May 2009
5 posts
2 tags
Miss Taken
Goodbye is not allways. Patching jeans with some careless seams; stuffing pockets—too full with fruit of unions loom. Sometimes she spins bicycles, creating needs for the fork into the gold rung worn path perpetually tread. Pared fruits, parting kisses, jarred honey drips for dipping the long road’s broken token bread; wrapped and kercheifed—rod to tow. Rage thumb-wars with...
“One of the great fallacies of our time is that the Nazis rose to power because...”
– The Magus—John Fowles. (via lets-play)
dear god, (or science if the word offends you)
i know you remember me, the one you breathe this life into. i write to say that i’m not mad you keep secrets regarding your palm, face and intention. i don’t judge your brutish animale force or softer subordinal ways. rather, embracing your need to exist which brings forward all kings and queens, all of us; facets of inspired reflections. dying to be
truly, ourself
April 2009
2 posts
apropos.
honelix:pilarelizabethv: A perfect cup of coffee, an equally apropos mug; Push their scent up swirling towards an infinite form Of horizon, these lines we make up with eyes, Make sense of all these angles, perspectives Pulsing and crossing, swing like Tarzan On ropes of binding Particles from see To shining sea.
1 tag
Not Looking to Imaginary Figments.
You with that 1” thick (not Armani) elastic statement, taught and squeezing hold of eyes. You, with the downward punching picket sign BANG!-BOOM!!-PLAZOW!!! when she finally leaves Quack’s table; the one who saves lives. You, the one I thought into existence. Yet, I am the one that is always wrong.
March 2009
32 posts
Prim Rose Laced.
The warm blanket, a feeling that wasn’t too often. Jackson overwrote her as a mistake; failing to realize that friendship: forbears, with the ability to cause growth. Jackson points his finger from his fast little car, turns his face. Rose could do nothing for him, she sits in silence choosing to be—or not to be, his friend.
Violet Rain.
honelix:
She wasn’t one to cheat on a lover. When that time came the act was replaced by difficult conversation, which ended in puddles of love even deeper, or a new friend. Her path wasn’t paved in fame nor fortune; infamous among mice and men. Violet didn’t mind, her path was precisely: hers.
Lalot.
Lalot was last seen tossing foot-shaped cobblestones into the oceans’ bed of sand. She appeared to be constructing a foot path. The legend reads that we all must build a doorway for the secret lover, a way to find each other at the end. Tracks fall off into caves and valleys, ring circles, crossing themselves again. Her tracks weave a net, to catch her falling star. The unknown one, destined to be...
The Milk Bank.
Reality strikes, struck, striking like palms electrocuting executions of cheek. The days air buzz—denser than our world. Threatening to asphyxiate, but never here. Where dreams be, come, master, pieces. Pooled reflections of what we are, beyond sweet milk of deception. At the ebbing banks of day unveil, and become.
1 tag
1 tag
painting.
Mycenae wades in a warm pool of honeyed milk and rose. Weeping willows lap whirling upon the steaming surface’s aroma. Sweep and swish of tree wind dancers; she prances with, feet of milken mirrorose, toes of emerald. Skin tainted by the iced caress of dawn—all watercolor shades of gold.
To Be, or Not.
perpetuatingthewheel:
My Bitches and Nigga-g’s. I reference me, not thee. With a joke: What do you get when a WASP hits a bar and says hey there bitch, get my drink!? …The irrevocable schmuck of the bar. Now, when a female walks in with her pack of bitches and black widow hoe’s, they have earned rights to their goldin embroidered Satin Bombers and name; by path. One morsel other’s tend to...
“provide for those who grieve in Zion—
bestow on them a crown of beauty
...”
– isaiah 61. (via titlepage)
1 tag
The Grass.
“They say it’s always greener, but look at you.” “Bound to brittle hay patch, dressed in parchment, dancing with your crystal parasol… staring at the sun.” Meerweh shoo glances, collecting scenes in slides: Islands of man. Stand. Crystalline. Cool glaciers of Krypton. Embed. Magma. Rapids. Tears, hers; travel groove and bend, of knee, drip—between toes, down, down… down into the cool dark,...
The Pineapple.
perpetuatingthewheel:
Her namesake bestowed the secret: Twist the sharp spiny top. Peel lowest blades. Screw it into dampened earth. Wait.
1,095 days pass. Blades grow long and then a sprout, small—like a prickly pear.
The symbol of hospitality in Hawaii. Pilar excitedly slides glass upon her patio garden.
The fruit’s vanished.
WatchPlease don’t pop my brain.
1 tag
The Best I Can See, Today.
We all know what we’re doing, right? Feel safe here in each other’s arms. Fog clears. Snow melts. Into rivulets, flood. We see runaway love boats: bound two-faced masts and sails. See the image we paint; is our self.
Our model is victim, contingent solely by chance. Or design?
claytoncubitt:
Bigod 20 - Like A Prayer (Madonna...
Stand-up comedy.
lets-play:
“Your momma this, your momma that. We all know your momma is too fat.”
Now that was funny. Or was it simply insecurity pointing fingers? I’m sorry, but I find true comedy in that which can reflect on itself, laugh, and in the process help someone else realize something through laughter.
Even something minimal, like brushing your teeth will keep the drill from your pearls.
Salle D'attente'.
Fear of Doc and Dentist.
“Why?” “complications.” “Never here.”
“…You needn’t be awake.” The best jazz plays, I want to inquire it… “Bottom on the table,” “relax” he says. “Relax everything, lean back your head.” “Now cough… louder… cough again.”
Three long Novocain pricks.
“Sounds...
1980: eye alix love this song.
2 tags
Celeste’s Teal and Orange Runner’s.
Cross country, Track & Field, nitty gritty city streets… treadmills, Celeste remembers respiring tears; how it felt to win a race. Recollecting what it cost to keep sharp, tight, breath in pace. Mostly, Celeste remembers redemption in a short stop; muscles pulsing into pause, embracing the deep of reflection, and sleep.
Some Love to Learn the Hard Way.
Ariadna can be such a dog.
The golden retriever lays in the shade, licking wounds.
Ariadna hopes the world will dull it’s sharp edges.
The doctor was kind, but pain remains.
Sometimes the world needs to know when enough is enough, but the world never listens to wishes of bitches.
Valerie's Dancing.
Today Valerie’s tired
of being strong.
Today Valerie wants to melt, vulnerable and weak
into the right person, for all the right reasons.
Today Valerie wants to be that person.
There she goes.
Frankenstein's Frankincense.
Mary Anne in pen-striped trouser’s— For decades now; Painting Sammy’s eyes Smoky, black, as he Shares her Phantom pain Of what it is to be The other. Build: A small man, Greasy, Combed over, Afternoon shadows Supine spine; Hear her clogging up the hall— Voice like a choir boy, Rising, to the pleasant pitch of Cracked, Pressed-on French-tips scraping blackboards, she-bark, Newport’s,...
February 2009
31 posts
dotyourmom:copycats: Stronger by 30 Seconds To...
see the children.
Sandra loves The way her children play Together—see them Dance; distinguished motions Matched, spin, spill and tumble Off the page—into the net: Catch them Unraveling it’s threads Black Chaotic souls of creation Dance amidst the glaring White of lights Little Emily; lemur ringed Knee high’s, patent Leather Mary Jane’s Crossed upon the rock, as she’s Chewing pastel pink and baby blue...
four little letters.
He hates me. My scars; he hates my race, my style, eyes, drive and face. He hates the way I walk; into the room. The way pants fit my thigh; he hates the way I take them off and stress my place. He hates. Four putrid little letters, like _-_-_-_.
3 tags
There Really is No Escape, for Olive.
The air pierced by the trio of guitar’s, marinara and cracked French bread. Schoolchildren stand, kneel and sit as Wordsworth: Tanaka, Kerouac, Fried, Miel, Plath, and Fyodor ruminate through corridors. Words hug her curves as books are passed, eyes driving fast low and sweeping between dashed and dotted reflective lines. Word’s. Like Matchbox Ferrari’s wrecked at the foot of her quail-feather...
The price.
Enter peace. The pure, flat white of tundra. See Jack.
His Glaucomatic pupils. Stand tall. Lick thick—white
flakes off silken lapels. Smile to taste. That whitch
they call sweet. Snow. Pupils pierce. Reduce: to sticky
figures. On your bottom—left flank. Un-dead, road killed.
Put a fork in’er—road.
He Will Over-write Her Heart.
“Drive.” “Drive ‘til the tank’s emptied.” “Or we hit Palimpsest.” “Our tiny town’s motel.”
Two Valentines lay foot to head, upon the springy temporary bed. Type: writer, poet, artiste, friend. Type: comic, spirit, lover, pretend. Type: fiction, fantasy, grotesquely animated; tragedy: amend. Twin sheets. She’ll override his hard-drive. End.
