exception
It is only another ghost of an hour, a moment suspended from all acts and consequence. It is only cold notions and sad rumors, the crumpled clothes strewn across the worn floor, the sing-song voices rising in the dusk. The ashtray of emotion, the fitful rhythms of a song meant for forgetting, the rusted themes dragged out once again. Standards and ballads, and the...
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It is only another ghost of an hour, a moment suspended from all acts and consequence. It is only cold notions and sad rumors, the crumpled clothes strewn across the worn floor, the sing-song voices rising in the dusk. The ashtray of emotion, the fitful rhythms of a song meant for forgetting, the rusted themes dragged out once again. Standards and ballads, and the...
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the leavings
All the light has gone to heaven, ring the moon and point each star. The sky conspires to pierce the night. The wind chimes all peal and stir, gossiping away. The world moves along despite all the blood and moaning. The world turns over despite whatever crime or waste drags it to a halt. Every house haunted by the dozens of things never...
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All the light has gone to heaven, ring the moon and point each star. The sky conspires to pierce the night. The wind chimes all peal and stir, gossiping away. The world moves along despite all the blood and moaning. The world turns over despite whatever crime or waste drags it to a halt. Every house haunted by the dozens of things never...
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lullabee:
thanks for your support and love!!
lot of kisses
lot of kisses
too much
The crush of empty souls gets to be too much, with the sun so high and the world painted bright and blue. Enough with the murder ballads. Enough with the empty threats and private horrors stitched into the skin. Such needy teeth, grinning without a smile. Such foolish hands, reaching for the sharp and the permanent. Why bother with any counting at all?...
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The crush of empty souls gets to be too much, with the sun so high and the world painted bright and blue. Enough with the murder ballads. Enough with the empty threats and private horrors stitched into the skin. Such needy teeth, grinning without a smile. Such foolish hands, reaching for the sharp and the permanent. Why bother with any counting at all?...
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identify
The dusk settles the bet between the sky and the crows, clouds and phone poles, wings and trees. The ink dries slow and solemn. This is the world that bears you. This is the world that knows your kine. Every flight will fall, every word will fail. Everything tendered as smoke or ghosts.
The words are pressed between the pages, stiff-spined litanies forever holding...
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The dusk settles the bet between the sky and the crows, clouds and phone poles, wings and trees. The ink dries slow and solemn. This is the world that bears you. This is the world that knows your kine. Every flight will fall, every word will fail. Everything tendered as smoke or ghosts.
The words are pressed between the pages, stiff-spined litanies forever holding...
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titanmkiii:
This is greatness.
that mirror
We seldom see ourselves as others see us. Even the most examined mirror doesn't view us with any eyes other than our own. From the tiny flaws we see as scars to the beauty mark everyone else sees as a mole, most of us have constructed images of ourselves based on our fears and wishes and hearsay and flattery. We cling to notions...
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We seldom see ourselves as others see us. Even the most examined mirror doesn't view us with any eyes other than our own. From the tiny flaws we see as scars to the beauty mark everyone else sees as a mole, most of us have constructed images of ourselves based on our fears and wishes and hearsay and flattery. We cling to notions...
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the season stays the same
The day is cool, the air bites bitterly at any flesh it finds. All the stars are out, taking their time, doing their part. Every breath is burdened with this sludge of meat and water, blood slow and secretive, bone dense and curt. It is the tone of confession and the tangle of crime. Breathing belabored with the usual punch...
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The day is cool, the air bites bitterly at any flesh it finds. All the stars are out, taking their time, doing their part. Every breath is burdened with this sludge of meat and water, blood slow and secretive, bone dense and curt. It is the tone of confession and the tangle of crime. Breathing belabored with the usual punch...
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nocturn and nocturne
The hour is early, the sky already given up for gray. It is a time of kitchens and electric lights, of dinner plates and piles of lies. Families entangled like the rat king's tails, gnashing and writhing away in the usual style. Ordinary forms and trying exchanges, the lives lost to strangled chance and surrendered roads. Here it is still, a sort...
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The hour is early, the sky already given up for gray. It is a time of kitchens and electric lights, of dinner plates and piles of lies. Families entangled like the rat king's tails, gnashing and writhing away in the usual style. Ordinary forms and trying exchanges, the lives lost to strangled chance and surrendered roads. Here it is still, a sort...
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prelude
Before the last light goes out, before the gathering shadows engulf us all, before the day dwindles down to a fine and distant glow you begin again. You slip into the material, wearing the coolness of autumn over that endless summer flesh. You shed the very season, all stride and song. The night races down the lonely road, chasing after the rhythm of your...
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Before the last light goes out, before the gathering shadows engulf us all, before the day dwindles down to a fine and distant glow you begin again. You slip into the material, wearing the coolness of autumn over that endless summer flesh. You shed the very season, all stride and song. The night races down the lonely road, chasing after the rhythm of your...
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extra
The day dropped the ball, the gray painted sky swayed blue and gold, all aglow from these atmospheric coincidences. The dusk a little closer, the fleeting clock, the falling earth. I limp along, high strung and bottomed out, eyes having settled on the puzzles of terrain and stride. I plod across dust and stone, sticking to a routine, knowing my place. I play the...
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The day dropped the ball, the gray painted sky swayed blue and gold, all aglow from these atmospheric coincidences. The dusk a little closer, the fleeting clock, the falling earth. I limp along, high strung and bottomed out, eyes having settled on the puzzles of terrain and stride. I plod across dust and stone, sticking to a routine, knowing my place. I play the...
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moving pictures
The credits role, and it's the same old song, though a good one and a favorite. The cat stretches in my lap, dragging its claws across the comforter. The dog on the sofa is thick in his dreams, chasing something in his sleep. The movie's over, midnight's come and gone. It is always the hour after, once your number comes around.
Steady yourself...
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The credits role, and it's the same old song, though a good one and a favorite. The cat stretches in my lap, dragging its claws across the comforter. The dog on the sofa is thick in his dreams, chasing something in his sleep. The movie's over, midnight's come and gone. It is always the hour after, once your number comes around.
Steady yourself...
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vodka:
wow...thanks for the words you left on my set....the hit me
Christmas lights
It is funny how the season passes. It's so strange the way the feeling fades. All the lights strung out one after another. All these constellations made from wire and plastic. The mood light amusements and the meager givens. The blunt recoil of the schedule meets the muffled retort of the heart.
The streets stretch out, yawning through the stillness and the frost....
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It is funny how the season passes. It's so strange the way the feeling fades. All the lights strung out one after another. All these constellations made from wire and plastic. The mood light amusements and the meager givens. The blunt recoil of the schedule meets the muffled retort of the heart.
The streets stretch out, yawning through the stillness and the frost....
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amalgam
In this dream one of us is having, you are always almost there. The hour is upon me, and I can taste your kiss from around a corner, feel your flesh press from afar. This is the dream of us I keep having, the trick of the mirror, the narrative power of the editor's credit. Your name just there, slipping down my tongue. A...
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In this dream one of us is having, you are always almost there. The hour is upon me, and I can taste your kiss from around a corner, feel your flesh press from afar. This is the dream of us I keep having, the trick of the mirror, the narrative power of the editor's credit. Your name just there, slipping down my tongue. A...
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