I’m a burden to this water
I sit tight in the crater
You.. The villain who swallowed the light
You’d be drown in your own laughter
While waiting the birds taking flight
You…the ravens peck your heart for shelter
For there’s nowhere else to hide
They tell you lunacy has a daughter
And you smile. For you knew her alright
I’m a wanderer
I’m an easy prey to gravity
You… You are no better
You who pull your teeth off of sanity
Who gave you direction to that place?
Where long ago we shed our recklessness?
South of the sun, away from grace
Where lilies and poppies are faceless
A tiny-slip away from where boredom laze
The boring call it Madness
Guess I’ll see you there
It is a faultless performance, but faultless performances cannot be celebrated, in the end everyone thinks themselves capable of faultless performances, no courage seems to be required for a faultless performance. Aeroplanes in Brescia – Kafka
It’ spooky to consider, us turning teeth into gold and gold into eyeballs. Thing in is either flesh or money, like they can’t be both at the same time. They would be like somebody being both alive and dead. You can’t. You got to choose. – bodie carlyle
I am not
I am pierrot the clown
I am the bird on your windowsill
I am that tangy twinge in red velvet
I am that streak of blue on the yellow sunlight
I am senseless
I am the lake which bottom you can’t see
I am nowhere
I am the villain who drilled your heart for shelter
I am the dancer
I am the taste of sea that sleeps on your tongue
I am the milk that had been spilled
I am that scent that comes before rain
I am the piece of shiny surface that reflects your image
I am patch of dried tears on your cheeks
I am the gum stuck at the heels of your shoes
I am not the girl you misses much
I am scared
I am the chill that gives you goose bump
I am the leaf that brush your feet on my way to the sewer
i am tired
despite everything i am
still you don’t know me
She said, “If I had an answer, it wouldn’t really be love, would it?”
Jonathan safran foer – extremely loud & incredibly close
Was the night she slipped her feet into that blood-red shoes.
Red so Beautiful. Wicked. Slippery.
Darn! She stumbled. Not into that famous silvery coach made of pumpkin. But onto the wings of one repulsive beast.
Taken off. Higher. Lesser. Blown into oblivion.
She’s deep among slivers of surreptitious whispers. She floated on thick liquid sky. She’s on a train heading south. She’s in solid mist of cotton-candy happiness. Their happiness. Not hers. Hazy. Suffocating. Sickening rosy cheeks. Asphyxiating sea of roses. Ran! she ran and ran…until each shred of clinging-pink-happiness came off. Until chunks of her own ecstasy fell off…to be wolfed down instantly. By those ravenous yellow-eyed faces in the dark.
Darkness spitted out the red hot revelation. Damn red against the murky face of oblivion. Spilled forcefully into the maze of her brain. Damn red she tried to catch it with her tongue. Tasted nothing. Nothing. For the moment was already lost to her. Stolen by the face that swallowed time. But gasp! then she saw it. No, not saw. Felt it. Uncompromising. Burning. The double-edged blade. O that sweet twisted creature who held it. Jagged. Pierced its way through. Through the muscles. Ripped open the world beyond the wonderwall. Where flower grows. Flowers with thorns. Tore her from the inside. So there’s blood. Invisible. Yet which taste she found quite real.
Tongue sticky with invisible blood, she sat. Sat there thought she would choke. Thought she would have to throw her guts out. But no. Tasted alright. Tasted like laughter. Like tears. Like rain. Like pain. Like sea. Like sky. Like fear. Like grit. Tasted of everything. Of nothing. With each drop, she felt something else slipped off. But she didn’t mind, did she. Guess that’s the way she liked it.
With tongue sticky with blood, she smiled.
Was the night she lost an earring and found a boy.
The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future. In truth, all sensation is already memory [henri bergson]
Nothing is as persuasive as the eloquence of lovers; they have a logic that comes from the heart, which has never been the same as that of the mind.
>taken from Marquis de sade’s Virtue: Ernestine, A Swedish Novella