(no subject)

Sometimes, and I never would have imagined it when I was younger, my body holds inside of it a sleek motion, a sway of emotion, pulled in from a mix of future, past and present desire; I am left to close my eyes involuntarily, with slight delay. There has been a constant conversation between leaves and trees today; the wind kept close to the earth and agitated by the grey, grey, grey... and only the most occasional rain up to now. & I am sitting on a round table. I am next to the red building of books and death - there is some forgetting everyone needs to do to feel comfortable there- and also next to the strange steeple that is elevated on a pedestal, with tiny faces out of Dante's hell mouthing at me: --//-- : hidden behind a few, young-adult aged trees. Fresh. The right shadow. A cultured woman - smoking and reading - what is her capacity for passion? - short red hair, freckles, red earrings, oblique glance, oh and distracted phone.. the smell of her cigarette, she questions me too - and again a murmur, the wind enables the conversations again - and I never would have imagined it when I was younger - but the imprints of S's lips and her absence have left in my body a sleek motion, a sway...

(no subject)

"Why did you never succeed in leaving her alone? Did you think she would change her mind?"

"No. But it was a compulsion."

A year later, he had all but forgotten her. The taste of carrots glittered in his mind every tenth or twelfth time he saw her, but it did not really bother him. He expected he would always remember that taste, and viscerally too, even if he never kissed her again.

What else? Burn... but his heart, it didn't ...or rather, it did, it burned, and so desperately too, that it often seemed like a force that would appear and quickly disappear again, as a temperal storm would, with the changing winds.... he would meet various beautiful girls, take them out for a coffee, entice them with plans of travelling, and poetry, then... they would disappoint him, or he them, and one or the other between them would disappear. A physical memory would follow them around for a day or two- in the lips, in the legs- but usually they could avoid each other long enough to get past that. It was never a problem.



All of this felt sick --

What could he do to escape this pattern? And why didn't he love the carrot girl?




Eventually he got bored and stopped thinking about girls or love. He got kisses from rabbits on a farm in Kentucky. Stones of forest fires warmed his heart. Fireflies on summer porch nights gave him hope and the inspriation nercessary to write:

Northern gist

  obliviate the afternoon

  in carnation blooms

  against a pale and reckless

  cheek of moon

Nothing frail remains

  though fragile curses hang

  beneath my tongue

  and wrap the steady dark

  of willow branches -

Get out.

sophisticato, the humans do not understand

what else is new?
an old drawing, but it's for today, if i am to brighten the 'truth' associated with the concept

reading nightwood:

the doctor, nodding, straightened his tie with two fingers,. 'the number of our days is not check rein enough to look up on he death of our love. while living we knew her too well, and never understood, for then our next gesture permitted our next misunderstanding. but death is intimacy walking backward. we are crazed with grief when she, who once permitted us, leaves to us the only recollection. we shed tears of bankruptcy then. so its well she didn't. he sighed. you are still in trouble - i thought you had put yourself outside of it. i might have known better, nothing is what everybody wants, the world runs on that law. personally, if i could, i would instigate meat-axe day, and out of the goodness of my heart i would whack your head off along with a couple others. every man should be allowed one day and a hatchet just to ease his heart.

she said: what will happen now, to me and to her?

nothing, the doctor answered, as always. we all go down in battle, but we all come home.

she said: i can only find her again in my sleep or in her death; in both she has forgotten me.

listen, the doctor said, putting down his glass. my war brought me many things; let yours bring you as much. life is not to be told, call it as loud as you like, it will not tell itself. no one will be much or little except in someone else's mind, so be careful of the minds you get into, and remember lady macbeth, who had her mind in her hand. we can't all be as safe as that.


You are, he said, testing the wine between his lower lip and teeth, experiencing the inbreeding of pain. most of us do not dare it. we wed a stranger, and so 'solve' our problem. but when you inbreed with suffering (which is merely to say that you have caught every disease and so pardoned your flesh) you are destroyed back to your structure as an old master disappears beneath the knife of the scientist who would know how it as painted. death i imagine will be pardoned by the same identification ; we wall carry about with us the house of death, the skeleton, but unlike the turtle our safety is inside, our danger out. time is a great conference planning our end, and youth is only the past putting a leg forward. ah, to be able to hold on to suffring, but to let the psirit loose! and speaking of being destroyed, allow me to illustrate by telling you of one night in London when I was hurring along, my hands before me, praying i'd get home and into be dna d wake up in the morning without finding my hands on my hips. so i started for london bridge -


Time isn't long enough, she said striking the table. it isn't long enough to live down her nights. God, she cried, what is love? man seeking his own head? the human head, so rented by misery that even the teeth weigh! she couldn't tell me the truth because she had never planned it; he life was a continual accident, and how can you be prepared for that? everything we can't bear in this world, some day we find it in one person, and love it all at once. a strong sense of identity gives man an idea he can do no wrong; too little accomplishes the same. some natures cannot appreciate, only regret. will robin only regret?
she stopped abruptly, gripping the back of the chair. perhaps not, she said, for even her memory wearied her. then she said with the violence of misery, there's something evil in me that loves evil and degradation - purity's black backside! that loves honesty with a horrid love, or why have i always gone seeking it the lair's door?


(no subject)

Introducing, slowly, the poison to my body, in a sort of attempt to either balance out the poison in my mind, or just to kill the body and the mind. They work together as a team, and now with this, they'll be even more in sync - or out of sync- causing, i hope, some sort of lack of registration - I don't really want to see where it leads. 
It doesn't feel like desperation but it definitely holds a lot of the same hatred and narrow visions.

(no subject)

I don't remember how to write anymore. I think words are logical and they are supposed to make some sort of structural and meaningful synthesis when you ask them to, but science has confused me and now I am only capable of blathering run-ons.  

Help me.

What does it mean to explore and do experiments writing? Is it really possible to control your output that precisely? Isn't it an intrinsic property?

Help me...

Destructive toys and androgenous boys,
I've got my hands fuller than they can stand...
Only a piano player could really understand what I mean when I say
I'm not in it for the joys

I'm not in it for the joys
The boisterous fringe-pets haven't a clue
Notes spatter upwards like contrarian rain
to another spangled banner, 
Tristain gave up when he thought she hated him
He forgot about her soul, the remaining image was of her hair
and her nape.. so he died.

I try my best to not fall into the same traps
I know it's harder than I think so I have strategies
well-planned lacks of routines and a method of passing into 
sterile stairwells where i chalk-draw countries
and state invisible laws.

(no subject)

even though i sort of love them i get disappointed when they turn away from considering something for a comfort (sleep, food, tv, something else where you just absorb. similarly, i think reading while great is only great if you are doing more than absorbing, its a readingwriting process, where you are almost fighting with the text. same with science. its hard not to just trust everything your teacher says, but don't; you'll get to the root of our ignorance this way, and you'll find new places to start looking).

so my friend laura is thinking on genetics and opportunity and consciousness, and how because of the way we are brought up and the way we've been woven into society it is difficult to differentiate our most personal self  from the self we've been taught, for example, our "morals".
her question: if you lose conscience, dyou lose consciouseness? and a warning: think twice, for if you lose conscience do you not simply revert to your physical wants, thereby becoming a robot?

is not your morals another level of robotic behavior? i think in general, humans are "robotic". everything i do has a reason, no? i don't understand the notion of a "soul", of something that lives within without us, making us immortal, making us more than a plant or stone. yes, i have my own consciousness. it must be this isolation that convinces us of specialness? i used to think it: i had a storyline, it had a beginning and an upbringing and it was very proper and i was special because of the secrets i kept and the way that i was always working for the good intentions and then i made a serious mistake. the person i claimed to be in love with left. that's not how a successful love story works, it was broken, and since, it's not been repaired, i'm in a very beacham limbo. but. thats not the point.

let me try and find something that might prove a soul. something illocigal.
the way i die, i hemmorage in my lungs, whenever i hear

when things go wrong
i sing along
it is the nature of the business
but you're not here
to make my sad songs more sincere

and other stephin merritt compositions. or consciousness? i define it as awareness: awereness of myself, of the world, and of all our limitations in this awareness.
my cat is aware it exists, and it can make things move, and colour (it likes the wall paintings) but... idk i think my cat is conscious in cat levels. he's not aware of stars. he doesn't know everything is atoms. kids are insane. so are adults, believing all this nonsense, we are just like kids but we try and cover it up.

(no subject)

It's been a consistent forty degrees for the last ten days. I am starting to feel like it is a zombie forboding weather. The flames won't fall from the sky, but something dead and white will.
Mark my words.

(no subject)

Honestly, baby, what did you expect? Did you think I was going to sit there and watch her lick you? You were closing your eyes, leaning slightly back. Her wily fingers were scattering at the bottom of your shirt, slipping over and under the belt loops, and from the way the cinema music was about to crescendo I knew it was my moment and there! There I went, and so did you, chair still glued to your bottom you were on the floor and she was screaming and probably bleeding, stillettos are sharp and the blow was not trivial.