LustHe listenedTo her laughAs if it was a symphonyAnd she hungOn his wordsLike they were vines.
tea.hot steam pours itselfinto the cupdense with the seasonsof leaves,Darjeeling comfortinhaled by the morningas the city wakesitself to a brightnessof milk and honey.I smile and bring thesun's fragrant warmthto my lips.
our fathers' sinsand this is where we end.all cities built of dust this isdeath travelling in the wind crossingthe borders we forgothe's like cartography.towers locked.sometimes you feel them swaying(there are cries at night there arethings we don't believe in now)and your teeth sing of miseryroots settled into poisoned land whileyou breathe holyi am only grasping at air.my head is what you don't know.if there was time i would tell you of it.i would invent stories (we haveforgotten) and write in scarson your skin because thesewords they burn on my fingertips.at night we move onlyin the rhythm of carriagesand i can whisper louder thanthey ever cry do theyever cry? maybe they won'tif we stop burying the past(it is still breathing it is uglyit will come back to haunt us all)and i can whisper louder than they cry.once upon a world a time was youngstill carried by the wind held warmby death's embrace andthere were girls locked in towers.locked in towers and now i knowwe are
It won't lastOne day, it will endI know we're not a trendBut you and I, we're so differentI find you the best there isBut what do you find in me..?I know you always tell me I'm 'the one'Somehow I don't quite grasp thatAm I really the one you've always longed for?With all my imperfectionsWith all my complicationsWith all my conflictsI'm not a simple person, you knowI'm not as amazing as you areI don't have answersI don't give advicesI'm not as experiencedIf you ever stumble and fall I can't pick you up, like you pick me upYou're the one that I loveAnd I'm scared, scared you'll ever say goodbyeI'm not ready for you to leaveI'll never be readyEven though it's unfair for youI wish to wake up everyday beside youWake you up with a morning kissBe with you, because you're simply the bestBut I'm not sure if I'm the same for you
Suicide BirthFate sets the day you’re born,The beloved gods mourn,Since they know it will be rough,And hope you don’t get torn.Forced to grow up, and be toughJust a ghetto boy-Broken inside,No father, struggling motherWonder where the love resides.Doesn’t know where his householdSo he sticks to the streets,Where it all unfolds,Looking for quick bucks,And fast friends.But it’s cold in these streets,Fair weather friendsAre the only ones he could meet.He was thirsty and low on coke,But kept them around,They made sure he kept sporting,And they love to smoke.He hated his 9 to 5,But was tired of him and momBeing church mice.Stayed geeked up,So his momCould go to church nice,Now he stays with money,It should feel good right?This a game of dice,Born to fail,Fate,Heaven sent,Or was born from hell?Hearing those daily shotsHe could never tell.
(break)fast for dinnerim sitting in the cafe where you left meand the chatter is gnawing at my cochlea -growing louder and louder and louder andyour yellow kisses are pooling in my mouth, too much to contain.little people cant eat big wordsbecause once they choke they'll dieso they try to fit the way your eyes blink andthe color of your cheeks when you sigh and the twitch of your fingers when youre brushing snow off your shoulder into sonnets - comets rushingin the sky like reindeer - jingle jinglein my rib cage. you are a religion and i try to be faithful but im scared -- save me.the french toast on my plate is gone andsyrup sticks to my fingers the way your hands held onto mine. im missing you but you changed your status from jake to janetand now im sitting in a cafe with an empty plate and black coffee and it's 6:42 but it feels like midnight --save me.
out of ideasscrambled the words areunwrittenuntoldstructured sentences unfoldto convey nothing but atalentless, disarmedwriterthrowing his 100th blank pageto the bin
Ode to the artistColours danceJust out of reachOf her grasping fingers,Her lips tipped upAnd her violet eyesGlistening with wonder.And today,So many years later,When her eyes have settledAnd their colour dimmed,When the curls in new hairHave fallen flat,Even nowThose colours danceJust out of her reach.She slashes at canvasWith wide brushesAnd dripping paints,Trying to captureThose perfect blends,Those perfect tones,That perfect feeling.Her works are masterpieces,Acclaimed by all who see,But not a single oneIs complete,Merely abandonedBy the mother who cannot cherishImperfection.And so she starts againWith new brushesAnd brighter paints.And she screamsInto her brushstrokes,And criesInto the glaze,And laughsWith the easel,Because that is whatArtIs.Not a blending of colours,Not the recreation of a scene,Not the likeness of a figure.Art isPain and joyMixed together on the same palette.Art is the reminiscence on a placeAnd the worship of a face.Art is lifeBl
XXIVJ'ai laissé mon corps à l'entrée du jardin,les oiseaux s'en occuperont, dit-elleAlors aveugle et sans frissonslibre et donc muetteson éther au sien se mêleDes fibres de désir affleurent àla surface de leurs âmeset conscients d'avoir perduleur chair d'étoileleurs esprits, sans âge, s'emmêlentConfiants dans l'invisibleils s'aimaginent ailleursunis et dispersés ainsi la pluieEt lui de dire, après ce moment,de penser, arrêtons-nous