"but i come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
and i knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—"

e.e. cummings

fractured sunlight seeped through the fissures, sluggish as thickening blood of a soft fresh wound. damning me to wake amidst the fizzing of a festering dream. mirages sprouted out of two now cognizant slivers with weary pupils struggling to adjust aperture in the engulfing illumination. muscles offered no reach--interpretation entered easily. verifying all i’ve ever needed to vanish vexing visions.

phantoms II.
(flickr)

i've reached the depths of the deep. anchored amid the drifting bioluminescence. unable to relinquish the beating--a cursed onomatopoeia that grew vigorously. my soul lingered, above some swathed shadow of blue. have i, at last, parted my corpse? i remembered sinking. how i’d twist my neck in attempts to keep clutch of the hovering gaze which suspended itself at the surface. but submerging deeper, inexorably, it blurred and soon dissipated. there was only absence. terrifying tranquility. no evolutionary awakening to kiss the swollen stars. cold ocean’s sand slid along my spine. silence. though, sometimes it’d emerge again--the gaze. hitting me (there) in that tiny void found after a fallen pulse.

grandeur, gold n’ gritty.

 e

       a

   s

y

telepathy.
tapping temples,
tapping temples,
tapping temples;
(if only you knew)

new song up.
(also, excuse my bed hair and this awful still that youtube has unfortunately decided upon..)



lyrics:
do you feel like you’ve been had,
does it make you mad?
do you feel like you’ve been had,
gonna get sad?
(gonna get sad)

passion hit my heart.
repeated, repeated, repeatedly
like a moth lured by light--
desiring the orb,
though also desiring the obliteration.
trying to penetrate that epicenter of illumination.
and while my bulb of powdered glass is surely fragile,
it somehow proved victorious against the flutters
of such feeble wings.

do you feel like you’ve been had,
does it make you mad?
do you feel like you’ve been had,
gonna get sad?

then, i hit the heart of passion.
repeated, re…
only to shatter it all in a blinding flash.
the lure burnt out,
and now i’m left flapping, flapping, flapping aimlessly
into darkened abysses with broken wings
and the relic shards of an untimely death
wedged in me

do you feel like you’ve been had,
does it make you mad?
do you feel like you’ve been had,
gonna get sad?
(gonna get sad)

passion hit my heart
and i hit the heart of passion
so hard that
now it’s gone
it’s gone
it’s gone

(it’s all gone)

démolition d'un mur (interne)
utilizing various clips derived from influential artists, i've stitched together a compilation sequencing which has been arranged and edited in attempts to portray the struggles of demolishing an internal wall.
(and is accordingly how i've been feeling as of late)

solstice. characteristically, i'd celebrate. though i'm dispassionate and unstirred. it's too engulfing. the flourish of summer, the beating hearts, the hot embracing. leaving me discarded in an insipid furrow--equipped with a cruel craving for winter. aching for the ambiance. the frigidity that wrecks my bones. the phase when all is razed and recoils to perish--for once inducing me to sense how unexpectedly alive my own soul.

perhaps, at least, it will rain today.

between my neck
and collarbone, there
is a notch--
i have formed
a hollow. so
sometimes (when i
feel empty) i
rest my fingers
inside of it
and experience the
veins plunge, then
swell, endlessly, in
efforts to slyly
ensure i’m not
(entirely an illusion).

bound in night’s gown
how beautiful her body
wearing nothing
but starlight.

tell me your desires--what twists inside you? is there anything? is it void? veiled? tell me your desires--have you experienced ecstasy? complete lunacy? have you gone mad, yet? tell me your desires--who sleeps beside you? and who is sleeping beneath your eyes? in your heart? are they all the same? am i there? is he? or he? or she? tell me your desires--do you wear masks? do you hold within you a boutique to attain them? do i? tell me your desires--what's the tempo of your breathing? are your lungs full of smoke? are you holding them? why are you holding them? tell me your desires--are they active? have you any left? are you drugged? tell me your desires--am i in them? have you murdered me? or am i your hidden lover? or is he? or she? tell me your desires--would you float to me in slumber? would you tell them to me there? would you show me?

we spoke a lot of nonsense,
grew fluent in our dizzied sentiment and half-truths.

only ever sharing sincere visions with the flames
that flickered forth from the furtive shutting of eyelids—

little fences of fluorescent orange flesh,
so sweetly barbed with lashes.

anything gets heavy if you hold it long enough.

i met a woman.

i met a woman
whose fingers
held within them
the aroma
of aged books--

and all i wanted
was to read the pages
of her palms forever.

each
lonely
line

i clutched in captivity,
as stanzas struck
my soul spellbound

(i could’ve promised
she was the personification
of poetry.)

evaporation isn’t so easy. i cannot tell if i’m seeking to part, or to be taken. only i know, my excursions are leaving incisions. this time, three lines. drawing themselves from the tip of my left clavicle and descending in diagonal across my torso, perishing just past the hip. i woke, wearing it like some sort of sash i’d been bestowed. something wants out. though, even in such susceptible sleep, something stronger refuses to concede. these scarlet marks will soon fade--along with all else.

it hasn't ceased happening.

i recall
the moment
you forgot
the moon.
(or maybe,
it was,
the moon
forgot you)
i’ve memorized
the senses,
shed sanity
resembling ridded
snake’s skin.
from me
you slithered,
and i
linger motionless--
but an
irreversibly translucent
vacant hide,
awaiting the
sphere’s decision
to wax
or wane.

i keep getting so shaken because every time i read something by anais nin, i find within the pages entire passages which i have written in my own journals verbatim. it absolutely terrifies me. and even the story of how i happened upon her is sort of awry and strange. but, then again, now certain things are starting to make sense that were once enigmas of memory.

"reality doesn't impress me. i only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, i escape, one way or another. no more walls."

--anais nin

my crystal ball is empty.

non, je ne regrette rien.

in you,
there is
nothing. (nothing
in you,
at all)
in me,
there is
something--it
is the
something of
nothing that
was you.

patsy...oh, patsy.
i've had her on endless loop today.

lately i’ve been mastering the art of fading--
my limbs, my soul, my pulse
are but a field of dandelions awaiting annihilation
a phantom’s breath tremolos in undulation
dangling seeds, vacillate,
drop victim to vibrato--
my limbs, my soul, my pulse
compose a shattered dandelion concerto
(key of E)
damned in drifting dream

cosmic discord.

these gals are my current obsession. so good.

"I’m now making myself as scummy as I can. Why? I want to be a poet, and I’m working at turning myself into a seer. You won’t understand any of this, and I’m almost incapable of explaining it to you. The idea is to reach the unknown by the derangement of all the senses. It involves enormous suffering, but one must be strong and be a born poet. It’s really not my fault." — Arthur Rimbaud

just can't stop the screamin' jay...

still can't sleep without my soul slipping away. alas, it's 3:48am and i'm shamelessly dancing around to screamin' jay while holding a drowsy purring kitty in my arms. what else can ya do, right?

within me
there is
a flag.
how white,
it once
was. waving
wildly (though
now unmoving)
--worn and
wrought with
weather’s weight.
worn and
wrought with
wait, alone.

gone
for now,
serenity.

the lady with lilac hair chanted, exhausted. pounding her head, pounding her head, pounding her head, against indonesian rugs. exhaling. ceasing. slowly curling, she composed her bones comparable to that of a fragile coiled fetus. it was my duty then to understand the position. so, erroneously, i allowed my palm to rest at her neck's nape. feeling her bodily pulsations go languid, then rise, unannounced, like sudden rapids in a river. small puddles piled in attempts to conceal the fissure between her left cheekbone and the woven fibers, but would only ever last for a few seconds--or until the threads absorbed their existence. over time it was as though my resting hand had been coerced into that vital vertebrae. and then bit by bit regressing further, engulfed further, to emulate umbilical cord. ultimately, the rug lost it's ability to swallow. the room flooded, easily. submerged in our secluded world's womb--although unable, we found, to float amidst amniotic fluid. so there we stay, simply sinking...simply sinking...simply sinking. exhaling. ceasing.

"A thousand Dreams within me softly burn:
From time to time my heart is like some oak
Whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn."
--Rimbaud

i'm in such a rimbaud rut lately. i could swoon over his words endlessly. constant cyclical reading and re-reading. never get enough.

originally i was just going to post this song because
1. i love chan marshall
2. the lyrics resonate
and i've no idea if i'm just hearing things, however, i swear the instrumental of this sounds just like patti's pissing in a river. which is the song i've been listening to for the entirety of the summer (seriously at least five times a day...it's bad). i believe i posted it about a week ago, but i'll put it here as well for the sake of convenience. so strange.

i now know how she must feel.

“you may not believe in magic but something very strange is happening at this very moment. your head has dissolved into thin air and i can see the rhododendrons through your stomach. it’s not that you are dead or anything dramatic like that, it is simply that you are fading away and i can’t even remember your name.”

--leonora carrington

the hands loiter within recollection. slightly translucent skin with the most beautifully risen turquoise veins. rings to match. gold bands. a few silver. caressing slender bones. i've always been drawn to those with swollen veins. they seem filled, yet somehow fragile. as though they've hidden answers to mysteries inside them. cautious in their movements. resembling holy. susceptible. a mere nick to the flesh could result in the deepest pieces of their soul seeping out. but it's almost like they're waiting. wishing, even, for a passerby to brutally cut into them. not exactly a lover. or surgeon. deity. assassin. just someone. someone. someone capable of perception. invasion. complete conquest. possession. a warrior equipped with weapons obtaining the power of transcendence through flesh's relentless fortification.

sitting at a battered table next to the gloomy street-lit window. gazing into the glass obscured by steam of beverages, painted text, and cigarette smoke. in the left corner there is a girl with dark hair and delicately chapped lips. our weary eyes keep locking as if by serendipity, and it's as though we know a secret that no other could grasp. we don't. that's just the spell of these places. you could fall in love with anyone.

a few weeks ago i took out three cards, as if by premonition, and tacked them to the wall in an even line beside my bed. i knew this fate before it could even transpire. it was only a matter of time--the other night when i woke, all three had fallen into the small crevice by my mattress. and all i could do was rummage up a merciless smile in midst of the timely malice. everything was to spite me. i'm sure of it.

is it really june, already? the dawn has waltzed wildly before my eyes. rapt by the new moon's retreat and the starry dissolve--how they lingered and vanished like delicate melting droplets of salt drenched tears. there is always something shimmering in the shadows. it's our reason for gazing so long. we seek it ceaselessly, like lost moths. daunted with vulnerability. flight into the abyss is easy. it's when the light starts rematerializing that we lose ourselves. petrified of the leaks and what they may illuminate. there is always that moment when just enough trickles and transforms all into a mass sheet of gray anonymity. it festers in a frenzy, that dull disarray. muddled minds heaped into hysterical states of hallucination. then the vital streak of deep crimson strikes. or blue. or gold. or fuchsia. vast across the atmosphere, as though it were a canvas rothko had stroked himself. there is such mesmeric absorption in the exhibition of a horizon's birth. only now the cyclic waiting commences for it's certain cosmic demise.