. Hers was a hand bent on destruction, and all of creation cringed at her coming, and wept. The witching trees tugged on her sleeves. Cold vines crept up her legs. She stepped in the places her Lover had stepped - back in a time when they had walked together - but the footprints were quicksand, and she sank. The avowal to never be inspired again, neither by promise or blessing. Up went her shriek. Close sprung up, a cacophony of movement and flight. The treetops, tousled, and she, sinking sweetly. And the underbellies of birds - broke the agreement. All is a mockery.
It is, again, twilight perpetual. A good time for turtlenecks. Harbor warmth in your arms.
Friday, June 24, 2005
I'm having a pretty day. slept well. concealer on my eyelids, still. naked shower. ralph lauren, oscar de la renta, express, and blue cult. left my undies at home. 25 minutes late. face seems terribly smooth, muscles relaxed, vulnerable. daydreams of toasty croissants. stepped on myself in public. didn't trip. watched a man put a teabag in a cup of coffee. didn't question. remembered a revelation from last night that mimi and i are two people free of judgements, and we do a good job of loving each other; we do it real well.
mornings with my brother, terrible doses of fun. bathroom scenes. This morning spells itself out with me, a 40min shower. Him, cold shower. I, hate light, hate noise. He, loves noise, needs light - to bathe. to see... what exactly? I, mockingly, "oh, what is that. it's getting bigger. it must be trying to run away from you..." He, "I hate you, Kylie." I, singing my brother R.Kelly songs, hugging him through the shower curtain. He threatens to pull the curtain back. I show him that bowl of vomit.
there's a decent life here. there's a great job (and an even better one soon), a network of family and business peoples, a nice car, and a huge house to live in. no responsibilities. and nine months into a medical transition that has been overly, overly successful. stay here, take care of kylie, go to school, write, buy designer, and milk your imagination for all it's worth. learn languages and then off to sweden, and israel, and india, seek powerful people, and milk their imagination, lure the insecurity; ensorcelled.
reality escapes you, and reason treads on me... I never liked reason anyway. I just like you.
I can only do so much.
And I don't care anymore if it isn't enough.
exhaustion, have your way with me.
[don't take offense. nothing has changed.]
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Fell far for a boy who grew grave apples and ate bleached air with rosemary, pine nuts and coconuts rubbed in sage and aged with wine. His was a green apple sophistication. Hers was magnanimously clear. Aptly named – she, “Bliss.” And I, a cut above the average. I touched her there, in eager places. I set my lips towards the hill. Endeavors short of mild awareness, stumbled, fell – I, left all fear upon the windowsill, to be ran away by great feasts of water. Lucky. I said my wrists were ill with blood laughter… I got rain all over my hands. I got bluegrass all over my daughter, inching over. She, muddled and mudless with melody. Her wisdom, then, a witching Delilah. Her tongue was a razor bliss. Kicked us off with champagne and whole grain and I said, in the ripples of severity, I don’t want to be cuddled like I’m loved, I want to be cradled like I’m dying. And that then there kicked off a mountainous thievery with the Livery Man, the Lively Man, the Burning Man – for grinning gumption and bastions of life sauce. Eagerness is coloured ill-afforded. I have only the teflon bottles. I cannot afford glass, gauze, cause I keep losing arms. Do buy insurance, do not no wrong. Dolphins dance to life-sized whale songs. Clocked commiseration, when you walk by. I’m shocked. You fucked up, ah-hah. The job is well done. You’re making papers, stuck up – Ah-hah…. [wait for it, wait for it]… ah-hah... ah-hah. You’re done, sour. Your sour apple sophisticatta.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Oh, my dear Mimi, how I love you, in the fullness. We are so deeply entwined in Love. Cut from the same tree, our roots are deep. Ours, an ageless passage of time, an ageless passage of romance. And they will all witness it. I wrap my arms around your arms, and surrender my limbs to yourself. Our eyes wax as one onyx eye, our pores become one vessel for Heavenly Breath. The rushing winds ensconsing our ears, and I screaming "I Love You, I Love You" into the storm. Smile. Breathe. All will be made proper with time. And the throbbing ache I feel for you will be tempered into empiric fires of passionate tenderness. Our veins are filled with knowledge, our eyes aligned with prana love. Such stories we will tell, Mimi, Illumination of my Soul.
I've been so effaced by the backwash of ill-thought. threadbare artistry, makeshift wounds. the cocktease of timing. scrabble boards of ill-advised words. the skin drinks sanguine tears the eyes effuse. the breast collects senescent sweat the mouth refuses. raucous morrocans, too polite for villainy, but not enough for poetry. gender diffusion. and turtle murderers...
and you kissed me, full on the mouth, with an arm strong with understanding, and a voice inclined like a pitch pipe of meek perfection. and the air etherealized with armani mania and lysol, and us slipping in with a shearing deliquescence. you enraptured the skittish writer - the one who never writes - swept the fragmented spores of my armchair perusal of intellect, deep, deep into the underchannel of the sea. scrimshawed up and turned over to the novelty shop. peglegs like the amusement... there's a claymation baby, gesticulating wildly, within me. and some lean piece of carbon muscle hovering over us, with his wings set to an androgynous grecian stature of conceit. and, hell, we're all tired of the imprudent thoughts of 1am, the starstriking strata of 1am, the earth-bending gaia of bloop bloop blah blah... stop writing in journals. start writing in books... caught up now, in the knifefight. no time for remote thoughts. nary a word stains my lips 'til one of us bleeds through. yes, ole english. ah, ah [warningly], but, the modern tongue.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
You have more darkness than the horses and the gorgeous
and they ask,
"whom do you dress for in the morning?"
And that is ill-afforded, by how you see it.
In the cloaked hand of the prophet, there is Calm
and lightning attracts fast-moving freight trains
like lichen limply clinging to the arms of intellect,
I am grossly insipid
I can sit all night with an armchair pursuit of intellect
fire doubles every 19 degrees the higher it burns
or·rer·ies /'or-&r-E, 'är-/ Function: noun... mmm, yeah, that's a funny word, I think.
Mmm, I don't know. I'm not quite sure of anything today.
Wow, I know absolutely nothing.
We are all terse versions of those whose ease we predicate.
Your deer-alien-dogma excitens me.
And yeah, yeah, that didn't make much sense either.
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