Someone rang the doorbell and sneaked under the door a piece of paper which read 'I
am outside your house, hiding in the bushes' Punks! They need to be sternly dealt with. So I opened the door and went out to confront those bullying bastards. And on the floor lay another note, which read, 'Just kidding. I am hiding under
your bed in your room.'
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Endless loop
"I know, but I need to get out there and finish what I started!" This
loop is endless, my friend. "I know, but I need to get out there and
finish what I started" This loop is endless, my friend...
Friday, August 16, 2013
Decay
I can now say that I am okay.
The journey of two seasons has ended today.
I’ve pined for the familiar while I fought in the fray.
I’ll reach home ‘fore the sky perpetuates the grey.
I was away for a while and I am surprised,
To see my home diminutive in size.
All the picture frames missing, leaving markings, besides,
The faucet’s leaking, the plaster’s peeling inside.
My friends have all left, my family has disappeared.
They are coming to pass, the things I have feared.
The ill-behoved fury my enemies endeared,
my enemies are no more, the fury has endured.
My aching bones attest to toil.
They tell the story of a self-inflicted foil.
I have sat, meditated, and observed a while,
the churning brine, broth, and bile.
I’m ready to pass the blame,
a little bit against everyone’s name.
Point fingers, than hurt my pride,
For the pattern chance and choice connived.
It’s dark outside, I cannot leave.
I have baggage and the looters loot the bereaved.
The night murmurs, ‘I’ll be gone’ — the constant refrain.
With the morning I’ll be gone again.
Under the sheets
White cotton sheets, white ghosts reclining,
on beds which stink of meds and bodies.
Machines beep and it reminds me of
the bell that rang when the door opened
and you walked in my life.
You were driven by who knows what.
You walked under a shadow of wickedness wearing a mask;
Green eyes stared at me through jagged holes.
Your delicate hands held a revolver.
You pointed it at me.
I was a rabbit caught in the light of your love.
Dazed, I raised my hands over my head,
and walked away.
You took the cash from the stash and turned around
to find my hand on your shoulder.
A magician’s trick of hands or an exchange of gift between friends.
A bomb went off, a trigger pulled, a lump burst.
Between sheets you are a frail deer, your once-luminous eyes blink
with the cadence of the beeping machine,
whose sound now vanishes,
and you walk out of my life as hurriedly as you came in.
on beds which stink of meds and bodies.
Machines beep and it reminds me of
the bell that rang when the door opened
and you walked in my life.
You were driven by who knows what.
You walked under a shadow of wickedness wearing a mask;
Green eyes stared at me through jagged holes.
Your delicate hands held a revolver.
You pointed it at me.
I was a rabbit caught in the light of your love.
Dazed, I raised my hands over my head,
and walked away.
You took the cash from the stash and turned around
to find my hand on your shoulder.
A magician’s trick of hands or an exchange of gift between friends.
A bomb went off, a trigger pulled, a lump burst.
Between sheets you are a frail deer, your once-luminous eyes blink
with the cadence of the beeping machine,
whose sound now vanishes,
and you walk out of my life as hurriedly as you came in.
Summer escape
I have let another summer escape.
Another summer barbecued by the Sun and sponsored by Time.
Not what I wanted.
Another summer,
Piquant & passionate.
Vehement & violent.
A ripe hoiden bursting with juvenescence, fertile for bearing.
Another summer meant for tussling with the mammoths,
to remember st vitus and plunge in domesticity.
To heed the gentle counsel of pia mater & prudence.
To be the pike-bearer and put down Cupidity.
Cowrie! Collect cowries for the old man and old woman.
But I have let the summer slither down the wormhole.
It's done!
Apathy, avant!
I'll take the baptism by flagrant flames or take the mezzaluna to my bones.
But. I. Shall. Not. Let. Another. Summer. Pass
Another summer barbecued by the Sun and sponsored by Time.
Not what I wanted.
Another summer,
Piquant & passionate.
Vehement & violent.
A ripe hoiden bursting with juvenescence, fertile for bearing.
Another summer meant for tussling with the mammoths,
to remember st vitus and plunge in domesticity.
To heed the gentle counsel of pia mater & prudence.
To be the pike-bearer and put down Cupidity.
Cowrie! Collect cowries for the old man and old woman.
But I have let the summer slither down the wormhole.
It's done!
Apathy, avant!
I'll take the baptism by flagrant flames or take the mezzaluna to my bones.
But. I. Shall. Not. Let. Another. Summer. Pass
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Rinn Mhuintir faoin duilliúr
# Round, rigid
visional rigor-mortis
Imposed
Drosera capenses
Dionaea muscipula Sarracenia Psittacina
This is Delirium!
Just a sneaking hole accessible through
circadian disruption
Sporadic white
cumulus, stretching for miles forever fluffy, cotton candy of celestial ruffians
Oh, the window is closing. Quick!
Charm, Boutonnaire! Chocolate, éclair!
Sauteed with crisp, lost souls,
and served with finely- chopped meat
extracted from the mystic sheeps from the Himalayas.
I am sam OnTheTree
me too good/ me the best/ me much better than the greatest / better man / better writes / better lover in the night / fuck you good / too too good / as a better man always should / just too good / I am Sam / the big bad Sam / a better, better, better, better, better, better, better Man!
Una ave peligrosa
He's a beautiful little creature
with nimble little legs
he has a thunderbird's features
and a pouch to carry stolen eggs.
He can fly above the clouds
He's a flying shroud
Attracts quite the crowd
Oh and his plumage is an homage to volant construction.
His name is Elephant, for your kind information.
You see the dried blood on his feathers?
It's from a murder he committed two days ago
of a peacock with a condom-covered cock
fucking a white dove.
with nimble little legs
he has a thunderbird's features
and a pouch to carry stolen eggs.
He can fly above the clouds
He's a flying shroud
Attracts quite the crowd
Oh and his plumage is an homage to volant construction.
His name is Elephant, for your kind information.
You see the dried blood on his feathers?
It's from a murder he committed two days ago
of a peacock with a condom-covered cock
fucking a white dove.
Hollow
I've been walking, every night.
Under the influence of moon-induced loneliness.
Stars, distant, but there; unassuring.
I wish the sun would come up.
But, I am a hostage to the night. It builds thick. Any unwise spirits are bound to freeze.
I'm still walking. It isn't getting any better.
Only comfort is the music stepping gingerly in my ears, contained within a sleek, white music storage contraption. A pod, a god: I prod.
It's a syrupy night. Very maudlin.
A cough medicine. This, two hour after consuming a pharmaceutical for night loneliness.
Those tube-lights warm the houses right up. I can smell strife baking in an oven. Tasty and toasty. And jam.
I see silhouettes. If you have a perspective, just observe.
Like a voyeur. Knock of the door. Knock on the door like a ghastly apparition in the middle of the night
Hide behind striped gingham curtains. It's all nuclear now, you clear now? Hear the minute message in the chinese waltz playing on the radio Fuel 99.6. Oh no! You say it's invading your philistine sensibilities? Quiver. Access. Shoot a rocket. Destroy.
Rowdy language and expletives are gifts. 97886 - that's just the wrapping.
Primitive language made up of coos and caas and gestures to soothe a crying 67 kilo monstrosity. This is 2013, and it's a baby. In 1876....
And schmaltzy patois between spouces.
They sounds fake.
Take a peek inside their mind.
Put the open end of the glass against the door of the mind and put your ears against the closed end. A bass.
Do you hear it?
Chants and echoes.
I am, Me, Mine, Myself.
My child is raised on vedic sincerity.
A math prodigy, a musical genius, locus patriarchus.
Sweet words and lustful insinuations.
Mind manipulation. Cook the thoughts until you get the desired effect.
This way to Pendant -------->>
A unit of moon's offspring sits by the sign. Scheming.
And here comes the bawdiness!
Bona-fide.
Real.
At this point the breeze realizes my distraughtness and,
rushes in and,
wraps itself around my over-wraught mind. Merci elixir vitae.
I still don't feel better.
Ov vey iz mir!
Under the influence of moon-induced loneliness.
Stars, distant, but there; unassuring.
I wish the sun would come up.
But, I am a hostage to the night. It builds thick. Any unwise spirits are bound to freeze.
I'm still walking. It isn't getting any better.
Only comfort is the music stepping gingerly in my ears, contained within a sleek, white music storage contraption. A pod, a god: I prod.
It's a syrupy night. Very maudlin.
A cough medicine. This, two hour after consuming a pharmaceutical for night loneliness.
Those tube-lights warm the houses right up. I can smell strife baking in an oven. Tasty and toasty. And jam.
I see silhouettes. If you have a perspective, just observe.
Like a voyeur. Knock of the door. Knock on the door like a ghastly apparition in the middle of the night
Hide behind striped gingham curtains. It's all nuclear now, you clear now? Hear the minute message in the chinese waltz playing on the radio Fuel 99.6. Oh no! You say it's invading your philistine sensibilities? Quiver. Access. Shoot a rocket. Destroy.
Rowdy language and expletives are gifts. 97886 - that's just the wrapping.
Primitive language made up of coos and caas and gestures to soothe a crying 67 kilo monstrosity. This is 2013, and it's a baby. In 1876....
And schmaltzy patois between spouces.
They sounds fake.
Take a peek inside their mind.
Put the open end of the glass against the door of the mind and put your ears against the closed end. A bass.
Do you hear it?
Chants and echoes.
I am, Me, Mine, Myself.
My child is raised on vedic sincerity.
A math prodigy, a musical genius, locus patriarchus.
Sweet words and lustful insinuations.
Mind manipulation. Cook the thoughts until you get the desired effect.
This way to Pendant -------->>
A unit of moon's offspring sits by the sign. Scheming.
And here comes the bawdiness!
Bona-fide.
Real.
At this point the breeze realizes my distraughtness and,
rushes in and,
wraps itself around my over-wraught mind. Merci elixir vitae.
I still don't feel better.
Ov vey iz mir!
The Orchard
I've left the orchard burning.
Sad, singed oranges and varicated fruits reduced to ashes.
The eyes will miss the green;
the respite from the constant flickering, disturbing, crimson, black, and purple images of destruction.
But I'll still have four walls to protect the brain,
though I don't know how long, because bombs are know to be adept killers.
The house is a mezzo, a squat and stout angel.
Standing avuncular beside the arboretum.
And there's my family, picture-perfect.
And a job; oh a job, where I slowly and surely I literally break my back.
It doesn't matter; it's all good; it puts food on my table; it doesn't matter.
So, everybody who says we live life once were probably rich, and their back-up plans were already put into place by their rich fathers. So do what YOU want
I'll miss the mangoes when their season comes around. Heavy, succulent. I never told my wife this, but sometimes when I looked at one of those mangoes, it reminded me of her breasts.
Ferocious sex-making. Hips and hearts pumping. Sliding silk ribbon off your shoulders. Reading stories written in font applique lace.
She knew my machinery.
Familiar with the function of every button on the switchboard. Swarthy. Coy and violent by turns.
Bite force: 160 PSI.
Winters - our adventure time.
Nights - our preferred time.
Every few days, the Havana Brown sneaked in our bed and mewled in your ears. And then you whispered in mine 'It's cold, isn't it?' And I always said 'It's winter, inamorata. What do you expect?'
Leaving the slumbering spawn under the watchful and loving care of the Havana Brown, we sneaked off. The magnetic pull of comfort. The taste of fire. Barns and outhouses make for great funeral pyres. Just before passion lit up, the tinnitus of raw excitement. Crackling, bleating, barking. Being reduced to their essences. The animals. But the warmth, so pleasurable. A matchstick and a liquid. A lighter, but a matchstick is lighter. Then it was all just waiting, taking in the warmth, basking in the burning of someone's else monument. My rough, rough countenance soothed by your kerosene-sweetened palms. And then it was waiting and enjoying the moment until everything was razed. Post-this. Back to domestic life.
The scent of roses and the flowers that bloomed ambrosial. Some of them were delicate, shy things, only growing by the night, but leaving the imprint of sweet olfaction.
And as soldiers of dark march with their paraphernalia of doom
Visions of a collapse of a civilization linger in their eyes.
Yet they march because they've got somebody to care for at home.
The voice is a static. It's a slab, dislocating. Or you moving towards it at sonic speed. An alarms trills. My wife and offspring, a redstone signal.
It's the enemy's warcry in the battlefield. Steaming bodies. Sweat and blood and hopes and the stink of loss.
Espresso bar and antique shops, candy pop, new-born puppies smell of their mother's milk. Voices of ruin.
And as the soldier takes in the mayhem, a tiny, ancient bell twinkles in his memory.
And he's back in the orchard.
Sad, singed oranges and varicated fruits reduced to ashes.
The eyes will miss the green;
the respite from the constant flickering, disturbing, crimson, black, and purple images of destruction.
But I'll still have four walls to protect the brain,
though I don't know how long, because bombs are know to be adept killers.
The house is a mezzo, a squat and stout angel.
Standing avuncular beside the arboretum.
And there's my family, picture-perfect.
And a job; oh a job, where I slowly and surely I literally break my back.
It doesn't matter; it's all good; it puts food on my table; it doesn't matter.
So, everybody who says we live life once were probably rich, and their back-up plans were already put into place by their rich fathers. So do what YOU want
I'll miss the mangoes when their season comes around. Heavy, succulent. I never told my wife this, but sometimes when I looked at one of those mangoes, it reminded me of her breasts.
Ferocious sex-making. Hips and hearts pumping. Sliding silk ribbon off your shoulders. Reading stories written in font applique lace.
She knew my machinery.
Familiar with the function of every button on the switchboard. Swarthy. Coy and violent by turns.
Bite force: 160 PSI.
Winters - our adventure time.
Nights - our preferred time.
Every few days, the Havana Brown sneaked in our bed and mewled in your ears. And then you whispered in mine 'It's cold, isn't it?' And I always said 'It's winter, inamorata. What do you expect?'
Leaving the slumbering spawn under the watchful and loving care of the Havana Brown, we sneaked off. The magnetic pull of comfort. The taste of fire. Barns and outhouses make for great funeral pyres. Just before passion lit up, the tinnitus of raw excitement. Crackling, bleating, barking. Being reduced to their essences. The animals. But the warmth, so pleasurable. A matchstick and a liquid. A lighter, but a matchstick is lighter. Then it was all just waiting, taking in the warmth, basking in the burning of someone's else monument. My rough, rough countenance soothed by your kerosene-sweetened palms. And then it was waiting and enjoying the moment until everything was razed. Post-this. Back to domestic life.
The scent of roses and the flowers that bloomed ambrosial. Some of them were delicate, shy things, only growing by the night, but leaving the imprint of sweet olfaction.
And as soldiers of dark march with their paraphernalia of doom
Visions of a collapse of a civilization linger in their eyes.
Yet they march because they've got somebody to care for at home.
The voice is a static. It's a slab, dislocating. Or you moving towards it at sonic speed. An alarms trills. My wife and offspring, a redstone signal.
It's the enemy's warcry in the battlefield. Steaming bodies. Sweat and blood and hopes and the stink of loss.
Espresso bar and antique shops, candy pop, new-born puppies smell of their mother's milk. Voices of ruin.
And as the soldier takes in the mayhem, a tiny, ancient bell twinkles in his memory.
And he's back in the orchard.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Tree house
Cursed
Is the world
Where the best piece of literature
Is how to operate an AK-47
Barren
Are the cardboard homes
with bullet –holes
Where lives are blown off like dust-motes.
Comatose
Are the kids
Lying on the hospital beds
Arranged , properly, in the ward, like installation art.
Infants
Born with revolvers
For their hands, shoot nurses and mothers
And bray with laughter.
Starving
Are the people
Whose rib-cages shows through
Their small emaciated chest.
Aren’t we all blessed, to be able to sit in front of our t.v., sipping cola and eating junk food?
FUCKING.
DOMESTIC.
SERENITY.
Is the world
Where the best piece of literature
Is how to operate an AK-47
Barren
Are the cardboard homes
with bullet –holes
Where lives are blown off like dust-motes.
Comatose
Are the kids
Lying on the hospital beds
Arranged , properly, in the ward, like installation art.
Infants
Born with revolvers
For their hands, shoot nurses and mothers
And bray with laughter.
Starving
Are the people
Whose rib-cages shows through
Their small emaciated chest.
Aren’t we all blessed, to be able to sit in front of our t.v., sipping cola and eating junk food?
FUCKING.
DOMESTIC.
SERENITY.
Bark
Desert canyons
the passing caravan of warm air caressing my eyes
Attempting to adjust itself in the asymmetry of my legs
While I scout the horizon for the kindred
And hark the hazy echoes of eternal soundscapes,
Which lie like lazy leviathans in the path of breeze’s sound.
They change course and veer toward silence’s cold sanctum
And have an intercourse with the vision
Of philosophers, poets and medical practitioners
And appear after rain in the form of a rainbow or, sometimes, aurora borealis.
Hot thoughts in warm desert sand.
I bury myself waist-deep and pray to the sun
And think about being immersed in lukewarm water in a white porcelain tub.
Watermelon juice oozes from the corner of your lips
Humid, silver liquid coursing between the breasts and accumulating in the navellake.
Yes, I am isolated now, yet one with the tranquil chants of deep canyons
Which cajole me in sweet somnolence
The body aching in pleasure, now lulled in pain
As hallucinogenic mist clears.
the passing caravan of warm air caressing my eyes
Attempting to adjust itself in the asymmetry of my legs
While I scout the horizon for the kindred
And hark the hazy echoes of eternal soundscapes,
Which lie like lazy leviathans in the path of breeze’s sound.
They change course and veer toward silence’s cold sanctum
And have an intercourse with the vision
Of philosophers, poets and medical practitioners
And appear after rain in the form of a rainbow or, sometimes, aurora borealis.
Hot thoughts in warm desert sand.
I bury myself waist-deep and pray to the sun
And think about being immersed in lukewarm water in a white porcelain tub.
Watermelon juice oozes from the corner of your lips
Humid, silver liquid coursing between the breasts and accumulating in the navellake.
Yes, I am isolated now, yet one with the tranquil chants of deep canyons
Which cajole me in sweet somnolence
The body aching in pleasure, now lulled in pain
As hallucinogenic mist clears.
Bird
I feel dead. Marinated in melancholy. I stand up and pace the room, trying to engage my mind in some creative thinking. Everybody seems to experience pristine joy and unbound creativity when the sky decides to upturn its bucket of water on the earth. Parched, waiting agape for the white drops to plunge into its acrid crevices. But I'm despondent, while everyone, including Flora & Fauna - my annoying neighbours. Fuck em- are mirthful.
The rainy season is the least hated of seasons. Why does the rain fascinate people? Is it the sullen atmosphere, or the disease? I bet they just love it when cars splash muddy water on them while passing through grubby puddles.
People like listening to the pitter-patter of rain on tin roofs, or to watch the slanting downpour through their windows while sipping on a hot beverage. I fail to understand what enthrallment people derive out of the noise of rain falling on roofs? It annoys me to no end.
Poets, philosophers, and generally people affianced with certain forms of art are inundated with brilliant ideas during the rains. My mind, however, is only occupied by the thoughts of keeping the mosquitoes at bay.
If the rain had a body, I'd beat it black and blue and cut off its throat and hang it upside down till all the blood drains out. Raisin. I definitely won't eat it. I am a vegetarian.
The rainy season is the least hated of seasons. Why does the rain fascinate people? Is it the sullen atmosphere, or the disease? I bet they just love it when cars splash muddy water on them while passing through grubby puddles.
People like listening to the pitter-patter of rain on tin roofs, or to watch the slanting downpour through their windows while sipping on a hot beverage. I fail to understand what enthrallment people derive out of the noise of rain falling on roofs? It annoys me to no end.
Poets, philosophers, and generally people affianced with certain forms of art are inundated with brilliant ideas during the rains. My mind, however, is only occupied by the thoughts of keeping the mosquitoes at bay.
If the rain had a body, I'd beat it black and blue and cut off its throat and hang it upside down till all the blood drains out. Raisin. I definitely won't eat it. I am a vegetarian.
Twig
I love it.
I love the way we fool ourselves.
If it were in our hands,
we'd try to deceive our own reflection.
Here's what we'll do:
We'd stand facing the mirror,
and, after staring intensely,
when the mirror expect you to be expeditious...
You,
Pussyfoot.
I love the way we fool ourselves.
If it were in our hands,
we'd try to deceive our own reflection.
Here's what we'll do:
We'd stand facing the mirror,
and, after staring intensely,
when the mirror expect you to be expeditious...
You,
Pussyfoot.
Lost trunks found. All interested trees submit their claims before 4 Post-Morning.
~"Words are confetti tossed into the bourgeois street by pseudo-intellectuals" - Shrieking Lobster.
I am a sacred bubblegum
wrapped in a white wrapper of corruption
and I like to pop.
I blow, I burst
when I am at my worst
and if I don't have access to water
I'll die of thirst
Eat me, suck me, bite me, chew me vigorously.
Be the whore who enjoys a new member every night, hate me insiduously.
or let your anger overwhelm you
so you could chase me with a spear.
Please don't forget to thank me later!
I satisfied your wish of running in the olympics, in the 100-metre dash event.
I dance naked to the tune of the bumbling piano. I set fire to the tail of an iguana and watched her climb over the wall into a boiling vat of horsepoo. Who was the iguana? of course, you!
They say I'm fictitious, I'm bogus
That's not true.
I really am a sacred bubblegum.
Light the incense stick
cut your nonsense please
quick! I've got the wrong rent lease
Please vent what's long and dickless!
I whistled at the cow while she was regurgitating tasty hay.
I am a sacred bubblegum
wrapped in a white wrapper of corruption
and I like to pop.
I blow, I burst
when I am at my worst
and if I don't have access to water
I'll die of thirst
Eat me, suck me, bite me, chew me vigorously.
Be the whore who enjoys a new member every night, hate me insiduously.
or let your anger overwhelm you
so you could chase me with a spear.
Please don't forget to thank me later!
I satisfied your wish of running in the olympics, in the 100-metre dash event.
I dance naked to the tune of the bumbling piano. I set fire to the tail of an iguana and watched her climb over the wall into a boiling vat of horsepoo. Who was the iguana? of course, you!
They say I'm fictitious, I'm bogus
That's not true.
I really am a sacred bubblegum.
Light the incense stick
cut your nonsense please
quick! I've got the wrong rent lease
Please vent what's long and dickless!
I whistled at the cow while she was regurgitating tasty hay.
Ant # 3, 4, 5 to 900
I
See
a
tree
outside
my
window
and
there's
a hollow
Space created
by
s o m E
BiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiRD!
maybe.
And
there
is
a ___________
of ants
MARCHiiiiiiiG!
Just like soldiers crashing against enemy bunkers
See
a
tree
outside
my
window
and
there's
a hollow
Space created
by
s o m E
BiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiRD!
maybe.
And
there
is
a ___________
of ants
MARCHiiiiiiiG!
Just like soldiers crashing against enemy bunkers
Sap ~
I clap with joy as you answer my call.
Like an avian mating routine.
Black & violet feathers. A carnivore plant. Sweet birdsounds. A crow; a tweet.
The mellifluous flute hypnotizing with its chirping.
A shadowdance on the wall on the rhythm of the flickering candles.
Delicate digits on skinsilk tracing designs on butterfly wings.
But I really am a moth: big, grey.
As repulsive as sewershit.
I'll beckon you with my golden shitbricks,
and you'll come like a foaming, frothing fall,
crashing into the pit of greed with imperturbable speed.
The effect of my voice like a clatter of plates of the kitchen floor.
You'll be the chicken on the couch channel-surfin and
I WILL BE THE HUNGRY FELINE WAY PAST ITS BREAKFAST TIME!
I'll be the serial killer next to you, to push you off the giant wheel at piccadilly.
You approve of me, even though you hate me.
Thanks for electing me to rule you
And I clap with joy as you answer my call to vote for me, YOU POLITICALLY IMPAIRED.
V e g e t a b l e
Like an avian mating routine.
Black & violet feathers. A carnivore plant. Sweet birdsounds. A crow; a tweet.
The mellifluous flute hypnotizing with its chirping.
A shadowdance on the wall on the rhythm of the flickering candles.
Delicate digits on skinsilk tracing designs on butterfly wings.
But I really am a moth: big, grey.
As repulsive as sewershit.
I'll beckon you with my golden shitbricks,
and you'll come like a foaming, frothing fall,
crashing into the pit of greed with imperturbable speed.
The effect of my voice like a clatter of plates of the kitchen floor.
You'll be the chicken on the couch channel-surfin and
I WILL BE THE HUNGRY FELINE WAY PAST ITS BREAKFAST TIME!
I'll be the serial killer next to you, to push you off the giant wheel at piccadilly.
You approve of me, even though you hate me.
Thanks for electing me to rule you
And I clap with joy as you answer my call to vote for me, YOU POLITICALLY IMPAIRED.
V e g e t a b l e
Leaf
Tonight, I'm going to dance in my dreams.
I'm going to scream the name of the one who reached into my being and stole my soul
and made her...
... <3 and mine a single entity resembling something from the repertoire of a performance artist.
Tonight our breath mingles with the inchoate darkness.
A canopy if a zillion purple rubies waltzing and melting in the black skies - a magical gloaming.
I have waited, breathless, for a song. Loveshorn
frail motes of romance dance in the rays of the morn
and these dreams every night are rituals
a holy artifact, a voodoo doll.
I dream
While
I dance.
I dream
of the
dance.
I dance
While
I dream.
I'm going to scream the name of the one who reached into my being and stole my soul
and made her...
... <3 and mine a single entity resembling something from the repertoire of a performance artist.
Tonight our breath mingles with the inchoate darkness.
A canopy if a zillion purple rubies waltzing and melting in the black skies - a magical gloaming.
I have waited, breathless, for a song. Loveshorn
frail motes of romance dance in the rays of the morn
and these dreams every night are rituals
a holy artifact, a voodoo doll.
I dream
While
I dance.
I dream
of the
dance.
I dance
While
I dream.
Ant
Find a way through the forest.
Centuries of decadence and forgotten booby-traps around you.
Ancient caverns, caves, deadly fungii, carnivorous plants.
You are the hunted with your fruitless, futile will.
Here, the grey vines intertwine, choking each other under the blazing eye of the sun - the unrepentant lover,
and the worms of despondence eat through determination, leaving a gaping hole which opens up to a hollowness; an emptiness within an emptiness.
This forest is also a desert; a counterfeit; a Djinn, with its fickle leaves and blinking lights and evanescent honeycombs.
And you're ensconced in an illusion of security.
But somewhere over the horizon the aural display of hope bedazzles you.
You fill your lungs with freshness, your wings puff out, and you run with the wind.
You should follow the river, but even before that,
Soak your parched heart and then commence with fervour.
Centuries of decadence and forgotten booby-traps around you.
Ancient caverns, caves, deadly fungii, carnivorous plants.
You are the hunted with your fruitless, futile will.
Here, the grey vines intertwine, choking each other under the blazing eye of the sun - the unrepentant lover,
and the worms of despondence eat through determination, leaving a gaping hole which opens up to a hollowness; an emptiness within an emptiness.
This forest is also a desert; a counterfeit; a Djinn, with its fickle leaves and blinking lights and evanescent honeycombs.
And you're ensconced in an illusion of security.
But somewhere over the horizon the aural display of hope bedazzles you.
You fill your lungs with freshness, your wings puff out, and you run with the wind.
You should follow the river, but even before that,
Soak your parched heart and then commence with fervour.
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