Glorious ShitAnother Dream-You can make it;Pass through shitTo welcome the divine.********************What kind of mind is this?What kind of perversion?You don't make much sense to me,You don't make much sense to them-You don't make much sense.Return to painting flowers,Name flowers flowers,Name darkness strangeness,Name genius a vile trait.We cannot decipher you...Bend down a little.Everyone needs their audience-Who are you to dispute?Who is it you're talking to?It can't be to yourself!Alright. Now...Everything is illuminated!(I can write my glossaryOf horror and neglect.)Do I love you?Of course I love you,Nobody else still caresAbout the little things,Such as your senseless self.(Yes, I'll make everything clear,The way you want me to.)Let's speak a new language,Let's call man the Head,The alphabet into the globe-The stud of universe.(Of course we are the center,Can't you see?)NowStrip.Stop laughing,Stop writing-Stop mocking me!You are a brilliant little b
MotherA knot deep in my stomach-An unbearable growing painContaining breaths and scars,Momentary intervals of our life's game.A knot in my throat,Choking me before the rise,Depriving us of understanding,Taking away left time.A tidal wave devours my skin,Casting me bare, without a kin-Without the courage this blast to bare,Stolen from time,Convicted to just stareAt every day that passes by,At my lack of bravery,My egoistic past wounds driveSafekeeping me against the onesI should be the least afraid to love.A knot is tied around my heart,Bred inside it for years-For too damn long for me to claimDespite the drain I still have one.
The WriterI am not my stories-Not all of them at least...There is truthAnd then there's fiction.Spare me just this.
HardDo not flirt with Death.He will fuck you anyway.
ReturnIf Time existed,I would not.The face is erased,My eyelids reversedTo form a danceOf dissonant notes.The unbeliever in me,The lioness in me,The crimes perpetratedUpon my life;All these exist-While I could not,Even if I wanted to;Within this hellNo man could breathe,Expand, or love.Take this sigh,This glimpse into my underworld.Step in,Or forever Goodbye.
LoversYou define me.You hold me imprisonedin the snaresof magic unprecedented,under the reign of love.My eyes are wet-and in thisthey're not alone...I want you.I must devourevery inch of you-Before it is too late,before the passion disappearsas unexpectedly as it came.
The Serpent's RevengeFlames protrude through my eyes.The pain is sharp,clear inside my mind.As the smoke escapesfrom my future corpse away,everything is possible.The epitaph stands cold,alone within my life,in memory of fear.I grow into a lionessroaring through my spirit.My soul is for saleto anybody interested.The flesh grows old,denouncing my history.Hanging from a thought,this world I leave behind.I denounce my possessions.From the imposed egoI recognize but fearaugmenting with each loss.Our prisons we buildwith our faked tears.In full denial we screamtowards the unattainable.With hatred-filled fiststhose secluded we attack-Like amoral beastsdemanding vindicationin the name of victims sodomizedin their reign of broken human pacts.
BitterIt starts with a feeling,a flashing memory,a suggestion of movement
It all comes back to me:Faces, dates, facts.It all comes back to me-But I am not there
A teardrop, your handinterchanging genders
Our lives could bethe finest, most delicate,most intricate scenarios.My thighs spread apart,waiting for you.My mind gets rid ofits burdens most unbearable.The music is familiar-And so is your smile
Always promising,never truthful.While I gnaw away the timelost in contemplation,you start another life.As lovers we first met.As foes we diefrom our histories apart-Creators of riddles,friends to no one.
Turning into GhostsWho's that face on the wall?Who's that mirrored mask of horrorother than my own?Leaving the years flowwithout the time to lookinside or outside,we let our livesmove on their own.So drag this carcass on the mud-Smear its facewith these horrid colorsof solitude and alcohol.For of this selfwho used to be my own,I recognize the traitsbut not the whole.
About the Blues There were reasons I was going to write about a grand mal seizure. Heck, I still have the reasons: I feel like it and it's on my mind. I say "it" because I only had one and it was some time ago. But they say I did a bang-up job of it. My sister told me, "I woke you up to tell you it was time to go to the horse show, and you stood there and said you had a headache and wouldn't make it. Made me mad, actually. Then you keeled over and it's good my husband was there to catch you." I remember the headache. Worst one I've ever had, truly crippling. I didn't want to disappoint my sister and her husband though. After all, my daughter and I were staying with them for an unspecified length of time. I'd even grown fond of the friggin horse shows. The memory that's most embarrassing is a big sign the seizure isn't a small one -- loss of control of the bladder. Check. Tremors. Check. And I guess you stick out your tongue and your eyes go kinda
An Audience of OneHow many people have to enjoy your creations before they are considered art? What if you only share it with one person you love?When I was in the U.S. Navy on deployment, my father would send me little abstracts he drew on pieces of card stock. I was his only audience. To me, they are the greatest art he ever did and they mean so very much to me. Art is emotion, and he showed his love for me with these. They are very special. There are many more in his gallery folder on my page. http://mistgod.deviantart.com/gallery/5376791/Dad-s-artwork-James-Leon-Devine-1937-2008 Thanks for letting me share him a bit. Artist: James Leon Devine 1937 - 2008
Battery MendellIt was just about sundown in the Marin Headlands. Away on the horizon, the Farallon Islands were silhouetted against the sun; the breeze had fallen, the world holding its breath. Across the Golden Gate Bridge, glorious in the dying light, The City sparkled and hummed inaudibly.Kicking around the old bunker in the lengthening blue shadows, conversation had fallen into a lull, as well. Tired of scuffing pebbles with his shoe, Josh followed me down the crumbling concrete steps as I went to examine the heavy iron doors, rusted shut with the fog of a century.“That’s where the Morlocks come out,” he said, jokingly.Two things happened at once. The sun dipped in its final dive below the horizon, the last gold melting into the cold fingers of waiting fog on the western sea.And in the empty warren of corridors riddling the mountain beneath us, we all simultaneously felt something wake up.It was old. We knew that much. And we knew it was dreadful.And it was comin
Procrastination CrapIt's dark now. The last drops of sunlight have been drained from the valley, leaving the soft film of twilight over the camp. She has long since left the safety behind the white line and wanders in the forest alone. Her footsteps are light on the ground, careful not to make a sound louder than the whispers of the tree around her. She crouches low to the ground as she moves through the shadows, keeping her ragged, frightening breathing under control. To her, it's more than a game. In her mind, the shouts in the valley are from a great battle where her allies fall to the ground with dead eyes and blood wets the long grass. Capture the Flag is a simple game, but in darkness, it turns to a deadly fight for survival that can only be ended with a triumphant ringing of the victory bell and a flag held high by the victors. Until then, the campers are brutal hunters. The girl freezes as she hears the voices of older campers drawing near. Dropping into a crouch, she presses into the bush and wat
dieciseis.Während Julia hier in Madrid weilte, kriegte ihre Katze zu Hause in Bern Junge. Ich ging einmal vorbei, weil ich dachte, wenn Julia das alles verpasst, dann sollte ich es mir wenigstens nicht entgehen lassen. Die Katze hatte sich unten in Julias Schrank ein improvisiertes Nest mit heruntergefallenen Kleidungsstücken und Halstüchern gebaut. Und dort lagen sie, die drei kleinen Fellknäuel, gerade ein paar Wochen alt.Man könnte stundenlang dasitzen, nur um ein kleines Kätzchen noch ein bisschen länger in seinen Händen zu halten. Irgendwie tut es gut und ich begann zu begreifen, warum Julia eine „tiergestützte Psychotherapie“ ins Leben rufen will. Hält man so ein Tierchen in den Händen, wird man sofort zu einem besseren Menschen. Eben war man noch voller bitterem Stolz und wollte die Welt niederbrennen, jetzt denkt man: Nö, lass mal.Irgendwann öffnen die Kleinen ihre Äugelein und finden heraus, dass sie Bei
Hell is Clingy I remember it carried over from second grade to the third – fifth grade playground. Ant City, a home for all the ants, would flourish well here. More trees, more room and softer dirt to dig out tiny trenches and burrows. I remember my best friend's first approach was driven by a teacher's request, but soon C and I went at the ground and at the pine trees trailing long beads of sap, together. I remember being short and frustrated at not being to reach high sap places. I remember the day the long line trees along the fence had orange X's slashed onto them, Tennessee orange. We clumped mud and smeared it over the spray painted bark and amber sap. We couldn't use the sap now… Are the ants going to die? I asked her. She had all the answers. C looked at the scattered drops of orange-coated sap on the tree. For the first time, she said nothing. I remember going back to the p
AliveI am a black canvasSmeared with gold and red.