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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.

i dreamt, on accident; though everything was silent and swathed in an all engulfing black. as if i were embodying the void itself. when i woke, i relived in reverie. i couldn't. i couldn't call forth the desires that once effortlessly crept and enveloped without consent. something was vanquished. there is no flame burning. only the soot is left behind. my soul unperturbed, at last. je suis libre.

everything's such a joke.

maslow's 8 ways to self-actualize:

1. experience things fully, vividly, selflessly. throw yourself into the experiencing of something: concentrate on it fully, let it totally absorb you.

2. life is an ongoing process of choosing between safety (out of fear and need for defense) and risk (for the sake of progress and growth): make the growth choice a dozen times a day.

3. let the self emerge. try to shut out the external clues as to what you should think, feel, say, and so on, and let your experience enable you to say what you truly feel.

4. when in doubt, be honest. if you look into yourself and are honest, you will also take responsibility. taking responsibility is self-actualizing.

5. listen to your own tastes. be prepared to be unpopular.

6. use your intelligence, work to do well the things you want to do, no matter how insignificant they seem to be.

7. make peak experiencing more likely: get rid of illusions and false notions. learn what you are good at and what your potentialities are not.

8. find out who you are, what you are, what you like and don’t like, what is good and what is bad for you, where you are going, what your mission is. opening yourself up to yourself in this way means identifying defenses - and then finding the courage to give them up.

i simply cannot comprehend all this vacillation.

don't lick your finger and dip it into that vast vacant atmosphere in attempts to discern the path of the winds, just wander with the gusts. walk backwards into them, even. don't look. don't turn--i'm warning you. the moment has drawn near and you must now permit the complete engulfing. it’s yearning to swallow. you’re yearning to be swallowed. let it take you. let it take your entirety. it's time. it's coming, it's coming swelling up and you can't stop it. breathing sinks heavy, sinks heavy, sinks so heavy, twisting hair, cerebration dripping out careful scenarios. sentimental. sultry. sensual. strong. it pushes and you've fallen. sinking. submerged. transposing energy. powerlessly possessed and swept away.

“You are right, Sahara. There are no mists, or veils, or distances. But the mist is surrounded by a mist; and the veil is hidden behind a veil; and the distance continually draws away from the distance. That is why there are no mists, or veils, or distances. That is why it is called The Great Distance of Mist and Veils. It is here that The Traveler becomes The Wanderer, and The Wanderer becomes The One Who Is Lost, and The One Who Is Lost becomes The Seeker, and The Seeker becomes The Passionate Lover, and The Passionate Lover becomes The Beggar, and The Beggar becomes The Wretch, and The Wretch becomes The One Who Must Be Sacrificed, and The One Who Must Be Sacrificed becomes The Resurrected One and The Resurrected One becomes The One Who has Transcended The Great Distance of Mist and Veils. Then for a thousand years, or the rest of the afternoon, such a One spins in the Blazing Fire of Changes, embodying all the transformations, one after the other, and then beginning again, and then ending again, 86,000 times a second. Then such a one, if he is a man, is ready to love the woman Sahara; and such a one, if she is a woman, is ready to love the man who can put into song The Great Distance of Mist and Veils. Is it you who are waiting, Sahara, or is it I?”

--you are right, sahara by leonard cohen

i have a tiny sore underneath my thumbnail. unreachable. no one can see it, but i feel it so intensely. the constant throbbing. and it aches terribly--but sometimes i'll catch myself fixated and smiling. reminds me of you.

"you know
that i adore you
you know
that i love you
so don't make me say it
it would burst the bubble
break the charm"

so, this is my summer theme song. i have a sob fest every single time.
patti kills me. ugh.

i think about her constantly. i do not wish to, but it’s helpless. it’s inescapable. suffocating. there is something in me unknown which commands me. paralyzed, though in paradox, because my mind is constantly undulating but fixed on that inevitable dreaming. i find my desiring nonsensical, yet something in me refuses the frail illusions as such. at times i feel as though i have emptied my entire being and refilled it with only her--my veiled madness, my mystery, my impenetrable muse.

spent the evening sipping sleepy tea and hesitantly staining pages with spillings of smudged sentences and proclamations i'll never actually proclaim.
my journal has gotten awfully ragged.

i know that i've posted this before, but i really can't shake it..

there is a fissure in my hippocampus
like a perfume which lingers
plagued in a whirlpool ecstasy
desperado demoiselle dreaming apparatus
mucked in fermenting milky mind silk
and leaking unmelodious delusive storms
static syntax
enormous billowing envelopment
extraneous projection
of eroding illusions
dissect seeing
dissecting visions
light refracted
exposing enclosed entrapments
of the haunted hallucinatory heart

i've just detected my posts have been rather diminutive in terms of length, lately.
bare with me--results of a fragmented psyche.
soul scrubbin' and such, you know?

darling, i feel like a wasteland.

sentimental incoherency,
mal à la tête.

yoko knows.

lounging against auburn bark, women sat and denied the width of their wings.

can't get this out of my head...

engulfed under a quilt cuddled with my cat while watching antiques roadshow, drinking hot tea, and knitting...proof that i'm really an entrapped 83 year old lady.


in an unrelated thread, i have a new song up, if it interests you:

remnants of elasticity.

in dreams, i'm haunted by your whispering--
slumber begs of me not relinquish you;
though while such a soul strays asunder,
waking life yearns i surrender.

rothko makes me cry.

fears of the vanishing muse--
commencing the fickle quest for a proxy.

irresistible craving for a road trip to new orleans and baton rouge. irresistible craving for a road trip, in general. even dreamt about it.

UGH, I'M SO IN LOVE WITH PATTI SMITH THAT IT HURTS MY SOUL.
listen..i can't even explain it in comprehensible terms.
this simply isn't fair.
not. at. all.

gonna cry myself to sleep now,
goodnight.

p.s. patti, come to me <3

i keep catching myself tactlessly watching my heart pulse through me. dazed. i fall into these tranced furrows just long enough for my eyes to wearily descend and my mind to begin a lackadaisical yet intricate unwinding of the laced fallacies that have been weaving themselves on the unceasing looms inside me. but the beats. the beats are shifting. so effortlessly those once potent thoughts wane alongside such dissipating throbs. forsaken. everything fading. it won't take long now--this is the waxing of the wane, my darling.

little clam,
gorging on your grimy pearl--
how it grows,
and how you sink.

you're the only one i can never read.
i can't stand this dreaming anymore.

useless beating beneath breasts
useless throbbing thought thorns
fermenting dreams are the deadliest potion
how futile i was
to desire

"an enigmatic collector of both objects and people."

scrying bleak and blue and sad-eyed with warped murky dust-caked mirror caressing clavicles being mopey because i want her closer and you to fade away.

holding private dinner parties with ghosts and rusted harps while contemplating the shapes of our perished hearts on pretty china plates wearing heavy velvet veils to match the blood stains dancing to the dithering beats. just dancing to the dithering beats. eyes closed and dreaming. dancing, dancing, dancing to the dithering.

fille de mes rêves, si seulement vous saviez...

stupid fragile state of existence.

night morphs all into a state of indistinguishable chameleon. where are your arms? i don't know where to search. are they near? i'm searching. i need them. i need them desperately. it's 3:42 a.m. and the sixth consecutive night my soul has tried to slip away. i'm so terrified. i fear it's trying to reach you.

why won't it rain?

i want to go camping. no place in particular. i don't even want it to be a designated campsite. just some desolate empty land under the stars. where i can howl at the moon and it will echo right back through me. that'd be perfect.

should i...
should i...
should i...
should i...
should i...

i have often prayed for you
like this:

let me have her.


--leonard cohen

maybe tonight i can stay inside my body

everything is unfinished--my bowl of oatmeal, a dream from eleven nights ago, the void in my heart 3/4ths full.

you will not catch your unknown.

third time in my life that i've experienced astral projection in full consciousness. and the second time in one month. this, by far, being the most intense and frightening.
though i must ready for work. i just need to post something so i can remember to write about it when i get home.

i don't know what it is precisely, but when the evening starts trudging in and the cosmos morphs into mystifying shades of emptiness, thoughts of you consume me. my mind gets so bleary and ravenous. i'll write letters and memorize them, then obliterate the exposed spilling into shreds. in hopes that by inducing tangible vanquishing an internal dissipation will, too, occur. but i've found it's like a lizard losing its tail, regenerating with two. so i turn to slumber.

screaming into pillows. stop copying me. stop stealing everything i love so deeply. that's all i ask of you. i can't stand it. you will not win my heart. you will furrow beneath it and i'll claw through the cages of tendons and bones just to remove you. i will. i've already dug the grave and carved the epitaph into stone. i'll devise spells if i have to. i'll chant you away. i will.

“i was always exhausted by my dreams, not because of the dreams, but because of the fear of not being able to return. i do not need to return. i will find you everywhere. you alone can go wherever i go, into the same mysterious regions. you too know the language of the nerves. you will always know what i am saying even if i do not.” — anaïs nin

“o i have been dilatory and dumb
i should have made my way straight to you long ago
i should have blabb’d nothing but you, i should have chanted nothing but you.” --whitman

i almost sent it. was so close. but the petals plucked from the withering rose told me not to. now you'll never know. and neither will i. goodnight.

listless and conflicted.

laissez ma tête, mon petite fantôme.

i've got so much work to finish, but my mind is hopelessly unfocused and all i want to do is lay in my poorly lit room and daydream while listening to 1920s female blues singers.





oh, and patti doing a cover just makes it that much better

diamond in the rough.

can't stop constructing constellations through tracing tiny freckles. creating a cloaked cosmos of fantasies within my own flesh. flushed, and cultivating dreamt up destinies. foggy visions flawed from daunting opacity. calmed, yet still trembling. the coveted echo fixed in constant crescendo--my darling, what has happened to me?

mamihlapinatapai (noun): a look shared by two people, each wishing the other would initiate something that they both desire but which neither wants to begin.

was thinking about her. was thinking about her again and a cardinal started fluttering in the tree limbs above me. chirping. frantic. i went up the stairs and it followed with it's red feathers fumbling. it looked at me, fragile and yearning. i said i'm not ready to fly, my darling birdy. and walked inside. but still, i heard its chirping. and i cried, trying to exhume what was buried in me. though the night came and my eyes were still burning. now the cardinal is sleeping, and my thinking is seeping into bottomless thirsting.

things i did today that are out of my character:

1. employed the tactic of flirting while playing the damsel in distress.
(worked wonders--i should've tried that ages ago)

2. cursed like a sailor.
(which worked wonders internally--i also should've tried that ages ago)


and i still want a cigarette--correspondingly, out of my character.
appears as though going up for block really morphs a person...

all i want is a cigarette--and i don't even smoke.

doomed. photography is killing me, the lack of control is eating my soul away. okay, that's a tad bit dramatic, but my heart is seriously churning. i may not get to go up for block due to lousy printers. i hate digital. and money.
though, had a chat with my lovely creative writing professor today--thinking about just pursuing writing for my degree and doing all other mediums in my own time. i've yet to apply for the creative writing program and she was really urging me to do so.
i mean...i'd have complete control. and compared to photography, it's essentially free. well, aside from attempting to get published--but once you do, you profit. so it's a win-win. also, i seem to fit more snugly in the writer's crowd than that of the photographer's circle. i'm so torn. this is awful. just want to crawl under my quilts and dream for a month straight.