We all have been there,
the lovers of the night,
blowing wishes out of dried lips.
i never inhaled the clouds, but the sighs have pushed them off the
painting.
This is death, clarity.
This is death, the clear blue sky.
And the crowd vanished into the spiral, flushed through my throat.
Narcotic girls and paper boys with androgynous toys
that would've made Blake
smile.
And the third ashtray overflowed with spawned pollen and ripped
stockings, that the fag-ends of coffin nails became vultures above my room, before the
twilights of death rose between the burned curtains and screamed
it is morning.
Sympathy for the shade,
I shall confess
not for the common sins,
nor for the crimes,
nor for the forgotten sacrifice
Or the passive empathy of no avail,
That palls with a shroud of lethonomia,
but for my uttermost folly,
the immaturity,
not the one of the child nor the insect
but the one of the parasite,
the one that seeks no further inquiries,
of the meaning... the meaning...
My lingering stupidities
of a teenage queen, whose vintage heels never endingly stumble
to the thin lines of a false pope.
I shall repent,
for being a part of a country,
intolerant to a splendor,
intolerant to the reversal,
of which suicide is but,
...Agdistis
---
Of veins
And perhaps strings,
It hung from above,
As if the bloated sky was covered, with vines.
I couldn't bear its sight,
For the acute vision of its shape was vivid, beyond lucid.
No it wasn't a dream, no it wasn't a dream I could control my every sense, my movements were sharp and clear.
NO it was more than a figure of my imagination!
It was there, like a lamp off a ceiling, like a cocoon, like Ammuts uvula in her oral intervention leaning to swallow the land, there, burning red, throwing its hue, blending on the gradient horizon, as if the clouds were bleeding.
It had fallen from that hole up there!
Bu
Pale,
Ils s'emplissent.
Un brouillard de sons qui t'efface.
Une lueur d'alcool qui entasse,
Dans un foie qui brule.
Il m'énerve tous
Avec leur gueule serrée,
Fragile au vent qui n'existe même pas.
On y croit quand même,
L'hélium de nos sottises,
Qui doucement déguise
Le cercueil d'étoiles
Et nos curs s'oublient,
Dans un il qui fuit,
La poussière d'un bruit,
Qui ne brule même pas.
The night killed the wolf.
lo! It was silence that howled
Deep beneath the burning woods,
Echoing through the cold roots,
Out of the womb we call hell
But the morning never came
And the church was never tamed,
And so the heart can refrain
What the darkness can not tell
"I'm the apple, I'm the sore
I'm the scapegoat of your pins
I'm the atom in the sins
of the demon you adore.
I'm the truth that burns the soul
And the lie that blows the flame
I, a bouquet of your stains
Out of your tears in this hole.."
---
The unholy day went bright
As I fell through the hole
And the great howl was the toll
Of When the wolf killed the
It was half dark and the feeling of someone watching was overwhelming.
yet every now and then, through the corner of my eye, their flung a shadow, as if that lurker is calling my watch.
And i turned every now and then to catch a glimpse of the intruder, but the shadow was absent.
No different then a ghost, did he taunt my vision.
I wasn't even sure it was a shadow.
But alas it kept taunting the eye's extremety, until the sore of my curiosity inflamed; i turned enraged, calling out the unwelcomed host with blasphemous spew;
Alas!.. it was but the corner of the flag floating on my window, who, still with its blood
"This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It's like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety. Now listen. I vary the sentence length, I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage them with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo,
"But I'm breathing so I guess I'm still alive
even if signs seem to tell me otherwise"
--
Lynch and Trent... damn haunting
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1RN6pT3zL44
I saw the desert. It was immense. Silent, there, and nothing else. and it was real.
Only there where the sun becomes alive and part of you.
Always blazing, staring, alive. Eating your skin. Feeding on your psyche.
Try it. step into the desert.
just One step.
Only One.
Only
Hey! thanks for making me smile i just randomly decided to visit here. I'm doing fine! enjoying life in leb? not entirely.. thou it is fun at nights and partying, and discreetly destroying one's liver.. but u know.. art, work, politics.. not the best. You should come visit again if u haven't been here in awhile.. its a beautiful place underneath the chaos. How about you? how you been?