I've done it. I've done it before, and I'll do it again.

Words are very unnecessary...

They can only do harm.

Gluttony

I am the fat kid.

You are my cake.

Falter.

You soar for a while. Then you fall back to Earth.

Like a Miami Morning coming down.

It's only the end of the world again.

Waiting

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA"
"hmm.... I like making you laugh..."
"hmm..."

And then they kissed, like lonely Eskimos in the freezing cold. And it seemed like everything was alright.

Everything will be alright...

Blurb

It's a long walk, wherever you're coming from. Alleys snake through streets littered with the footsteps of thousands, dying or, at some level, already dead. It's with a heavy head that you kill yourself with every subsequent step. Doors swing open, faces tilt upwards, and then back down into their respective glasses of some poison of choice. Murmurs swim around in the background, to trample your thoughts in the foreground. The cigarette lady's smoke has followed you inside, and it's still dancing with that point of focus your eyes seem to choose when there's nothing else to look at, and nobody to talk to. Voices ring out, and some assembly is required. Screeches, thumps, booms and tingles all announce themselves, and thoughts are set aside.

Angels sing falsettos whilst mortals bear tattoos, and a child squeals in the joy of innocence.

For when you're on stage, and the lights are on, nothing else matters.

You hide it so very well nowadays, that I don't know if you miss me at all.

I am no more the reason you smile.

Torment in Torrents.

When there's too much to say, and I just don't know where to begin, I'll spin in this silence, and turn cyclones inside out. I'll rip through a thousand time frames, adjust the lay of the land, and spontaneously combust.

And the silence will bear no longer. The sound of a thousand thoughts and memories will crush mountains like wanton boys would to flies. God would tremble in the wake of such rapture.

But what price will I pay to finally let go of this symphony swirling in the depths of their grandeur?

Choppy waters choose not to give respite to those poor souls left flailing for their lives.
So they swallow the water, just as the water swallows them whole.

You said you needed a shoulder.
I stayed.

You seem to be doing fine. But that doesn't matter.
I have not been dismissed, even though you seem not to need me.

I'll still wait. For I want to be forever your shoulder...

I've never felt this alone.

You were my blanket.

I want company. But whose? No one's going to pander to my deranged sense of loneliness and discard their concerns for mine.


...You're not there...

We laugh in the face of love.
Nobody's really there.
Nobody's real...

Happiness By The Kilowatt

He jabbed her smartly in the ribs.

"Ouch! Masla kya hai tumhe?"
"Kuch bolo naa."
"Kuch nahin hai bolne ko. Kya boloon..?"
"So what? Just because there's nothing to say, doesn't mean you can't say anything."
"But what will it achieve?"
"I don't know, really. But it's communication, haina? I mean, here I am, talking, and you're listening. When you say something, you're talking, and I'm listening. And there's a link. There's communication. I want communication."
"....You're so weird."
"Kya, jaan..."
"Buss, meine keh diya hai. I win."

You always won. I'd always lose, just so you could win. I tried to make sure you won. All the time. Every single time. In childish competitiveness, when I'd sometimes forget to lose, the prize didn't help. What's the point of winning if it doesn't get you what you want?

In your victory, and the joy therein, lay my prize. If you won, I won, even if I had lost. If you lost, I lost, despite official records.


All I want to do is help you win. So I can win. I like these rules we play by. Can't we keep them? Why change the rules now, when there's no need to?

Let's play again. Please. Let our tears flow, and dance into the twilight. And leave us to us, to play our games, so you can say buss, meine keh diya hai. I win.

So I can win with you.

This is only just a test.

Hold my breath to communication.

if i can get this feeling safe
trembling eye lens
holding me there
we laugh in the face of love
cause nobody's really there
nobody's real.

Move one inch at a time...
You'll do just fine.

StopThe Fucking Car

Love is now a privilege we get to flaunt in the faces of others less fortunate. A basis on which to coincide our joys with others in the same boat. A privilege which can come and go however it may, and we will still clamour for it. We will still trample through hordes to covet this feeling.

Know what, I started writing this a while ago in my head, and I can't be bothered to continue. so fuck it. Happy reading.

Cut Me Gently, Cut Me Out

Don't talk about it, write it down, But don't ask for help
And I can't be honest with even myself
Did you ever wish you were someone else?

Dance Dance Dance

An offbeat hits the airwaves, and all the people surrounding him fade into non-existence. He cavorts around the room in a rush of exuberant insanity. Talk floats of unhappiness, and of enjoyment. All he can do is keep this insane gyroscope in motion. Walls blur into one, and corners whisper in shades of unknowing. Laughter crackles in some parallel dimension, where voices still carry meaning, faces still carry empathy, and humans still carry feelings. A time comes to mind. A time of youth's innocence. A time of hate's exile. And it all comes to a front. A crest swelling fifty feet high, dwarfing horrified wraiths, silencing the wails of those in torment. And surely what goes up must come down. The wave pounds down on the hapless, statuesque in the grip of fear and mounting crisis. The sound destroys all it ripples through. A quiet washes over the mortal face of existence, tearing down the fabric meshing everything together. It bears down with the ferocity and threat of the last minutes of your life. The assault is relentless.

And once it is over, and everything is ruined, he emerges from the fog, dancing still to the tune of 26. He is not afraid, as he feels himself falling back to ground.

In The Morning And Amazing

Infinite Silence floating right in with the Dawn
This feels wrong...This is wrong.
And I cannot sleep without the radio on.

Let us drown into this sleep.
May we never rise again.

Hold me please,
Stay with me,
and I will sleep...
In this half-light.

Good Winter.

Come on skinny love just last the year
Pour a little salt we were never here
My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my
Staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer

I tell my love to wreck it all
Cut out all the ropes and let me fall
My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my
Right in the moment this order's tall

I told you to be patient
I told you to be fine
I told you to be balanced
I told you to be kind
In the morning I'll be with you
But it will be a different "kind"
I'll be holding all the tickets
And you'll be owning all the fines

Come on skinny love what happened here
Suckle on the hope in lite brassiere
My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my
Sullen load is full; so slow on the split

I told you to be patient
I told you to be fine
I told you to be balanced
I told you to be kind
Now all your love is wasted?
Then who the hell was I?
Now I'm breaking at the britches
And at the end of all your lines

Who will love you?
Who will fight?
Who will fall far behind?

Animation and Suspense.

I feel the rot within. It's somewhere between my neck, and my pelvis. It might even be right between my neck and pelvis. My entire torso. I think my head sometimes tries to compensate for the death and numbness I feel in the rest of my body. Right now, I am all too aware of the divisions between my toes, each and every one of them held in suspension apart from each other. Through the rot, there cuts a sensation in the pit of my stomach. I have no name for this sensation. It is sad. It is dejected. It is disappointed. It is tragic. It is lost to the world, as the world is lost to it.

Metaphors speed by, and straws cling on when you clutch at them. The void gapes, and monstrous entities as yet undefined outside a considerable level of abstraction erupt from the maw. From eyeless bigots, to beasts undone by their own devices, they come bearing my face. They come bearing my shame. They come to see me undone by my devices, as they were undone by theirs. The ground on which I stand crumbles just to swallow me whole.

Just as I did when I was the ground beneath her feet.

So let's steal away to Eden,
and on the way we can sing in the car
You can stop for a moment denying your pain,
and perhaps I'll forgive you a lifetime of war.

And you can reclaim all you gave away
if it's just for this one short day
and we can reclaim the friendship that we once had,
and set our hearts back to go.

At least then, we might just
elude the report and escape
with it hidden intact

that's it, keep looking...it's just buried in the sand

though as i dig by your side, I fear I should just up and blindly run
The world starts in the morning, and I can already feel the sun
And the tide is closing in, we're up to our ankles...

So goodbye, my sister...
I guess I will see you tomorrow.

A Walk To Forget

I stepped out, and I walked
I walked and I walked
Down long tarred roads
down dirty dirt paths.

And on I walked, and I walked
winding with the promenade
I walked the longest walk,
Indeed to a place quite far.

I walked with the sun,
with its rise and its fall,
I walked 'round the world,
In no direction at all.

I walked with a purpose,
I walked with a place to go.
But it was where this place was
that left me at my greatest loss.

I walked, and I walked,
with longing weighing on my shoulders.
I wanted to walk home,
But no such place exists.

Dejected, I walked back from whence I emerged.
This road, arduous and long.
I wonder: did I miss the exit?
Did I take a turn wrong?

No answer came at all,
So I walked down my street,
Shorter strides by the minute,
Voices lost in the dance of a song.

What's the point of walking, when there's all these signs
and not a single one points to you.

Just so many things.

You don't need me. What is the point? You don't need any of this. You don't want any of this. So why do you carry on? I never understand, I never let go, I never care, I never try, so what's the point of it all to you? Not like you care to try, though. At least, it seems that way. All you want is for it to go away. But you never want to try and make it so that it goes away. So it never comes back. Dust under rug swept is still dust. Just as indifference behind i-love-yous are indifference.

I'll say it again. You don't need me. You don't need any of this. You don't want any of this. So what's the point? Why don't you find someone who makes you feel like there is a point. That there is desire. That there is a colossal yearning, a monstrosity consuming everything else in its wake in the process of overwhelming the entirety of your remaining existence. Someone who you won't "forget", someone who you won't be able to "forget". Someone who will become a part of you, someone who you can really latch on to and never let go. So what if the others will disapprove? This is your life. Not theirs. Your issues. Not theirs. Your desires. Not theirs. So do what you will, do what you want. My bruised cage will eventually breathe easy.

For who am I, to need you when I am down?
But where were you, when I needed you around?

Who am I to need you now? To ask you why, to tell you how? To deserve your love and your sympathy?

Maybe, just maybe...You were never meant to belong to me.

It is such a tortuous feeling. To want something, and feel like you don't deserve it. To have something when you know you don't deserve it. And your conscience is only too glad to remind you so. Quiet nights are spent wrangling fingers together, trying to instill some tension, some feeling, into the things we take for granted. And it is such a deathly feeling, knowing that what you are trying to accomplish, only one other person can do for you. And you don't have the right to have that person do it for you.

There's just so many things...

so many things.

Just so many things.

City and Colour

So say goodbye to love, and hold your head up high.
We're all just waiting....waiting.....to die.

I love the water, but I can't swim. Subconscious desire to drown?

Out of the question, it is not.

The Swim Back Home.

There's all this blood on my hands. It smells of Iron. Or maybe that's just me. But that's besides the point. The point is all this blood on my hands. All this blood, all littered throughout the expanse. All of it swimming through my yearning fingers. A blood of a hundred people flows through in a single thread, so I do not even know whose blood it is. Who do I lament now? Was this spray from the stabwound? Or the shorn promise of longing love? Was this haste making waste? What is this? Why is this?

I'm swimming through crimson seas. There's something in the distance, just visible at the horizon. Or so I think. I can't be sure. But I think it's there. So head off towards it, I do. It's the only thing visible for miles. Or it's the only thing seemingly visible for miles. The dwarfed silhouette of a probable mirage clouds the image of my limbs thrashing arcs through waves of maroon. With every dip, I see nothing but crimson, stretching on like a natural darkness in burning shades. What is the point? Why am I here? I would never come here. Someone brought me here. Who would bring me here? Where is this going?

It seems there is no day or night. How long has it been? Time has morphed into a snow crash. A static concerto scroll at its last yank, staves in shambles. Maybe this is why red paper never made for good sheet music. Note to self; stick to plain white. Nothing but white above, magenta below. And all around. Everywhere. The silhouette seems to be getting clearer, but it is still at a distance not in my fathom. It seems to be getting clearer, at any rate. Maybe it's this belief that it should be getting clearer, getting bigger, getting closer. I would certainly like to hope so. No. I cannot hope so. I have to believe in what I have accepted. Hope is a poorly-tempered concept. Or so I would hope...

For all the claret I have swallowed, I might as well be eating scrap metal for a staple diet. The taste stays on the roof of your mouth, in your teeth, on your tongue, in your throat, in your lungs, in your blood. Hah. Blood in your blood. Look. A Funny. Yes, funny. You have to see the lighter side of things, when surrounded eternally by gravity, and the realities of, well, having to wade through an ocean's worth of blood to get to something you think is there, while somehow nursing a dreary suspicion that your belief is toying with your plight for resolution. All you want is answers. There's nothing but answers to seek. You'd also like to know the questions, if someone's willing to divulge surplus information. If there is anyone who could divulge information at all...

Crest after wave after crest after wave after crest after wave after crest after wave after crest after wave after crest after wave after crest after wave after crest after wave after crest after wave after crest after wave. Red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red. I wonder if all you see is red when you bleed in the eye. Another question, perhaps. Came up with one myself, i feel some strange sense of achievement. Pride, perhaps? Satisfaction? That blurry mantlepiece upon the horizon shows no signs of letting up. I must not question, I must believe if I have accepted. When I make it there, I will commemorate this momentuous occasion. If? No. No. When. When is good...

Alien

It's a strange quiet, the feeling that everything seems to be going right, but something, anything, could possibly be going wrong, without your knowing it. Knots age and, in their silent weariness, untie themselves without anxious hands pulling away. The dust lives a fast-paced life, but eventually settles down, sits to catch its breath, before someone sweeps it along, someone sets it aflight. Spectres wither in the shade of our minds, and the shade grows lighter with the movement of the sun. Our mind, cluttered with a thousand useless heirlooms. Our mind, cluttered with possibilities. Our mind, cluttered with hopes and fears. Our minds, ours and no one else's.

Let us take leave. Fly away together. Just the two of us. We won't need anyone. There will be love. There will be music. There will be peace. We will starve our minds, so they consume the clutter. We will rest in the radiance of our own notions of what is right and what isn't going wrong.

We will exist in the blink of an eye. A blink later, and we will be no more. So let us blink together, my love.

Snakes and ladders.

Put me away.

My clothes are sorted into my cupboard.

Nothing major. But for some reason, it feels good.

Cordon Sanitaire.

The brain is real, but the mind is an abstraction. And so the mind is free.

The body is real, but the soul is an institution. And so the soul must be maintained.

What does it feel like to feel like you're losing both?

The answer, shortly after these commercial messages...

Sensationalism

My skin is a canvas. Organic. Natural. Crawling to get off. But my insides threaten to tear away if the skin unravels, and so the skin unwillingly stays in shape. It knows within snarls a beast, waiting to be unleashed. So it puts aside its dreams of an escape to resolution. Duty forever overshadows desire. It must have been written in the stars, just as it will be etched in paint and blood.

Fluid.

Empty as I was, I poured myself into a vessel as empty as I was.
As empty as I was, I felt myself flow out of myself
into this vessel that felt empty. A vessel I tried to fill with my emptiness.
Empty as I was, this vessel was not. It was full as could be.
As empty as I was, I found myself emptier than before.

---

When you shoot the bottom of a bottle, it always explodes, but the neck manages to stay intact. Of course, such results are best achieved with an empty bottle. A bottle with liquid in it is going to slow down the bullet somewhat, and change the explosive nature of the impact to some extent. Right now, life is the liquid that is missing from the empty bottle that is I. I feel so drained, so dry, so sparse, that at times, I wonder if I have never felt differently. I tire easily of things. Very few instances bring a lightness to living as we know it now. There is she, there are the kids, and then there's a few sights and sounds I cherish and (I would like to say) appreciate. But this short collection is rather miniscule. And is surrounded by a void so gaping, it dwarfs any substance in its presence.

I might as well be void, through and through.

A thought occurred to me. It was strange. I thought, strangely enough, that people who tend to write a lot tend to question as (in)frequently who they are. But I've cut down on how much I write. And I've never had as many questions to find answers to. But I care not to write the answers to these questions. It is as if, truly, my words are lost to me. As if they refuse to fuse into sentences that make coherent sense, as if they defy my reason and my will for ascertainment.

I feel as if I have surrendered to my words, as they swim in pools before my eyes, but resist my hand when it forces them onto paper. I feel as if I have lost the right and subsequently the will to command these words as I once felt I could. I feel as if I have not shown enough respect to the things and people I loved, or claimed to have loved, and thus do my words forsake me.

I feel as if I have lost. And I feel I should stop now, because this is enough grovelling at nothing. Even I cannot find in myself to deliver redemption unto myself. Damned is, as Damned shall be. And Damned shall I be. Alone.

Conventional Wisdom

They always tell you to be careful around sharp objects, knives, glass, razor blades, barbed wire, the road. They'll never tell you to be careful when turning a goddamn fucking doorknob. Cuz there's no way in HELL you're ever going to fuck yourself up twisting a fucking doorknob.

All you conventional wisemen can go suck a fuck.

Case.

She takes the papier mache in her hands, and bends it, testing it's durability. He looks up at her with pleading eyes.

She tears along the imaginary perforated line. He withers and floats with the love she discards.

Proportionality.

In the grander scheme of things, I am unimportant. What I want is not what I want. What I want is what all of you want. What I want is peripheral, a means to what you want. The Greatest Happiness for the Greatest Number. The number 1 is not greater than whatever number I choose to take upon myself. I don't care about myself. So will you please stop riding my ass about it?

There.

Broken branches trip me as I speak...

Defeated.

On my knees. Defeated. SO defeated.

I have not the strength to push myself off the ground, and to dare to stand in the wake.

So I'll stay here on my knees. Defeated.

Evil

"I'm afraid I can't help you."
"I've got to get out of here, please."
"Then get out. I want you to get out. But I just cannot help you."

---

"Won't you come to me?"
"How can I?"
"Please, just come to me."
"..."

---

"It's just too much."
"So there's no way it can happen?"
"No. He flat out said no. He won't allow it. At all."

---

Fuck. This. Shit.

Vision

You see everything differently with your eyes closed.

Integrity

Do I not respect yours enough?

Red Sparrows

Maybe I was oversensitive; maybe I did over-react. Maybe I should've stayed, but I thought it best to walk away. Your approach did not sit well with me at all; don't get me wrong, I am greatly indebted to you, but I do have limits, silly as my principled threshold may seem to you. Your justification did no favours; Where you are from does not define who you are, but what you do goes to great lengths. And your defense? Comparing me to some shit two-bit fucker; am I that low in your esteemed estimation? You lower me to a tier beneath your shoe, and I am expected to understand. I'd have tossed your goddamned shoes halfway across the goddamned planet, only to have you hit me in the face with another one. And so I suppose my face deserves to be beaten black and blue, to blend in with the dirt streaking my cheeks. Alteast my shame will over-shadow my pride for all to see.

Someday, I'll stuff myself in a spare cigarette box, and let my light snuff itself out. We're all on that path anyways, treading day by day, optionally oblivious to the moment we trip into our final stupor, the day we will cower in blind fear, without even ourselves to light us. My light may be gone, but every ounce of pain, anguish and grief I have ever caused, with or without reason, will fade. An ideological man such I should be swept away for good. I may mean nothing but the best, but my delivery is severely lacking, and so it may as well appear for naught. A caterpillar cocoons itself in its ugliness, only to emerge as a soft-winged, astounding butterfly. Where do we go when we are hideous? There's only so many places we can hide ourselves. We only always leave uglier than that last instance. All this material presentation wilts in the face of what we wrought into and of ourselves. I wish I was destined for a life of obscurity, a withering wick instead of a bright spark. Maybe then I'd find peace, before and within my last moments. Everything I have found beautiful and worthwhile, every pursuit of enlightenment neglected for some solace, some silent harmony. No illuminatory misconceptions.

I speak of simplicity, and yet my penchant for complication has dragged me this far in a rambling tirade to a conclusion most desirable, yet most untenable. Life is a thankless, unappreciable swagger, and we're all stuck in a cycle, yesterday's dirty laundry tossed in with God's favourite detergent, Time.

Isn't it great to find that you're really worth nothing?

And how safe it is to feel safe...

So drown me if you can, or maybe we could just have conversation...

It seems we thrive on day-old hate. Mine doesn't last beyond an hour, before it is turned inwards, into some force consuming my conscience, my will, my life, my soul. May some force snap me in half, as a gregarious child would a KitKat bar in public, and just as those chocolate wafers fly through the air in those dramatic advertisements, I wish a crimson arc to splatter against white walls, in one last vain hope of feigning significance, of something absolutely worthless to remember my by. With everything inside me smeared plain for all to see, maybe I'll be granted redemption, and be allowed to slip through time's greedy fingers to finally be lost to these conquests that are ultimately as worthless as every second I've just spent putting pen to paper.

Forgive me for all I've done, am doing, and unfortunately will do. Whether you believe in God or not, I wish he sees the brilliance in all of you I so disgracefully discard, and gives you the grace of his protection, and fully satisfyingly full life. I should stop now. Enough Aimless rambling.

Debauch

In this world of red wine, fake cigarettes, and music, there is something from within that resides outside these parameters. In a distant land, there is a silhouette that turns with the light. A silhouette I recognize without having seen it before. It harmoniously moves with the melody inside me, applying rouge, orange lipstick, and blue eyeliner. From this shapeless darkness, it casts out a rainbow, spanning universes, defying all obstacles, marking my path back home. All the colours that exist engulf me, casting me in a limelight tinged all of God's unworldly splendour, and the shadow settles as a comfy blanket. I think I see the blink of an eye, but I see the world shift to place me at its heart of hearts. Hale and hearty laughter emanates from the good times that might someday be forgotten, but the humming chorus is my marching beat, and off it sets me, traversing nebulae, meeting strangers in a strange place called life. And so I go over this kaleidoscopic arch, marching onwards to the shape that cannot escape me, even without a prison to cage it. And I know, in my heart of hearts, that this shapeless silhouette waits with open arms, a loving smile, and a touch of crimson, flowing to me, drawing me in from whence it came. With all the intricacy of delicate jazz, formless fingers push my shoulders back, so I may walk straight, head held up high.

So that, when I am finally home, this silhouette will hold me, love me, caress me, and complete my world. In this world of red wine, fake cigarettes, and music, I will find my peace and unity in those shapeless arms I might never have seen before, those arms that will carry me when I cripple, into the heart where everything is in its right place.
Won't you please arrange it, 'cos I love you... Just the way you look tonight.

Khudi.

Impatiently Optimistic. Masochistically sadistic. Deceptively Honest. Miserably happy. Passionately languid. Blissfully chaotic. Gladly depressed.

Lovingly hateful. Welcome to me.

This Ain't A Surfin' Movie.

She sang a short tune,
da... da daa da daa daaa...
And I came from her soft touch
And slept.

I hope...the weather holds.
But you don't need the sun to make you shine.
I know we won't want for much.
Just you, me, a bed, and a shoreline.

Such a california song. Bunch of Goddamn Washington Wannabes.

<3

Just another piece of meat.

Routine.

We're running in chocolate circles.

My head hurts. Sometimes does, sometimes doesn't. But it does now. Nothing makes it go away, so I'll just clench my teeth, think about more chocolate circles, and ignore the pain.

My head hurts.

Vermicide

A blade slides down the trickle of skin left clung to his bicep. Lost in the crimson flow, not a sound is made that is audible over the adrenalized breathing, and the ensuing clatter of the knife on the floor.

He sits, bent over in ritual contrition. She stares at the corner for just a moment longer, then promptly swings open the door, and finds her way back home.

Thought You Had It In You, But No...

For a moment, I lay there defeated. In that moment, you decided to keep your back turned. I can tell not whether it was complacency, or indifference. Nonetheless, it was clear you didn't see my roiling. Else, you would have claimed the spoils and moved on to your next battle. The truth, our truth, would have been lost, only to be replaced by some ugly incarnation of a "truth" too hideous to witness.

In that moment lays captured my greatest defiance. Defying God, time, "truth", you...I cast all away. In my defeat, I found the resolve to seize what I wanted, what I called mine, before it was mine to call mine.

There is so much talk of growing up. We grew up the hard way. We were given everything while we were growing up. And so, we've grown up ill-prepared. Without conviction to take what we want to. What we have to. And no one's giving us anything, not for anything. We are having to wrestle it out of the hands of the same mouths we would swear to feed, the backs we would claim to clothe, and cover in frigid winds. We pilfer from the maker's hand what hath been made, whether it be made for naught or another.

In my defeat, I grew. In my defeat, I found I had to take what I wanted. And so take I shall, be it for naught, or for another.

Half-Full/Half-Empty

My impatience will get the better of me. I grow more and more irritable with myself for all this free time I have. It is a stab in the back of my mind when I always remember of how people spoke of my "potential", and whether it truly exists or not, that reverberation will forever reside inside this head of mine.

It's Go or Bust time now. Either I push myself outwards in every single direction I possibly can. I may possibly grow from it. Or I will possibly realize one big failure in the eternity of an instant. Either way, at least there will finally be some sort of resolution.

No rest for the wicked. So hath it been ordained.

There Aren't Any Secrets.

I want to be a vehicle for change. And by god, I'm going to do it. The things I want for us, they are not mere trifles. You will shower in lavender, make roses wilt with envy, command grace amongst unworthy lepers. Your throne will be wrought from my bones. Life will thrill you, and you will forget what it is like to try and breathe. There will be no time for such trivialities. My touch will become a part of what you are, as much as you will make me what I am. My thoughts will be your words, and our synergy will defy any schism. Time will melt into a warm embrace, smothered in dark chocolate, and traced by creme de menthe. We will not give chase; the artefacts will fall far behind in futile efforts to capture and contain us. And your happiness will be infinite. We won't be the same. We will be One.

Give yourself to me. Never leave me be.

Muswell

I must be patient and stay true...

Be Calm In Your Heart.

It's golden advice. If followed properly, it would make the world a better place. It would let you flourish, it would bring beauty to your ears, music to your feet, movement to your eyes. The quiet voices of laughter, mirth, and contentment will ripple through waves of being.

Lose it, and stones will raze the stray. Castles will crumble. Dreams will die.

You will be left with the smoldering remains of what could have been, but never was.

Bitch.Bitch.Bitch.Bitch.Bitch.Bitch.Bitch.Bitch.Bitch.Bitch.Bitch.Bitch.

*does the two hands talking over each other routine*

You're quiet and cryptic. You're veiled in deceit and sleight.

Reveal your performance. No more secrets. No more games.

Hesitation.

Hold back till it's omniscient. Once it pervades everything, you reveal it. Once you feel it everywhere, everything, everytime, you tell of it.

That's why I hesitate.

Fragile

It's a silent agony that swells within the immense sphere of paranoia where we find ourselves drowning. Our bodies intact, our pain illusory. But our souls, they are drawn and quartered.

Marathon

No matter how many times I hear this, A) it will never get old, and B) I will never stop marveling at the beauty of the imagery, and the sheer poetry.

Like A Kiss, soft, and wild,
with the delicate steps of petals
fallen into a stream
This swirling ballerina turns
in faint and sighing grandeur
across the floor to me

A monarch plays the violin to a summer's afternoon
Whilst quietly, the earthworm adores the soil
in winter's sparkling gloom.
It breaks away, growing, as the flowers do.

A Thunderhead embraces his enraptured lover,
And kisses with a gale that also makes the cattails shudder.
His tears cannot, as he proclaims his love,
be held with lightning back.
They fondly dance into an open window
And fondly dance with mine.

Our eyelashes weaken with a weight that is sweet and fine
And this feels like frogs and spiders in the sweet outside.
Tell me why world, unfathomable and good...
The beauty of everything is infinite and cruel.
An aeroplane, a puppet, an orange, a spoon.
a window, and outside... stars and the moon...

Cadaver.

The smell of burning flesh is...intriguing. Enticing. Arousing.

The way the flames lick her hot body. A lick at the ankles and she feels the heat on her neck. He watches, wide-eyed and paralyzed, watches the tongue move up her calves, painfully slow as it roams her supple thighs, the heat of the fire matching the heat in her crotch. The room is ablaze, but this ritualistic fascination keeps them cold in their motions. Her skin is crawling, her skin is peeling, his senses are wired, his urge rising with the beat of the hiss in every next stroke along her glazed physique.

Bodies join, and the heat rises a thousand degrees. The union breaks, and all energy is spent. Frigid breaths put the fire out, and the beat is never the same again.

If you read this...

Talk to me. Or I'll just assume everything I've assumed is correct. And we know how that leads to bad things, non?

Waltz.

You do not save failed potential for the Last Dance, especially when it doesn't even know the steps.

Beautiful to Watch.

In my mind, you twist and turn with the grace of a katana slicing through plain air. Your shape flawless, your motion determined, your arcing trace light, the ring of your swing melodious, the driving force effortless, the impact hard, the damage done and irreversible.

Your blows hit me like a torrent. I shiver at the hilt, I dent and I groan under the weight. Your song tires me, your shape taunts me, your grace defeats me, your desire staggers me, every movement of mine is laborious, and there is no salvation.

Your tirade weighs heavy upon me. I want silence. I want peace. Give me peace.

Cut me down.

Count me out.

E

the hat's gone. I'd completely forgotten about it, till today. I wish the word would bleed into this world from the very core. All so I may grow numb to this.

I don't know what I'm keeping, and what I'm throwing away. But arbitrary decisions are being made as we speak. Regret it or not later, I'm doing one or the other.

This vacuum grows in strength, unrelenting, unabated. You thrust the dagger deep inside you, and once your claret congeals, you inflict your virus upon others. If stab me you must, do it to my face; not my back. Do it, so I see whether your tears and your regret is marked with your bloody taint. Or whether you weep for angels and their admirers while you smile for your demons and their desires.

Free your love.

I need you because I have no one.
No, wait, wait.
I need no one, because I have you.

Pianissimo

Immerse your soul in love.

The Illness

The quiet voice brings solace to solitude. Somethings are always lost in translation. But the silence bears the weight through to the end. Words come into meaning.

Let's disappear. Make our plans smaller. Just you and me. Your siren soliloquies and my violent lovesongs. We never thought we'd be here after all.

Mono

I sketched a window into the colours of your mind.

My black and white world, it lost its bite.

You Burn First.

Ragdoll bitch. I have half a mind to take a canister of oil to your delicate ankles, and strike a match or ten. I always loved how the flames swayed from side to side. Like watching the hottest chick in a salsa bar throw her moves at a guy. Oh, and the laughs when you find out she's actually out for pussy. They're there too. Hang tight. It's not too long a ride.

Consequences.

You reap what you sow.

Where do I start?

You. Fucking. Cunt. I'm a fucking pussy, I won't deny it. If I retained any hopes of a violent manner, and knew I could escape easily, I'd riddle you with pockmarks, and batter you till you were kneaded putty. Fuck sharp objects, blunt force is what the fuck I'm talking about. I mean, I'm not huge, but I'm angry enough to pack a fucking wallop. or fifty. You might be the same size, but you've not got this ferile rage inside you.

Let me think up a scheme. A grand plan, an....an execution.

Take this to be a discourse in the aesthetics of hate. I have long suppressed it. Now I will turn it loose.