because i love alphonse mucha

random photoshopnez

the tree exorcist

when she's sober, she's dangerous... when she drinks, she's legal...

who is she?
.
.
.
- a nightmare.

- a heartbeat.

- a priestess.

.

.

who was she?

· · ·

- a prostitute... i don't know.

- a child.

- a mother.

.

.

who did she hope to be? · · ·

·

- she does not remember.

.

.

- she never decided.

- no one.

.

.

.

.

.

···· · · · · · · · · · · · ·

what's so funny? · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·

- life.

.

- you.

- me.

blankness

dated february 8, 2007

2.19 am

there are a dozen reasons
why
i would rather give my mind over
to a black hole
then be blantantly aware
that what remains of my
grey matter
is merely rotting away
as i sit
suspended in
the boughs of time,
that merciless agent
that runs over my
skin,
twisting my
small intestine
into knots
that even twenty-seven
girl scouts could never
untie.
i reveal myself
through lapses
in memory.
otherwise,
i confine my soundless
words to abysses that
are ten times the depth
and darkness of
the shadows that
fall beneath the bridge of Khazad-Dùm
in the ancient caves of Moria

beautiful loser

dated september 22, 2005

__________________

_______________________

cold hands lead to blank thoughts

there's nothing left much to do

Old hangings in the web

Inspiring and painstaking

Sitting, aching for reason

But the sheet below is warm

Curled beneath are icy feet

Above, the mind is filling

With tidings of moments

long past

crumpled shreds of tissue

lie scattered and strewn about

eyes weep, sweeping away

the masses but the shreds

remain

torn, like my lungs after

five cigarettes

oh, what of eyes

that search meaning

there was no meaning no

solution

just you and the grace that

you wasted on the most

trivial things

they said you were beautiful

you are

but somehow you failed yourself

sometime, a long time ago

in a past life

is there any turning point?

are you still cold?

searching for something that will

forever keep my lips from drying up

is a difficult thing

so why can't i see

There are no eyes to life

only to beauty

why is it so harsh?

the soul is a desperate friend

scanning the faces of your city

for empathy

there is something left within your

mind

an intangible source that spreads warmth

to the nerves in your fingers

but you can never find it

it's lost within you like movement

just sit still

what of words, why not silence

for once

please

you're still here and you say you

believe in me and i know that

you mean it

i wish i could accept this

it spears me in my veins

but you are still

here

and i finally

understand

that

my intangible

desire

is

a constellation

of your

smile

untitled

no one understands
no one understands
the ongoing war within me
a battle being fought
day & night
a feeble and yet relentless attempt
to put an end to the chaos
in my mind
in my gut
in the intangible wisps
of my soul
the soul that is slowly depleting
with every exhale
with every successive beat of a seemingly healthy heart
explain to me then why it hurts to breathe
there you stand, arm stretched out
reaching in, splaying ribs
fist clenched, trying to help
squeezing
suppressing
stopping the flow of my tainted blood
to my aching and blackened heart
i scream.
but you don’t hear me.
i’m already dead on the inside.
i scream.
it echoes in the distant valleys of my abandoned mind
i’m dead on the inside.
i scream.
this time the tears flow, the arms flail,
the knife cuts, the blood splatters
remind me why i need to do this.
i smile.
to escape.
you scream.
all smiles fade
let me go.
it’s ok.
it’ll be… fast.
you won’t remember.
you stare.
through me.
at me.
in me.
there is nothing
i am
gone.
empty

i scream.
you’re no longer here
i’m dead on the inside.



it’s quiet.


still.



i scream.i want to die.

the test

dated july 31, 2006

___________

blue gowns and gray walls
you can call it “the institution”
the paint is thick on the wooden door
of my isolated cubicle
the liquid is like the paint
thick like syrup
white as primer
tinged with a taste
of chemical waste & vanilla
it’s been marinating in a styrofoam cup
since it’s manufacturing
in the immaculate labs
of Pfizer.
i feel strangely corporal
naked under this sky-blue dress
that is nothing less than depressing
my toes are cold, my eyes are tired
i seem to blend in perfectly with the floor
i feel like i’ve been waiting here forever
not because i’m impatient
but in less than an hour i feel as though
i know this cubicle by heart
and that i’ve seen the view of the corridor
from the chair a hundred times before.
and as i lie upon the stainless steel table
i am james bond in goldfinger
about to be killed by a crazy hooligan
with a laser beam in one hand
and a scorching laugh rolling off his tongue.
thor has condemned me
and the ice cold table
offers me no conciliation.

Oh Icarus! Fly straight into Hailey's Comet next time!

Here is something very random that i wrote on March 23, 2006 while going through some sort of trance at 3am... hope you enjoy!

_______________
_______________________
___________ +++++

i’m floating on molecules of immeasurable weightlessness
they carry me
through a screen so silky green
to purple chasms in darkened valleys.
god is exempt!
where are my fingers?
without them my thoughts are but
fraying strings
and burning wires!
There lies my existence.
The truth is so crazy
it soothes my skin.
Pink Satin!
These crisps which are my lips
fold in and out,
i lose control of what is intangible,
i forget to let go,
i forget not to care.
Bring me to the red mountains
where the smokestacks unfurl a pasty haze.
Breathe for me, little one!
Open your soul to this industrial
magni-monster,
it is your friend and scripted guide
to boxed-out life.
Taste the sincerity of it on your fingers!
The wise old girls will never find out that you
can’t bring yourself to believe
in something mightier than your ageing body.
Suppress the moon for it may
engulf you
and baste you in a tender glowing effervescent cognitive
melodramatic
Molotov cocktail.
Beseech!
The air is foul under your tender wings!
Oh, Icarus!
Fly straight into Hailey’s Comet next time.
It’ll be frosty as a brain freeze.
Bring your favourite blanket,
the one that smells like your mother’s treasure-trunk.
Don’t exceed the speed limit
as you blast the remains of the garden seeds to bits.
The atoms will be crawling in spite of your explosive behaviour.
Remember! I asked you to run to the edge of town,
where the old boulder shot out of the ground
like the Berlin Wall.
In the chapel of the abandoned church, we will light sparks
and wake the grounds.
Meet me after dark on the crumbling bridge.
Cast the forsaken stone into the river of the Merry.
Jump with me into the deep end and we will float
like empty canoes
downstream.
Now the water fills my nose so that it tickles the cerebellum.
It’s so refreshing we should invite all our friends to join us.
Long-Live the floating canoes who meander downstream
Seeking serenity
and the answer that reveals the mystery
of all that is pure.
Oh complexity! Oh, natural construct.
We defile ourselves before you.
Keep us sane in our insanity.
Watch over us like tempestuous lagoons
that cannot wait to boil
over into the forests and seas!
We shall forever soak our feet in this growth.
Bear us some more disastrous news
so that we may rob you ten-fold
times more of your gratifying
selflessness!
Behold, here they come!
Listen to their footsteps
as they splatter though unclean puddles.
Yes,
they are marching towards the end of forgiveness.
You can tell for all the cellos mourn.
Their sorrowful tunes cannot save them.
Alas! How they have forsaken you!
The child’s dirty hands are filled with clusters of
fireflies.
Speckles in the endless twilight.
It is our demise,
we must fore-go the comfort of our homes
and reunite under our dying Son.
Calm down,
calm down.
Exit slowly and to your left.

+++++

Why you should never have a conversation with someone when you're drunk... or at least when i'm drunk.

dated february 25, 2006
23.42h

"delicious. and there are no other words
for it. but the canoe has morphed into
a tapeworm that has crawled in through
my ear. it's telling me things:"

~

- Run to the moss-covered rock

where the lone man used to

gaze up to the sky and curse at

the dark side of the moon for

never revealing itself. There
you shall speak to the

Blades of Grass of wind-lore

and wish that the smog from

Dead City will not suck out your

soul...

~

"But the noise won't stop, make it

stop!"

_______

______________ + + +
More to come from my drunken conversations in a bit...