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| 09:04pm 14/10/2003 |
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well, here it is.
the low down:
i haven't said much. i haven't had much to say. but you keep me going. all of you. and i'm sorry if i don't seem more grateful, but just to let you know-- i am. i really am. second motion, i've moved. a physical manifestation of an internal evolution. ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) quicksand_. &if you'd like to reach me via aim: like a maze. add me, or send me yours& i'll add you. this will be kept for some sortof archive keepsake. i save everything.
it's been lovely, darlings. x |
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| existential love |
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| 03:51pm 09/09/2003 |
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strike a chord
we are living at the velocity of a heartbeat, cancelling the cost of distance, the toll of the roads we pave with our lips and teeth and tongues. we play the weaknesses of each other's ribcages like piano keys, slipping fingers between the slits, seeking a story that has not yet ended. we fumble to fill the pause, the extended semi-colon in our love;
burn it down
we are hiding skeletons in our closets, brittle bones and delicately spindled lies. we try to reinsert the frame, slip the bones covertly back under our skin. we are keeping secrets, folding them into our back pockets, braiding them into our hair. we are building bridges and burning them down, welding the joints until they are stiff and stubborn. once this closes, it may not move again.
fold it over
we touch noses, touch wrists, carve our names into tabletops with sharp pens and broken glass. i am sitting on the cement, my skirt up about my knees, a cacophony of laughter and hands and ink. we scribble paragraphs on our calves to watch the way they stretch when we run. we stash the distortions among intertangled limbs as we try to enfold ourselves into each other. we are an empty glass, a flash of light, the strum of a guitar at midnight. |
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| 10:11am 07/09/2003 |
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( this is once )
&i don't have words.
i burned them up like fossil fuel. |
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| 01:37am 30/08/2003 |
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sometimes we sit calmly strangling ourselves, saying this is what we need. the darkness is the light. saying this is what we want, the world receding from our lungs, ten black marks around our neck and everyone a reason;
you can suffocate and suffocate and never die, which may be worse than death-- a halfway stance that leaves you kicking, thrashing, screaming, but only steadily beating against your own ribcage, against the bars you built with small rough hands. there are points in time where the position of life becomes linear, alignment is an expectation. translations are tossed askew and 'can' becomes the monster 'can't'. it becomes a low-slung sob, a sigh, a shriek. i can't, i can't, i cannot. the mantra echoes, slips off your tongue like poison and infects the atmosphere with a grit that never quite abandons you. you can suffocate and suffocate, choking up half-structured sentences, undeveloped thoughts, incomplete insanities. the tightening of your throat, the slitting of your eyes against the glare and that glassy stare, which signifies absence, the aftershock of intense presence, is only taken as coincidence. there is a beauty in all of this. isn't poison always a lovely shade of green? blood as scarlet as any letter? let this be the lesson learned. everything ugly is beautiful, everything beautiful can be broken.
written without relations. |
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| 10:47pm 24/08/2003 |
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one
the preposition took a spill
under, sometimes i get the days wrong
over, i pause in the middle of a sentence
to re-evaluate the meaning
of what i mean to say
i am interested in halfway points, destinations where crossroads run indeterminably and you cannot decide if you are neither here nor there. your black&blue arteries became compromised confessions, blushing red in the sunlight, a deceptive glow on your eyelids. the spotlight is slowly burning up, blurring, outlining obscurity and rounding out the edges of insecurity.insanity ensues.
two
a state of being is interrupted
we were to be
in order
to be, we were
in the stratosphere of action | hesitation
( slight )
three
this is the charm
( % )
art is love.love is life. life is art & art is life-- love is art and life and life is art and love and love is everything. or is that life? she was jazz and garters and dilapidation. she was art. she was abrupt movements, personifications and holiness.
we can only love on days that end in y and we are otherwise composed like an orchestra of yes and no. maybe so, but in the meanwhile we will lick our wounds clean with sulking tongues. leave the salt alone, honey.
( chance.of.rain )
four
restrictions are a past revolution!
sleep comes in restless forms. limbs intermingle with sheets, pillows take on bodily shapes, and sweat does not belong to you alone but to the night, but to the summer. outside this skin, this set of bones and organs and functional systems which culminate in an oxygen-mongering carbon-based lifeform, there lies a lullaby, a separate time and that preset allows alternate existences in which dreams are reality and reality is superstition and in turn it all revolves counterclockwise at speeds of this and that-- as if it were the inner workings of a very wonky clock, mechanisms springing forth like flowers in full bloom or the onset of falling leaves in autumn. everything is a season and we are all in some sense vague; but to deliver it to a degree where nothing is defined it begins to take the shape of a travesty of sorts.
five
this doesn't mean i'm asking for anything.
ohfuck.
sometimes i am a blackhole. |
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