light me up

Wed, 15 Oct 2003 03:44:27 GMT

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. 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

existential love

Tue, 09 Sep 2003 22:32:45 GMT

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.

Sun, 07 Sep 2003 16:53:07 GMT

..

..

&i don't have words.
i burned them up like fossil fuel.

Sat, 30 Aug 2003 08:20:20 GMT

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.

Mon, 25 Aug 2003 05:29:55 GMT

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

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.

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.

Tue, 19 Aug 2003 20:42:00 GMT

i'm a single moment into this and it already burns.

DO YOU BELIEVE IN LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT?
lust at first sight, which is similar to love in the way that a tidepool is similar to the ocean which is to say that mercury is the size of jupiter, really and if you turned the world upside down everyone would fall off in tumble of limbs and shocked expressions.

IF I TOLD YOU IT WAS OKAY TO BREAK MY HEART, WOULD IT HAPPEN AGAIN?
love in lines, love is lines. lines and circles. love is chains. and maybe a fortune teller could decipher that language, like you're holding it right there in the palm of your hand. a palmistry, a slow burning alchemy, a dissolution. the answer is not in amputation. that was an educated guess. my hypothesis is-- oh. oh look, your heart line is missing. &isn't that strange? who the fuck erased it this time? she takes a nail to break the skin, to draw it back in again.

AND DON'T YOU EVER JUST WANT TO FUCKING SCREAM?
you saw oxygen, that demon, infiltrating& tracing the inlines of your lips, sliding down your throat, pounding into your lungs like hydraulics and rebounding like a laserbeam, exploding backwards like a gunshot. a shrieking capsule of sound ripping apart all that ever went fucking wrong. and hey, don't you ever just want to scream?

WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF I LEFT?
i wouldn't.

but what if i did?

as a side note: is it okay if i go ahead and love you, anyway?

slip skirts.

Sun, 03 Aug 2003 22:16:05 GMT

closed fists. open hands.

insecurities.

faucet dilapidations.

i have peasant feet &

i hate my face, thanks.

.
.
.

i don't have words for you today, only
photographs& i spilled everything
i had to say last time i told you anything,
which was nothing much in retrospect.

[x] just one thing, what is it you fear?

Thu, 31 Jul 2003 03:17:25 GMT

[act 1]
i am a sinner
as much as you are
as much like the next person;

&what i am really saying here is
if there is one thing i have learned, it is that we are only as great as our last greatest love. so that we are submersed in that love and it becomes a skin we wear, it becomes an organ, it becomes our blood and our oxygen-- in short, it becomes our sun& we are only moons. we are the reflection of our light, we are the reflection of our love.

sometimes i am afraid of stepping out of these shadows,
in the light i may disappear altogether.

[act 2]
hello, love.
hello, & oh
oh, i was sitting, stinging, &sinking into these thoughts with the click-click-click of the typewriter. dear love, i am afraid of the change in seasons and i am afraid of the way the leaves are falling, how they're spilling our story across the sidewalk and perhaps they are telling it all wrong {we never get to go back and be the people we once were}. i am afraid of history, her fucking collision course trainwrecking for a head-on. i am afraid i will fall apart the moment you touch me, that maybe this is all too late, that you are midas but i am not worthy of being gold. love, they say people used to find religion in churches, like it was hiding in the plastered walls, the silver of the collection plate showing an image unbroken. i've never found religion sitting on any pew, i've never discovered faith in a sermon, and are you catching all of this? are you reading in between the fucking lines? because maybe, just maybe, you are not unlike faith. you are something i am always twisting to see, reaching to catch, trying to pinpoint and then maybe, it is that we have no answers afterall. maybe we just are. {in that muddled metaphorical mess, tattooed inside our own veins, bedsheets, our pasts scrawled across the small of our backs-- the sudden impending combustion where all our thoughts liquefy into one wild, unrestrained ocean and we are answerless, but we are}

and you know what?
that's okay with me.

[act 3]
i left my eloquence outside in the oppression of a summer atmosphere and the singularity of a storm in july. forgive me, love. there is a hurricane forming in my heart, a tidal wave crashing through my mind, and the whole world is plunging into darkness. it is a sublime notion, to think that we are all at the mercy of eachother.

oh.

Fri, 25 Jul 2003 21:33:51 GMT

she found religion in a water fountain, where the words of god were mosaic and only blood flowed-- though occasionally if you looked closely it was dirt or cherry coke or sometimes wine. there is an ache behind your eyes now; a simple, constant tide of light and nostalgia, washed up from the gentle circulation of your veins, bleaching out the dark fractures in all of your white walls.

each day is rewinding like a bad movie film
your life: playing out backwards.
all the sounds: distorted. and the picture?
grainy textured sandpaper
like gravel spilt on cement.

i have spoken of astronomy,
anatomy
the purpose of a flower
&the motions of the wind
how the crash of the waves on the shore could be your breath
or your heart breaking, and maybe it is desire that brings us here
where desire cannot exist

you cannot exist

&
some mornings the bathroom mirror is a pathological liar. you are chronically informed of its misdeeds, only they are haphazardly recounted as your own. the sweat beads at your collarbone like you're trying to make a statement, the t.v. is screaming murder! murder! in the background. you come to claim it as your definition, but your thoughts were blended into tequilas and cigarettes somewhere along the line. that was never really me, though.

i never fill the pages, the world could crack open on the lines i skip, the places where text is unbecoming, where only emptiness is befitting. this is a carniverous action for the most part, the act of tearing down walls, clawing flesh and bleeding freely to be wholy devoured in your moment of highest vulnerability.

oh. i like it.

she wastes away.

Wed, 16 Jul 2003 01:00:30 GMT

in this cameo:
i suddenly feel the need to impress. my attempts to create a provocation of thought truths disintegrate, freefall somewhere between the cerebrum and fingertips. have you noticed the way a shadow falls to clearly define a structure but only in outline & only in illusion?

in the desert, everything is the color of gold &i am painted silver. it echoes everywhere.
the tick-tock of the clock in my head is exploding, &the days are scattered few and far between. there are no aces left up my sleeves, no loaded dice.

the sun shines in through the window and for a moment i am blinded. i like the warmth on my eyelids, i like the way it falls on my shoulders &sometimes hair clinging back against my neck, the liquid of summer blossoming at every touch

{a hush}

&my fingers curve, arched, braced, ready to hold on if the world should end in an instant. i am trying to communicate something here.

this is what i mean to say: what happens when you get a paperdoll wet?

caves and cliffs, you could swim the ocean between my hips, the river wept into my empty ribcage and run down my spine like spiders tracing bones. sometimes i wonder if it would worry you how often i cry now.

and watching, there are no stars from the back porch but you could choke on the moon, and maybe if there were stars we could watch them weave their constellations, each thread a secret of ours &we would be wound up in the sky.

.
.
.
oleanders grow in my backyard. the petals are everywhere.

Sat, 12 Jul 2003 18:06:50 GMT

...

...

i am all of three steps out of place.

[cut]:
we penned poetry on tiled walls to give ourself a sense of culture which otherwise would be neglected because of oppression and/or fast-paced fear. we penned it in, scratching inky blood, as if each tile were the shell of a person we might infect and therefore crash the course of their hard-drive life because of the acute way frost was unraveled between grout. his vision of roads and divisions, the strength of the traveler and that which he travels would decompose the cells weaved like a bacteria and evoke heated bloodstreams or some celestial inquisition or perhaps only cause an eyebrow raising and that distilled undead look you sometimes see in those who have already lost too much.

[cut 2]:
on other days,
a sense of beauty which inspires all at once freedom and slavery (considering the context of love, if you will). all the windows only open halfway if at all, i cough lightly. in that undefined moment, the space between the time your hands journey from hips to face, porcelain skin becomes tea-stained in the summer sun. my hands slide to the skirt i slept in and the hemline is 2inches too long, it sticks to my skin &i am sweat and gloss and glass. you see right through me when i'm looking into you& watch

wildflowers wilting in the wildfires of our eyes

what i mean to say is, we are the flesh of a body: history,love. an unending sinew that wraps a claim to fame by course of repetition,beauty. i'm not complaining; i like it this way.

[cut 3]:
i wish i was an artist, you make me want to paint.

i am 32flavors &then some.

Tue, 08 Jul 2003 18:09:13 GMT

i like to strum my guitar in the dark.

the sheets lay in a crumpled mess & i am scattered, sprawled across the floor like littered magazine clippings. clashing catastrophes and beauties. the lines are beginning to blur with the texture of the carpet, where the light falls in through the window. this is all a method of madness. forget the concept verb now. we are not an action, but merely a meditation. pack your bags, honey. get up out of here because didn't they tell you? tomorrow might be good for something.

i was running through statistics and if it makes you feel any worse-- we haven't got a chance.
on the other hand, we are not a calculation. nor a figure, apart from counting that of femininity.

{a woman resembles a mountain,
but i am merely a hill:}

so i wrote truth on the soft part of my inner arm, where you might slip in a heroin needle. i am a heroine in a needle. my cheeks are slightly blushed and our bedsheets are covered in lies, slipping between them is like swallowing mud.

i like the way you run through me like a fucking freight train.

Fri, 04 Jul 2003 05:37:04 GMT

in this decrepit heart,
battered and unkempt, i never meant to get this far y'know.

&it makes me want to be more than just a girl who spills her veins out onto paper & regurgitates the prettie cocaine + sugar blossoms that have invaded her bloodstream, traps memories with butterfly nets, whispers lyrics &screams metaphores until her voice shatters into a million vibrations with the all same intentions.

i turn the world inside out &the people around me are outside looking outside kept outside;
i don't like thiefs or proper grammar for that matter, &i lock my heart up in a big gray safe because no one will ever search hard enough to see. &when you're always trying to catch the wind and let it replace your breath, capture the breaking of the tides in a little glass bottle & substitute it for yr own goddamned hrtbeat, you've got to take a step back and look at what you've been saying.

because this can't all be right. this can't be alright.

but only if i can pretend to be a galaxy or a can of alphabet soup. &you can be my astronaut or a constellation or maybe a 5year old kid, strung out in my marrow &traveling the length of my body, pausing between broken run-ons and the prominent lack of grace. we are watching each other absently and everyone else is watching-watching and we are saying nothing because our secrettes are of the prettiest sort.

this skeleton could make the willows weep &the moon recede into her crescent of grief,
&you
and yr
and i were we.

but only until september but we may never get that far y'know.
&could my worries be yr worries?

mary, mary. how does your garden grow?

Mon, 23 Jun 2003 22:36:16 GMT

i count the fragments of your spine, collected there in the garden, & the secrets you divulge between them.

anarchist princess
wearing pink lace garters,
looking prime as a dollie;

she has boys hips
&can cut glass with her tongue.

the way the chlorine hurts your lungs, wraps ribbons over your ribcage or traps the beating of your heart in a vice.
the way you like it.
sometimes my wrists are ink-stained and thin, &i remember my metaphor of the world from that night on the pier, standing between beauty and filth, poised between heaven and hell. you should have seen the ocean that night, honeylove. sometimes punctuation means less &i just don't care; this bubblegum side-effect has blown me out.

!POP! goes your world.

i know you think it's star-studded - riptide - beautiful, but sometimes it's not. sometimes it merely exists for existence's sake. with those sliding jawlines, steeply falling &the way the sun makes your brain pound against your skull-cage like it's looking for a way out, and you know you just can't blame it because if you could find a way out, you'd already be gone.

oh miss, it's the way you feel the blood pumping through your veins and your sinew stretching sweetly over muscles & know that you're still alive.

so tell me:
how does your garden grow? &
did you ever hear the one about the guy who had the whole universe in his throat?

Mon, 16 Jun 2003 22:00:38 GMT

in the background:
the noise sweeps forward in a rushing crescendo: climatic and straightforward. buhbuhbuh-- WHAMSLAM(!). coffee grinding ice, elevator classiques, rise+fall of spectral voices, lovers whispers, high heels make the tile scream &up close --- my own offbeat rhythm breathing, scratches of pen on soy paper, flesh on cotton, on polywood & pseudo-this&that.

miss rocktastica, i was bohemia: the courtesan !!
they named her romiette. she was always dying for love.

we press together, colliding gravities, and share talk of morning autumn rain and/or apollo&artemis. i slide a 20$ into my boot; it crawls around, pastes &embeds itself into my skin with heat and perspiration. she smells like money. my skin is cold;

&clammy to touch. i shiver when you touch me &now your hands have become explorers. we name them christopher &galileo. land &mind, the science of my anatomy --- my body is a foreign nation and unconquered theory. you are king &you follow: to be both above

&below me.
i will paint our stars into a black-black canvas. when we are angry, we will punch them out.

you exploded through my heart

Fri, 13 Jun 2003 04:26:30 GMT

here i am again.

my hips are slants and cliffs.
my teeth are banded shut, my jaw is made of steel.
& i had never noticed how often i lick my lips before. only now that i can't.

a vent blows brusque arctic air down at me. the floors are glossy brick, the walls are glass. the chair is metal and cheap leather. my hair is in my eyes, and i'm holding my head. i watch my skin draw patches of rouge and plum in the cold, a veritable jigsaw blooming under my skin. throw back two advil &wash it down with some green tea. watch my reflection in the glass walls: mirrors now.

the courthouse reeks of lawyers and inky documents. silk suits &suede shoes. like a hospital without the sickness. now i'm the sickness there. my mother is looking at the past because she can't get rid of it. i am pretending i don't have a past. i did not exist those mere minutes ago. i have never loved. i have never lost. i am unused. i am reborn now, or i am dying. either way: i cannot write and

again, i am here.

Tue, 10 Jun 2003 14:38:28 GMT

pieces of her lips fall off in fragments

with the lies she tells
her tongue becomes stiff and old and
slashed
on the shards of wit she spit
in defiance
indefinite
&
in denial
she would pull them back together, the
pieces that have fallen
the jigsaw of
deception
the ultimate dilapidation
she molds the fragments
into firmer lies,
the ones
she can believe herself
until the lines of
day and night

truth and lie, can fall apart in fragments

she was never in love again

Sat, 07 Jun 2003 05:20:09 GMT

the sound of 60s skates
rumbling over the sidewalk cracks in the concrete
++ concrete cracks in the sidewalk.

(ba-bump ba-bump ba-bump)!

mimicking the resolutions of my heartbeat

(ba-bump ba-bump ba-bump)?

&then: i can no longer tell the difference between flesh/tissue or metal/rubber -----> and maybe there was never a difference, afterall. maybe my heart always sounded cold and rushed.

i'm trying to be alone.
a neighbor coughs fretfully.
tree drops a leaf and shakes angrily
6yr olds induce conversation out of me:

"Why are the stars afraid of the sun? &why do they only play with the moon?"

the stars are shamed by the bold glorious sun, who is so bright and commanding! but what they do not realize is that the sun is merely one pinned to a satin blue canvas. the stars are many and infinite -- a depthless grandeur of rhinestones punched into a black velvet universe. they are personified wishes and crystallized whispers. &though the sun may shame them in the day, they reign as daughters of the moon, & are merely infinite in the night. you can ask no more or less than that.

i'm trying to be alone.
water rushes into the gutter,
a cat circles around me;
that cat is darkness, is night
&i wish it would chase away my thoughts
like little grey mice. but it only makes them scream louder.

i'm trying to be alone,
but i'm already lonely.

Mon, 02 Jun 2003 04:29:15 GMT

A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE!
perspective indulgence.

a box of crayons, &she's seven again. oh, crystalline, won't you come out to play?
but she doesn't like to play. she's colouring. can't you see her world?

technicolour brilliance! neon-dazzling interstellar!

nonsense. nonsense. nonsense.
&when she finally ran out of words-- she painted the sky black&blue, because that was how she felt inside.
bruised, bruised. little crystalline, stop your crying.
can't you see that world?

oh! it's frightening!
all the flowers are gray& brown.
all the buildings are falling down.
&she's weeping, weeping. princess crystalline.

the sun came out, &the cement was burning.
ice on fire, and the colours all dissolved, and the world was lost.
tumbling, falling, gone&gone&black.

and crystalline was undefined. (!)

in an endless spectrum of melted this, and molding that
crystalline, and a box of crayons
are painting the world over
on
black cavas's
&concrete backgrounds.

Wed, 21 May 2003 22:15:39 GMT

i live inside of you.

the valleys and hills of your flesh bind me with beauty and safety, danger and possibility. together we merge to create an endless cavern of cracked mirrors, halfway reflections which, stretching backwards forever into darkness, show two sides of the same light:

&they are infinitely together, indefinitely apart.

i am acute, you are obtuse; we are a geometrical equation of ideals, but that can only take you so far. those equations are only a beginning, and sometimes, they are only an end. and what more can you ask from an ending? continuation? you are contradictory and considering such the world is vomited up by the gods of love &fate, the thin line of hate, and the universe spins away back into our seperate bodies. the skins that had melted together fall apart and solidify.

in the end, you say it wasn't ever a reflection.
you were looking through a window, not a mirror. you say it wasn’t ever an equation. you had the answers all along.

don't tell me how;

Sun, 18 May 2003 21:20:29 GMT

the plains of your body:
smooth, infinite

Truth is a hideous distortion of ideals. 'Lost' is a state of being and existence is merely an interruption.

We were sitting there, back to back, our spines clashing and grating, dissolving our straight-edged consciences. I sat up straighter to write more comfortably, pen and ink flourishing as the light fell like masques of lace on my pages. Illumination of the secrets of the universe, what are you writing? the secrets of the universe. oh,baby. Surrounding beauty was preserved in a sanctuary of SILENCE. that tidal wave hush, eye of the storm and midnight lull and impenetrable soapbubble of protection: the pages were both filled and empty, my self splattered out onto them in a metaphorical battle of exhibitionists and secret keepers. Light, sound, explosions blooming all around and inside i was safe and untouched. I have been safe and untouched for a thousand years or more. The pages were empty and filled, as i told you before: drowning with brilliant supernova potential and spent on variations of chaos and misplaced answers. They haven't even got questions to begin with.

degrees of extremity; 5 or 10times. & other unknown sugarspun medleys of indeterminate personalities: BLASTED OUT. we are sculpted out of concrete shadows, spiked in curiosities of life, love, and death is swallowed then.

the hollow eyed boy on the corner tells you: "&once i saw without seeing. once i was without being."

if my heart could beat, it would break my chest.

Mon, 05 May 2003 22:41:19 GMT

I am an international spy in the house of love.
Anais Nin

Volcanic eruptions, and your existence is in purgatory-- a momentary stillness before you break free in a wild unruly tempest, a dazzling static goddess of moon-baths, fervent paradises, and undiluted crystallizations of emotions long forsaken.

and then, tempered swells,

echoes,
shadows.

In a second, and a second more, a composed face, a paisley smile. Delays and hesitations broken in conquered relays of repetition. I can't write when i can't feel. Surrounded by cylinders posing as intelligible conversations-->

edible fortunes, vulgar timesets unheeded by mindsets and calculated morals:
unequivalent to those with sharp collars,
slicing their wrists on their own wit.

UNCLEAR
in my attentions, inclinations, and intentions. a petty condensation of indulgences, and the sky is cracked open, pouring depthlessly into the labyrinths of lost mind in order to induce clear or unfocused gazes.

onetwothree.
ready.

this routine riot

Wed, 23 Apr 2003 04:15:20 GMT

my love is vain.

&: vanity is imposed by lower elements, and in pressing impressions of sophistication. like carving cravings of alabaster and/or ivory contours through your flesh, my fingers trace those rivers of scars, run them deep and salty with disproportionate laughs. these inflictions you weep over, your turncoat deities, mean nothing to me.

all over the map, our geographical equations are leaving me dizzy-lost. with immaculate gestures, and we casually CLASH and CRASH, headfirst--- headlong into past recollections. if i recall correctly, you once loved me. and on any given day, i can hack out as many outlines of the perfect constellations and navigations of your alchemy from my easy paralleled astronomy, but to be resting on the brink of breathlessness, edge of your seat, in a taut black dress there with you-- knees tremble: jumps at evasion ensue.

this is a game i can play. one step off sanity cliff is one step too short.
you sleezy idealist.

Wed, 16 Apr 2003 00:27:54 GMT

To see a world in a grain of sand
and a heaven in a wild flower,
hold infinity in the palm of your hand
and eternity in an hour.

SEARCHING
for
concrete stability inbetween lines of letting-go and falling-down, cracked and fissures of wound-up or strung-out. only to end up running and running, dizzy with the sickly oversweet scent pop cultures, evangelic beauties. star junkies, you know the type.

WONDERWALL CRAZY

1. The many facets of darkly beautiful and/or light of artstar boys.

a. Art; all varieties --> a la modern, classique: newyork, renaissance.

racing veins, stonewashed jeans
hollow eyes, deep stare
strange complexions
isolated compositions
avec prettie hair; shagged/forgotten
b/w photographs in back pocket

b. Riot; bladed eyes all --> catastrophic

movement of muscles beneath skin
athletic calves, wistful intimations
prominent graces, razor bones
understanding varsity of:
music to swing
smiles to break
black panther jungle boy

c. Beauty; bleeding heart --> startist, artist, guitarist

tragedy of soul, cigarettes
pen in hand, lime & pepper scent
spoken lyrics in whispers
lighted shadows of face
aerospace anti-gravity love
caffeinated poetry

__
it sank today, in all it's splendor.

from the tangles of

Tue, 01 Apr 2003 02:28:10 GMT

velveteen ghosts. i was delicate. once upon a time.

entice me.