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.
IX →
is it truly possible that “they’d” take my favorite and make it even better?
reflection.
I look into the smooth facet of paned seas. Fired deflections off a raging star upon a soft temperate round of chalken ash.
Tall towering peaks reaching for pull. Let them—part, so some may come to me.
Let the rest of it go.
Earth lusted for sun, and won.
whatson:Yeah Yeah Yeahs - ‘Zero’
1 tag
A tiny coughing soul tremors the world--to feet.
Glowing Mercury rising, embered coils snaking, cool clammed skin—taunting, toadstool throated, fear. Then, when Night’smare glares Day, cool greened & streaming—barely registered cognition—Temple stacked high, books; pressing weighted oceans, deep—each foothold counterbalancing: sharp corners/slashing chest & spine: She crashes—into the Ironmaiden grip of the...
1 tag
I don’t believe in Writer’s block.
Don’t suffer Painter’s block, Liver’s block, nor any other unnatural impediment to natural conditions. Do get too sick, too busy and too tired—of the World’s need to beat each other into submission. If views are worthwhile, they need not be fought—a simple light reveals the obvious, believable & true.
1 tag
Nana
Nana lays across the fruit-vined end-chair, in her pale pink-washed ratty-tatty robe, hair pinned like sausages to her thinning aging head; poultry-like ankles protrude into her faux-fox fur-lined micro fiber ankle booties; reading Motherland, disappointedly. Just what do you think you’re doing? I had to take your picture nana, sorry.
gunstreetgirl:tesslynch: This Heart’s On Fire
1 tag
Dirte' Laundering.
Smith’s T, black/white Victiorian lace, black/blood pinstripe soft cotton hoodie. Candy corn striped—individual toe-hugging—knee-highs and black mesh boy shorts, Snuggles, warm within high wading red sweats. Mustard yellow moccasins. Grande Americano and dear sick Nabokov. Star was more than ready for the laundry show.
1 tag
Laura Is Thirsty
Pace: slow. Mind: in hyper-drive, racing—shrieking taffy stretched clouds above. The sky’s radiating strobe of day between iced puffs of night give Laura one set of footprints. The temperamental planet spins, out of control; Inertia crushing all surfaces with pressure that only the most resilient matter resists—to survive.
whatson:growingup:Boys Like Girls
I like my town with a little drop of poison.
...
“A dress makes no sense unless it inspires men to want to take it off you.”
– Françoise Sagan (via sarazucker) (via sade)
In context, surely. Though, I could argue otherwise—perhaps I will.
Elizabeth
That emerald gown—who is she? Elizabeth. Delicate spider webbed laces, painterly brocade bodices, Elizabeth. Dedicated her life to the Art of the loom. She is jested heavily for it.
By whom? The court, Jester. Beth is the court Dressmaker. Her own gown’s and tastes are said to top those of the Queen, herself.
2 tags
Airhead
Desiree loved teeth; the taper’s thin melodic rim’s which rubbed against fingered tips, translucent wrist, adjointed thick meaty thumb’s bed—the way pointed canine’s nib an hourglass neck. Four molars short—Desiree’s Wisdumb—vanished, lifted by swift nimbly fates—never arrived. Desiree’s wisdom, the mortician says: waded permanently into viscous streams of evolutionary...