::
2010 7 January :: 9.04 pm
that crutch
is starting to wear
my skin away.
the limp is the fear that gnaws
with unforgiving claws
repeat, routine
relapse
cry through crooked teeth
lies leak in legion tracing tributary trails, carving cavernous crevices
I am the kind that feeds on decadence
I am the kind that leaves no evidence
I am the kind you should not second guess
Scale |
::
2010 2 January :: 2.41 pm
eyelids spring open as my back arches abruptly, heaves of oxygen sucked down my throat in torrents
disrupting cobwebs, unsettling dust
I wake, wipe the film from my eyes and view
that old, hauntingly familiar rot
the regular collection of rust this place seems to manifest
Scale |
::
2010 1 January :: 12.02 pm
oh, the indecision of a vacillating vicissitude.
carried by waves of ambivalence, I rise and fall along the undulation. the fragile grasp I have, treading water above an indifferent undertow.
pulling on my ear, whispers quiver and fade. tugging inhibition and tearing down the veil.
Scale |
::
2009 30 December :: 1.19 am
outbursts in black(outs)
devastated by hallucinations
induced like trauma from the shifts
tiptoe on tightrope fault lines,
across the gap and down the list
(vehemently livid, I will level the fucking pines.
I am armed to the teeth and armored to the nines.
to pull from the grave...)
a dark, tremulous vexation,
(only historically recorded on the scale of a seismic frequency,)
has erupted from my fists
and fingertips
Scale |
::
2009 25 December :: 2.33 am
:: Music: c of l
"in this hollowed shell a seed once slept
I am an evacuator, an agent of forgetfulness"
and in the dust filtered light of a city crumbling toward chaos
[ - a - slow - motion - camera - circles - flakes - twisting, - snowing - downs - of
glitteredflitflittering, sparklingdarkeness, and evaporatedveinouschlorophyll - ]
we focus on two figures who fade and then flicker intermittently on the edge of foggy absences,
(dripping ghosts unweaving, wavering and leaning blurred through bluish glass)
dance now loosely on this tightrope trip wire strung between something and next-to-nothingness.
the fine line of intangibility meanders subconsciously through the folded ridges of our grey matter.
{anti-matter, nothing matters, we are matter; not created or destroyed, but collected and scattered.}
copies and imprints, echoes of trumpets,
seashells and soft hints, cloud covered sunsets
the sirens, the tyrants
I have
a need for silence
it comes
it comes in vices
it comes,
is timeless.
it comes,
to find us.
to find us.
to find us.
Scale |
|