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a secret oath.a secret oath.
"madness need not be all breakdown; it may also be
break-through. it is potential liberation and renewal
as well as enslavement and existential death."
- r. d. laing
imagine your bone structure collapsing in on itself, birthday sticks in the mudpie of your flesh, and eyes like glass, blue as all the oceans and glinting as the light curves through them, odd little chips of endless third dimension. imagine as i do, these separate features animated. an awkward caricature of limbs at impossible bends and intersections, levitating in the space between worlds where your half-body splinters, the shards of your bones are swallowed by the earth and i wake to the familiar sense of a gaping, yawning loss.
sundays run fluidly into one another until suddenly each moment becomes a disjointed struggle between will and sympathy and some sort of hybrid, a collaboration in soulache of disappointment, anger and the guilt that drags itself after, a crawling heavy sense on th
caro levarecaro levare.
i think of you in carnivals, a tale of teenage existentialism in a
city by the sea. celestial star-empire stretched calm above gaudy
circus lights, wrong in their stillness, where you are at once a storm
and a silence. suspended in a ferris cart above its lawless city you
speak of fire, lionboy, of freedom, in your mind an oppressed radical
aching for a dream to come to pass. in secret, you were born to do
this, inspire and impact and fight your tiny wars with words. and even
the cosmos itself stops for you, we stare as one, in awe of the lionboy
shifting earth's momentum as her people sleep below, unseeing.
you beneath the sun, you are a caged hurricane of rage under
your skin, a thin façade of cool apathy. catatonic schizophrenic on
your back in the grass and you see something hazy that escapes
me in the depths of blue, but i see the gears of epiphany finally
churning for you and for the first time it strikes me that we pass
these messages in s
-: there is only so much others can do to help you. you know this. don't you? you know. and yet you do nothing. you change nothing. in the pit of your eternally whirring mind. all that ties me to you is guilt. i don't understand why you keep coming here, to us, to me.
+: the night children, my father.
-: i don't understand. you.
+: he who comes after, beelzebub, all things to all men. i cannot tell her i am her brother. she deserves to be happy.
-: you do not think she'll be happy to find her long lost sibling, whom she has been searching for her entire lifetime, whom she left behind the ice for? you don't think she will be happy?
+: i am black inside as coal. i have died and yet, i am not dead. how could she be happy to know her only living family member is a convicted felon, outcasted? i will care for her from a distance and she need never know. it's the way i want it. an act of love.
-: love, by its nature, desires a
in the mountains, i feel free.in the mountains, there i feel free.
Q: i think, if i do this, there will be nothing left of me.
X: it's the push and pull, your gears will grind and scratch together but everything equates in the end.
Q: it's not quite so easy, not as simple as you make it sound.
X: except it is. there is one key difference between you and i:
you wallow, sorrow spat you out.
i believe happiness, not achievement, is the measure of success.
Q: i am dead to me.
X: you know, that's not how the play begins.
Q: i think you think i have lost all sense of direction in my life, and so you drag me around all sorts of detours keeping your eyes peeled as potatoes for ways in which i can be used for your benefit.
and you think i am unaware.
that's not it. that's not it at all. i am not oblivious to you and your motives, i just stopped carrying myself long before we met.
i am not oblivious.
i am dead to me.
Q: there will always be questio
nemo sine vitio est.nemo sine vitio est.
and alaskan winters cloak themselves around
my bare and boney shoulders no matter
where my current location happens to be.
the skies are going black at just four thirty in the afternoon
and sometimes it can be another's past you cannot escape,
their curse may be yours just as your sorrow can be theirs.
he was a boy who found loneliness in all the corners of
town, crooked little side streets where suns of summer
could never quite penetrate the back walls and shadows
would stalk from end to end, he believed. cosmic shadows
that could be magick doctor know from some unexplored
foreign galaxy if only anyone would dare approach them.
secrets, from a life forgotten.
i forget sometimes that nobody is without fault, and this includes you
too. i guess i'm scared that you'll disappear if i don't make a conscious
effort to recall all the trivial and menial things about you.
so i compare you to australia the earth deity
or paris the city of love
or new y
father faust.father faust.
you are listening to the heartbeat of the child you left alone.
and you may not know it, may
find yourself in the car down some
deserted street at eleven pm
with speakers singing soft to you
but you are hearing my heart beating
from someplace in the north where
we do not speak and seldom love. and
you may refuse to speak of me or my
latest life, how far i could have come in
just three short months, but you think and
you hear and i beat along inside your chest
in the quiet car moments or right before
you fall asleep.
feel the cold up here in the nighttime.
i bear your name and maybe your eyes too,
your disease and your disillusionment but aside
from these we are poles apart, we are strangers
we are each a bundle of terrible mistakes and
misconceptions and fatal flaws and we fight
those few fleeting times we exchange more than
maybe three utterances between us.
night terror.night terror.
a crash course on human nature:
discontentment, lust, destruction.
we rinse and repeat.
i knew a soul like it was my own, once.
we were in perfect sync throughout our
years of discord. shells, we were, buried
in sands the colour of ash and we found
eachother through sheer coincidence.
one and the same, two rings of silver
worn over time until there was no shine
left within us. we would walk our paths
of dust for days
[never running. our lives were chasing
a short space behind, but we never ran]
until there was no grey dust left to walk
on. carried eachother when our feet bled
and lay down in the smashed glass shards
at the end of our almost-desolate journey.
i loved him, once.
more powerful and encompassing than any
love in all of history, but along the way his
jigsaw pieces got misplaced and he was
left with no eyes to see and no mouth to
speak. a portrait never to be regained.
a trained iris will see all,
just so long as you know what to look for.
you may see as
my sweet, my songless.my sweet, my songless. my caged bird.
phaedra has strayed from the path of good sense.
i know a place in which there are no questions
no tongues to speak, no eyes to explore
and in its dark centre there is a puzzle that will not be reassembled.
there is a spiderweb stretching from east to west in which i lie
and knowledge paralysed.
i am the ugly duckling of truth
(read as: i have trouble expressing myself
things i know but cannot prove,
an endless spray of saltwater against the gaping holes in my soulmeetsflesh.)
in order to get an image, you must know sympathy
another way of listening
on the sea, the sea.
in order to listen, we must learn patience.
oliver, the sun won't rise for another three hours or more and you
have me rapt until she wakes the treebranches and windowpanes.
do you have the time to teach me love?
i am not so well versed, but i've heard it means the following things:
staying cocooned in the bedsheets until noon has passed.
notes on the fridge door reminding me to use the opened milk.
letting me think you forgot my birthday,
and surprising me three days later with lindor chocolates
and a pack of morinaga sweets
and a night curled up on the couch with the foreign movies i love so much.
talking honestly about our histories.
forgiving my past mistakes.
worrying for me every single appointment with my therapist,
knowing that it wears me down talking about these things for hours on end
and running your fingers through my hair when i flop next to you with the weight of sorrow clutching around my shoulders.
admitting you've been wrong and trying your hardest to change your ways
and apologising from the ve
Liquor is one way out an'death's the other The art of growing up,
is to pour shots of whiskey
into your coffee in the morning
to make it through
when all you want to do
is lie in bed
but there’s nothing
The tragedy of the mook and how it died one dayThe fickle sky presses
Against the glass of the windows
And the dry strung up heat of the winter sun
Spilled over the anemic asphalt
Our shadows seared into the bottom of our sneakers
Moving with a sort of blithe nonchalance
Searching for the speckled grey of a familiar horizon
The apathetic footsteps and my clenched hands
Quiver beneath the setting sun’s bloody smear
Across the over populated sky
That was no longer clear
Rather it was the looking glass phenomena
Spread eagled across my retinas
And during those grief stricken days spent
Hanging off your rooftops and skylines
I've contemplated replacing
my heart with another
Liver so I can
Drink more and care less
And I can vow that sleeping is only
For the dead or at least
The heavily medicated and sadly
I can no longer tell the difference between
i.by the grace of an orphaned wintering,
i have known you
babel, babylon: eyes raptured rare and hands
to strange knowing and palebruised
throat of dissonance
. ...such sudden gods. such taken
you stumble where night falls
too far to the left; my wild garden
old dusks, blue
spun out so far, i can't be true to you.he's still the way i watch the stars
and how i run like no one's watching
he's what i dream of when i'm awake
but maybe i'm done waiting
maybe it's you
maybe it's me this time
and maybe that's enough
he still races through my veins
and no, my heart is not steady when i see him
but i was never one for patience
a year is too long to hold on
and he is conservative
and button downs
he is beautiful
but i am wild
i am dirty feet
and summer evenings
i am mud-caked nails
and cider throats
i am sun soaked
laced with drunken poetry
i am watercolour
he is oil based
he is canvas in london galleries
i am doodles on napkins in mediterranean restuarants
you are cheekbones and dark eyes
coffee stained fingers
smirks and accidental brushes
i don't intend to know anything more
he is confidence
i am uncertainty
i live in the wind and the forests
we both spend too much time in front of mirrors
but whilst he kisses them
i crack them
and all the while he is leather
A visit to TomWell, my friend...
You made it -
upon your grave -
in the fridge
us year round
or is it just
in our hearts.
in the night...
it will be
ScreamSo I'll stand and yell it to the ceiling
to celebrate the fact that i'm alive and breathing.
I'll take your hand to try and share this feeling.
The only thing I can do is stand and scream.
"I still fucking love you."
And hope it starts the healing.
PossibilitesWhen I was 5
I wanted to be
anything to be
When I was 12
I wanted to be
to learn how
the Earth works
and what makes
stones so beautiful
When I was 16
I wasn't sure what
I wanted to be
The future was uncertain
So was I at this point of time
But then again
So were other kids
Now I'm 20
I want to be a writer
My mind's eye seeing
people and places
like a photo album
words stringing together
to create something beautiful
reality vs. pretendi.
a wooden sword
and an eye-patch
i was a girl who
knew deep inside
had developed feelings
and they were all
selfishly for me.
you tricked me,
you kidnapped me,
all to tell you stories
in which good triumphs
over evil, not really;
was to walk the plank
as you planned to kill
him and feed him to
the ticking crocodile.
happy thoughts and
faerie dust would
allow me to fly,
but i only had the
first and i was doomed;
your wooden sword poked
my back, waiting for me
to take the leap
down (the stairs),
hearing the ticking
(of the oven)
go off - just in time.
surly, mother called us
down for dinner
and at the end of the night,
it was all truly
bedtime stories will
serve as my peter pan,
as my escape from reality.
Because.Because thank you isn't enough
because I'm Sorry won't solve a thing.
Because I'm too short
or too tall
or too skinny
or too fat.
Because it just doesn't work that way
because somethings can't be changed
Because when you
spend a lot of time
writing the word
on a sheet of
white lined paper
you just begin to realize things.
Because saying 'because'
won't help you in life.
Because you just have to do it.
Because you just need to get up.
Because you just got to go somewhere.
Because we should stop doubting ourselves and
because we should only try our best.
Because life is too short.
Windsor BlueWindsor Blue
I am erasing you, and I am happy.
These roads could be consuming our souls and
would be none the wiser.
I slept on the hard shoulder, in the grass and you
drove ahead, flesh and bone and heart beating against ribs between lungs that work like paper swans
litter the tables and floors in a hotel 300 miles away
in the middle of a place where I've been left before.
There is no other set of co-ordinates on the face of this earth that looks exactly like this
exactly like you as you connect the cables and
let me sleep 'cause you know my energy levels are running low and it's
one hell of a drive, socks full of holes that you press to the pedal to
accelerate this heap of metal and plastic and tacky fabric pulling apart at the seams.
"I can't help you," consonants drifting in and out of the smoke from your mouth, "if you won't help yourself."
I am erasing you, and I am lost between here and Montauk and Idaho and home is calling,
or would be if I could catch it but
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More