December 2011
2 posts
At the moment I’m more bemused than flattered by all these recent likes, seeing as they come from rather… unusually named sources. I’m starting to think you’re all different personalities from one schizoid individual. Unless you’re just a very close-knit group of friends.
So like, thanks?
We take our chances and move forward sans backward glances as we sally onward from our cages out upon the stages set for our last dances across the path of war, after which there will be no more and we shall die, not of fright, but from hunger and the burden of Sight.
November 2011
7 posts
Soft words sound loud when silence abounds.
The night took flight and with soft feathers fled from sight;
We rubbed our fingers in our eyes
As we looked upon the glowing skies
And we could not but be dissatisfied.
We missed the cold and glittering starlight hung
across the darkness with the moon, an opal white rung round
And our breath and their breath the only sound for miles and miles around and round.
Sometimes it's hard to maintain apathy. →
Words drift into immeasurable spaces, like a void through which our thoughts swoop sometimes lost most often found and frequently without sound such that one can only imagine the voices that have spoken, the bodies that have woken, stayed up in blue moonlight till yellow daylight comes creeping through cracks and crevices to wake us from our false slumber so we can lumber off to do the things that...
Don't you answer that door, just let 'em knock →
Some more Betty Davis. Whatcha waitin’ on?
October 2011
5 posts
These words don’t satisfy me, blank checks won’t pacify me. It’s a nice emotion, but it’s not the proper notion, been done over since I wove ‘er and now my meaning’s all gone under, done asunder in resentment.
2 tags
Stars Starve You Know →
Betty Davis’ response to her record label telling her to tone down her wildness and be a good little lady for once. I believe this song could be summed up as one giant FUCK YOU.
I want to go where it snows, where the trees grow white and distance is lost to sight, where upon the mountain the sky leans low and Silence muffles Echo and the animals pass beneath the frost, never lost, moving always nearer to death under this black and white world, no colors unfurled until spring spreads its silver rays across the lengthening days and the snow slides away into the rivers and...
Heart aches while the eyes weep with a hurt down deep exerting pressure in untold measure on the ribs from inside, where the woes hide, inflicting these pains from every side, and these eyes swell with sorrow through sleep and into the morrow.
September 2011
5 posts
Dreamt disturbed, saw the moon, too yellow and too close, hanging low in the evening sky over the water, knew the tide would rise too high and consume us in the night.
The walls when they fall satisfy us all, till we are left heaving in sighs and whistles as our skins bleed from thistles inflicted by restrictions on our race, as we sing at just the same pace, these words draped like lace on grandma’s dry, sweet-scented neck like a fleck of delicate lint it goes up with spark of flint and in the dark they sing low while the songs that they sew go on...
A cold wind makes a motion as it’s tossed up from the ocean; it whips through the hot sullen air making no sound going nowhere, but inland. It rushes up against the hills pushing through the window sills, of the houses in the trees, and then it flees. Like ribbons, breezes float, but winds will go on infinitely long, if you invite them in for dinner.
June 2011
2 posts
…the silence of stage whispers as they sing without sound, sleeping on the sighing ground.
Spewing confusion in a strange collusion
She must have a bad contusion
to be so confusin’ the message of this lesson.
May 2011
7 posts
Let's not complicate this
Here’s something interesting about female writers back in the day.
The Brontë sisters liked to write primarily about “romance.” Like, as gooey as it could get back then. Charlotte and Emily just loved their darkly brooding and Gothic manmeat. Anne preferred genuinely good male heroes, which meant a sweet ending where everybody hooks up a’ight and God gets properly revered...
Une Chienne Andalouse?
Hahaha.
I made it all the way up this pooptastic hill on my bike today; usually I get off little more than halfway up and walk my bike the rest of the way. Today I was all like, “Effffyou hill! You’re not cooler than me! I wear the pants now!” And then rocket flames shot out my derriere as I hauled ass the rest of the way up. I didn’t even stop to...
Someone remind me: is salmon curry a good thing? Because it sounds oh! so marvelous!
I guess I’ll just have to make it and see for my own self.
Saying “I feel like poop”
Or, “This looks like poop!”
“I’m gonna beat the poop outta you!”
“Eat poop and die!”
“I had a pooptastic day at work”
“This country’s gone to poop”
sounds a heck of a lot funnier than saying “shit.” I am reminded of a book by Vonnegut, Hocus Pocus, I believe (and believe...
