| "Most of the time you don't really hear it. A pulse is a thing that you feel" |
[25 Jun 2008|10:49pm] |
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when i think of all the bodies everywhere and everywhere clothed and naked to the fury, a vapor envelopes each limb and tongue and casts them off into the heavens in a great silent cyclone. they become a single angel all bloody and white and beautiful and i love them like the tips of my fingers or my softest parts. i extend myself, spread my hair in the pool of their water and then shrink up again like a wave in reverse returning to the single point of its impact. i worship deserving things. the light is like a sheer white butterfly through which rays filter in the early morning and it is quiet but quite comfortably. and you are not afraid.
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| "we put our feet just where they had to go" |
[14 Jun 2008|01:27am] |
summer is here without charity, soft and unaware, and i make rings out of flowers and it is nice to feel the flight of their skins against mine when the wind blows even slightly. everything is good after all. and what isn't is a feeling, and that is good too, and to feel is good and to give up your body to those who give it life. i think i suffer because i have never been so happy, never felt a deeper need to continue. everything is perfect so i have everything to lose.
but everything is perfect.
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[02 Jun 2008|01:28am] |
I know you try even harder than I
to hold off the darkness and it seems
that the poets that embrace it don't even
feel it at all, it's like taking a shower
to them or their therapy-tears or the
vitally informative sensitivity pill
that makes even Aldous Huxley see color. ---Frank O'Hara
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| "And out of you. Grey birds fly" |
[21 May 2008|02:47am] |
the winter won't end but it's alright we will all rest our eyes on the dim circle of space and think of a colder world, hide under membrane blankets like children, deliver us from the light and darkness to the atoms of a sense-rabid god. i have seen the dot dot dot of everything, specks of lonely matter and neglected places but it all comes together, a single image, and i, and you, and the mass of things. i have loose mind to run around what is and isn't, see every inch of this earth and over-fill my soul and be, like the sun is there, like our feet touch ground. there is pain in the strangest places, a perception of impenetrable difference, a misangling, like waking up bewildered, waiting for your senses to recognize your heart.
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| "Birth should have been like that." |
[18 Apr 2008|12:50am] |
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i saw them as dream beings when i was little, soft-edged and quivering, coming in me and through me like a pulse or a reason to live. they were the benevolence and sadness, the silent film shadows growing beneath the city, beneath the earth like a suffering thing. we drive above them while a grey tubercular lake more patient and beautiful than sunny greeting card beaches continues forever. and i have this strange nostalgia for places i've never seen.
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[01 Apr 2008|01:56am] |
"…But the Cornish hills have stark chimneys standing on them; and, somehow or other, loveliness is infernally sad. "
the little mermaid turned into sea foam, patiently pitifully like orphaned pups in deceitful snow. and what shuddering silence, eternal billowing to yellow and black until the earth is wet again and then nothing at all. until we are apes then worms says nietzsche. until we collapse and condense into stars. but nietzsche held the horse and this is why i love him, morose words don't concern me, the macabre and damned. we giggle at death, its bright undetectable pageant, lashes of misery, yet we are the ones who feel it at all, feel vacuity in every atom, feel the skins of people we pass, seek in their eyes the ecstatic writhing pain of beauty, in the piercing caves of their mouths a nonsensical melody forming perfect shapes on a bloated heart. i outlive myself. shade shade. words become contrived, self-conscious when uttered aloud, they are smeared with society and its insincerity, its surface contexts and air-bubble phrases, but how to say? i feel like the banalities i hate but i love you, not like the world loves but like an opalescent ocean or haunted rooms in small dark houses, baby's breath in your eyes, primeval leaves primeval stones. we will be water yet again, billowing foam forever. yes?
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| I think you're crazy, maybe |
[24 Mar 2008|10:51pm] |
shivers here and there like a cool eel passing through your vessels and you notice them after, empty, without time like the shifts of clock arrows missed with blinks. somewhere, lolita bites into an apple, twists her pretty ankles. what is moving in the moving, on the train or the earth as it shifts and we are still in space, hanged criminals while the ground makes its escape. if i lift my arm, it is in one spot in the universe one second, in another the next and so i twist and orbit, sometimes fitting neatly into my phantom body of yesterday, clawing the bed like a baby, a shadow puzzle on a curve. what we see in the sky is old. the lights are old.
i want to see the buildings that grow with slithering vegetation and dirt and all the colors of disorder, ancient and empty thick with primordial feeling. grasses in nowhere, connected to nothing.
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| be afraid and happy, the decaying leaves are beautiful. |
[18 Mar 2008|03:42am] |
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they said to get out of town for awhile. go drive around, bum around the intersecting lacework of cities peering into warehouse windows with the ruined parts, ash-colored with the vapors of moths and pale steaming light seeping in through the crooks in the pane, lighting flying dust on fire. the faceless murals and black grating where icicles flower, train grave yards, yards of chiseled grass and vein-sticks. get out of town, fade to phantoms moving thickly and slowly through some narrow streets, sleeping everywhere, in unknown puzzling places, on unknown puzzlings beds and floors and shower stalls, watching naked the naked ceiling or the spiders we've swallowed ghostly crawling the lengths of our spines.
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[10 Mar 2008|10:13pm] |
i wrote this down in my dream last night, in a little notebook, sitting on a stone:
“Places you’ve seen before have changed not in their appearance but in their time-essence. It is weighty and you cannot bring back the initial lightness”.
...
if we blind ourselves, we can steep our senses, watch on every side of millions, a wild and sacred territory of space-dots and sizeless infinite birds, warm skin, black water and your mind floating without edges or prisons like a nothing-bubble sinking somewhere into that comfortable void.
what is it and where i am i am. there were paw prints in the snow today.
take this. oiruiosnzmcksjhdfisgzxcbsbxmckzjlxkcjkjz.
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[05 Mar 2008|01:13am] |
daisy daisy sweet fields and giant green grass tongues. when the snow will melt and the plague will finish chewing on my tonsils, face down on the soil, one eye open, it will rain on my endless fields with shadow-warmth. the earth will be pleasantly cool like stone stairs at dusk. the buzzing humming air, ground, time moths with the gossamer wings will scatter your molecules between the halos of a drowsy sun. there is a tree. you know this.
what was the russian poem i recited in my mother's classroom, 3 years old, house on chicken legs and pushkin? u lukomoria dub zelony?
EDIT
On seashore far a green oak towers,
And to it with a gold chain bound,
A .learned cat whiles away the hours
By walking slowly round and round.
To right he walks, and sings a ditty;
To left he walks, and tells a tale....
What marvels there! A mermaid sitting
High in a tree, a sprite, a trail
Where unknown beasts move never seen by
Man's eyes, a hut on chicken feet,
Without a door, without a window,
An evil witch's lone retreat;
The woods and valleys there are teeming
With strange things...
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[27 Feb 2008|12:46am] |
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limpid children behind the grids of tall sallow buildings, i hope ants slither up your calves, kiss your knees, stop time.
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| "The walls are fine; in hollow time" |
[20 Feb 2008|02:11am] |
little old ladies at lunch today, talking about the enlightenment with papery hands, squealing last life-drops; they are sudden and under their half-closed eyes i am nothing, a prop in their dolefully immaterial drama, a pale child slicing her fingers on book pages, bleeding roughly on her tongue, staring in and out in and out of large wall windows. yellow highlighters blind me. i went to the beach instead. there were towers of ice gems like clear awkward fists and no one else. some old boats patiently present told me it was fine and that the waves breaking on the floating masses of their own frozen selves were just playing a coy game, a meta-movement. the sand tasted like shattered glass and sand.
i miss you. you would understand.
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[18 Feb 2008|01:23am] |
Go Slowly - Radiohead
Over here
Come slowly
Come slowly to me
I've been waiting
Patient
Patiently
I didn't
But now I can see
That there's a way out
That there's a way out
That there's a way out
That there's a way out
That there's a way out
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| "and meanwhile the statues are bleeding green" |
[11 Feb 2008|03:05am] |
when i went outside today, after the hiding, there was nothing but clear ice coating everything i ever loved with the mild irony of preservation. three steps this way to glass berries or the thousands of pavements eating pieces of my 5-year-old knees, and cells i've lost are in somebody else now, and they too are iced up on the inside, and their wet sloppy organs move like gears.
nothing to report! i am dizzy. there is something wrong with me but i don't care, and gravity is all too powerful until we forget it or remember it and yield to the horizon pushing us down down down until we are buoyant like balloons. i can feel the coils of my brain shifting in spirals, twirling with my consciousness like great big paralyzed snakes. i can feel my feet too much and every inch of cloth on my body like it is stitched right through my skin and all the fucking edges of the world i can never shed. numbers and etched nonsense and little dirty defeated men whimpering passwords on anonymous street corners. we have done it, really. we've seen angels and fucked god.
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| "Follow me through a city of frost covered angels. I swear I have nothing to prove" |
[04 Feb 2008|03:30am] |
on the gold green sofa today, and outside, on the roof teeth were growing and i wanted to gnaw on them or eat snow, lick petals, taste dust, ash, mud like a fat little child with seraphim eyes chewing its knuckles and spying cool fatal marbles. i think my senses are spreading, trembling out like puddle waves, and everything i touch is precious, and you are precious too and your skin is like a a thousand hummingbirds etching on my ghost indelible constellations.
everything buzzes here, and i will put my ear on the white cold of it and it will drone something permanent and i will grasp it tightly because it continues.. but the silence is welcome too and i haven't felt it lately, it is smirking in a corner of so many of my dreams, and my dreams are long, vague, uncanny. there is something dreadful about all of them and i wake up unsteady as if some solemn absolutely inexpressible thing must always appear in the corners of my eyes, behind the doors i close, beneath every one of my thoughts.
there is a circle on my wrist and i liked the sensation and the spirals of smoke, that rise, always rise, and you.
i like the skins of tangerines, the sounds that pill bottles make, and right now a small corner of door i can see through a mirror.
and when i shut my eyes, it is a tree made up of infinite patterns. but then it is infinite, and not a tree at all. and everything everything.
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| "i fix nothing. i let it go." |
[25 Jan 2008|03:17am] |
i have been sleeping strangely, half lucid, arbitrary hours. and every time i close my eyes it's endless labyrinths of rooms in rotting castles, attics, caves, and basements. there are precious things in corners, or else it is the corners themselves that are precious. they are dusty and void and acutely inviting. they are no one's. they are waiting for me to see.
we sit still in single rooms though the earth is burning, viscous. our hearts are like the sparrows feeding absently on air. our eyes are ancient.
we should not avert our eyes.
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[17 Jan 2008|11:53pm] |
A Little Longing Goes a Long Way - The Books
Yes and no are just distinguished by
distinction, so we choose the in-between.
Give up your books and put an end
to your worries. Enjoy central park in spring.
Our minds are empty, like we're too young
to know to smile.
We know to fear what others fear
is nonsense, right?
The books suggest we set our hearts
on doing nothing,
and then nothing's left undone.
Everybody's busy waiting for the go-ahead,
but by then their heads are gone.
Our minds are empty, grave as well as
strange. (Take this.)
We know to seek success is utter nonsense.
The best is to be blank.
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| "Veha'arets hayetah tohu vavohu vechoshech al-peney tehom" |
[15 Jan 2008|01:17am] |
very strange today, maybe it is in the walls and i thought that if i waited i could watch them disintegrate, reveal deep gashes oozing black from the claws of some monster or melt together and coalesce in pools, slow waves shivering, the whole world nebulous and indistinct and smoothly flowing; paints i mixed, blood-drop clouds in water, tender chaos lulling me but why am i so afraid?
the girls come and go. the scenery rarely changes, except subtly, imperceptibly, secretly. a piece of paper here that wasn't there the night before, dirt on the table, chapped nail polish remind me of time. i move delicately as through a dream i am afraid to disturb. i count my breaths, the tiles on the ceiling, i try to forget the sight of human hands to remember them again as something foreign, beastly, and arbitrary.
yet it is all ok. if i could just let go, but i do not know what it is i am holding on to. normality exteriors. but i can pretend. my sanity? but i am not crazy. only tragically awake and who could blame me for feeling the stab in my brain when i see the morning lights cutting, slashing the floor to pieces.
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| "Your heart felt good it was dripping pitch and made of wood" |
[13 Jan 2008|01:43am] |
it is quiet now. they've gone to bars.
and i feel my soul could seep out slowly through my eyes, from underneath my finger nails, everywhere my pulse is, a quiet clock to time my breaths by. and how beautiful it was i could cry when the sky melted colors, and twin leaves flew by in the puddles, the limbs of trees reaching out into water like into infinite space, a world turned sideways, and i could look and look and look and what is all this in between time, and where does it go. and why must we fill it? i would like to stay in bed with you all day. all day, looking at the ceiling, burning our hands, thinking shadows.
but i'm afraid. some broken down, ancient, blinding insecurities. and i don't know if anyone could love me.
but how nice it could be if i could be soothed, stop processing, be out of my mind with real belief
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| "Miss madonna won't you give me a kiss" |
[09 Jan 2008|11:52pm] |
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music in the dark is very strange, acquires its own dimension, watches you smile and smile in your little womb, transcend the lines of space, and settle somewhere in the center of the infinite, float like in dreams, like paper boats in water. music is the most sincere of all, not a mess of words, plotlines like time is straight, vaguely scratched figures on canvas ensnared in their own myths. it is pure, ubiquitous, immediate and unreasonable. and how i am chilled when i hear her sing. it is something like happiness.
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