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Parapeteia
23 January 2010 @ 02:51 am
We have run out of Nancy's sighs and sights of planes departing. Our time is spent in lullabies and tender notes and laughter. You and I the perfect match poets avoid for commonplace, and our messages are better suited for bottles and seas without names. I would swim the Atlantic for you, but monsters belong in lakes.

I can see the dead end, but its nowhere near here. Open fields stretch as far as the eye can see and this is where im standing. Several things come to mind when I indulge in thoughts of you (and I am blind as a bat can be, but we thrive on echoes) I'll see you when leaves are falling and your face is crystal clear. And lets face it: you love it when I lie like this.
 
 
Parapeteia
11 January 2010 @ 09:18 am
O' tempest of again and then within my darklit eye I am dreaming I spun you around about the hand. You are escaping with me as far as the scenery goes?

Always alone. When shaped like this, the heart is heaven: huge, hiding in the seam of solar systems, embracing. All space is leaning in to get a scent of you. It is dangerous outside as well as in. Magic for the chosen few. Confused as well as clarified. Unknown. A pixel in your T.V. Screen. Lonelier. Give me the truth and I will show you how you lie. Give me lies and I will know your self.

As far as the skin can stretch are islands, tan children, and laughter. Slow metaphor of blood flow, a challenging descent to find points viewed from above. It is of no concern... Around a globe, all scrawl and clutter, where toes design your whereabouts and eyes are fields departing (great lengths). Deceptive. How steady the spin is. A ladder partakes of itself climbing into arm safe apertures. Convinced of its usefulness, but nonetheless descending again to remove the view altogether.

Axis and paramecium converge. Connect. Dry as dust for present touch. Immaculate wax on mannequin sized neighbors. All alone. Outside. In trees. A trace of community. This place is baubled with victory. Successes of democracy. Lingering stinkingly. Our commitment is to christmas trees and history. Unloved by those we chain to us. However, I am satisfied. A comforting selfishness mingles with my sweat. Terror confounds my every cell. Aghast, a blast, it's daytime when the eyelid grows. And ghastly when the dripping slows. Writing poetry on fingernails will never pass the time away. It's griefly coldley lonely living. Beneath the ice and soundless fissures.  I am a drag in too tight clothing watching windows fill with frost. A crack will form. Belief responds. Outside where the worms all hide. Holes become your fingers in earth. Sky-blue and cherry-red: windy resplendent.

Never an average mind in winter. Adorn your golden tongues with mouse traps and children's stories. Give gravy to the singing birds to shut them up and focus on your diaphragm or hold your nose in efigy to mom-ma. Wild woman clothed in pig knuckles. Screaming savage litanies at her deaf god: we forever shadow. Cloistered in the middle of ballyhood and willow brained brethren lashing at expressionistic flesh hung fresh to the day in the backyard of our dreams.

O! holy countenance. Help me fry an egg. Your omnipotent machinations can't fit in our stomachs. I fear starvation will be the only answer to our prayers. Or perhaps we are praying for starvation to deliver us from comfort. To lead us into the stone bed of our passions. Lying midst the ruins. Defeated and drooling. A dead dog bringing a leash along. Sad hours closer than a day away what makes it so? Have we no ligaments left in our souls? Are we to never bend again beneath the sway of our indifference? Give up your tombstones! There is rot enough in our quick pace. And forlorn too. The ratio of eyes to eyes. It is not the right wind for the back to be against so still and drifted of mine. Correct the time. A sign has come in luminescent lassitude. A bed spring to the land of Oz. Two feet away from everything. IT'S GROSS. Hard and dying to be unsure of it. Somewhere soon will be a motion to the cause of this. More dusky and delicious. Meanwhile, trap the skin in liquor tight and ignorance, at least in the beginning. There will be room enough for growth. It comes free with self effacement.
 
 
Current Music: earthquakes prolly
 
 
Parapeteia
11 January 2010 @ 01:53 am
Cutting split ends is all about befriending your scissors.
Careful when hitting walls not to brain your blows out. Maybe with luck we can disentangle a few things on our heads.





 
 
Parapeteia
09 January 2010 @ 01:15 am
legzzz

The more i glide through its pages the more i wonder just how much the spaces that we inhabit resemble the spaces that inhabit us.
And maybe the ghost that lives in my bookshelf is less related to the dead authors (and their wounded spines), than to those spaces inside me haunted by the fear of my own words. Maybe what flies off a shelf is also flying within me.
 
 
Current Music: Abbey Road