kickinglovers

Centre of all centres, core of cores,
almond self-enclosed and growing sweet --
all this universe, to the furthest stars
and beyond them, is your flesh, your fruit.

Now you feel how nothing clings to you;
your vast shell reaches into endless space,
and there the rich, thick fluids rise and flow.
Illuminated in your infinite peace,

a billion stars go spinning through the night,
blazing high above your head.
But in you is the presence that
will be, when all stars are dead.



Ambiguously curious I have been reading poetry to my dictaphone - playing back to hear my voice. I wondered, does my voice sound like I hear in my head or like the foreigner on tape?

I'm changing my mind about my Ani outfit, sometimes i infuriate myself and then cancel going out if I do not have the clothes. I cannot cancel this though, I just want to feel hot, cute, cool, blah blah blah... *sighing with a pout*.





There stands death, a bluish distilate
in a cup without a saucer. Such a strange
place to find a cup: standing on
the back of a hand. One recognizes clearly
the line along the glazed curve, where the handle
is snapped. Covered in dust. And HOPE is written
across the side, in faded Gothic letters.

The man who was to drink out of that cup
read it aloud at breakfast, long ago.

What kind of being are they then,
who finally must be scared away by poison?

Otherside would they stay here? Would they keep
chewing so foolishly on their own frustration?
The hard present moment must be pulled
out of them, like a set of false teeth. Then
they mumbled. They go on mumbling, mumbling....
......................................................


O shooting star
that fell into my eyes and through my body-:
Not to forget you. To endure.