ANGELS

They call out tonight...

PHASES OF A DARK MOON

Well, what about tonight? Moon-ed, maroon-ed and pseudo-stoned.

A warm evening in Bjork's ‘Cocoon’, an oriental madness in the beats and a slithering voice licking with a rattlesnake's precautious pleasure. Not the urgency though, much more of a slow unwrapping, followed ungraciously by Bono. No comments.

I am being watched, again. Rattlesnake urgency there, unable to drown and dissolve in all of this, all of this can be yours; all of this can be yours… like before. You are growing fat on expectations, aren't you? I know what you want, something pretty. Pretty sad. Pretty lonely. Pretty lost. You can hear happiness standing on down street; footprints dressed in red as the wind whispers Mary… An old black pair of high heels and a tearing GO GOA! T-shirt hiding little bits of brown flesh swaying to and fro in rhythm searching dance as you watch. I know you want it badly, now. Just like all those times before with before people and all those before stories. No surprises underneath, you have been there, done it all, the indecision, the reluctance; a knowing smile with the soft thuds on the expectant floor and the scratching on the watching walls. Followed by the screaming and supplication.

You Draculian playboy, you.

Funny how fornication speaks for infinite thoughts of a virgin with an untamed word tambourine.

Though you might hear laughing spinning swinging madly across the sand, its not aimed at anyone, its just escaping on the run and before the sky there are no fences facing.

Always makes me smile. Always, always. Always.

Little Secrets Old Men Hide

A summer morning of no particular consequence was flowing in with the vitriolic sun as you stood at the window from where you could see the long, lithe leg under her summer dress and she could see you from the corner of her uncharacteristicly large eyes. You wonder if she could tie you up to the chair, legs embrassing your waist. You would be amazed when I tell you this, shes been wondering how your sweat soaked fingers would taste and if half moustaches do tickle inner thighs. What a lovely way to start a morning, her dying tongue flickering against yours as you rub her little tummy against your rough palm while her proud chest pushes your shoulders against the walls your wife pressed you against when she hit you. Lovely, late Lolita, mine.

Oh now shes crying amazements in her head as you talk dirty to her in yours. Unchristian ways of beckoning Him as she's calling you names, lonely, tired ones. The ones you wanted to hear so often from your wife. She deserved what she got, a stunning death at the hands of her brother. Lovely, lovely C, with his brawny shoulders. Sometimes you just wanted to...

And just when the maid walks in, so many liquids on your widower floor. She's surprised because she doesnt know what it is. Not anymore. There is more than secretion there. A little girl and an old man with their dirty smells. A proud, fertile woman and a tired, willing old man. A lovely vagina below a lovelier face. A tired face over a scarred body.

Oh for the love of secrets.


Im angrier than this post can tell you. Penises ruling the world is just bugging me right now.

RECEPROCAL PUPPETS

And now for some teenage angst and truly heartfelt poetry.


RECEPROCAL PUPPETS.

Burns flare on yellow skin,
How does it feel to be caressed so cruelly, slave?
The bits of life slowly sucked away,
A mossy green on my ceiling grows,
A green-blooded heart encompasses agony,
How does your blood flow so indifferently?
Messages leaked into tonight's wind,
Oh, how the whore-d you hollers!
The blue vein flowers under your peel -
Overshadowing seasonal gardens-
Blushing under lunar stares,
How I forget my penitent soul on your lap,
Being crushed by your fanatic strength.
Occasionally dying under the curing sun,
Occasionally living under reciprocating strings.

SANE POSTS

Welcome to the world of the grammatically and dictionary-wise correct. De hopes you enjoy what you (dont) see (at least this time)

So I was on this break right? Something like forced leisure. Like a paralysis, only this time its the head. The brain. Complete refusal to function. So I'm coming home tired and want to write/draw something nice that I can remember through some days. Something like a first kiss or something, I guess. I wouldnt know. I hear Im not really all that kissable as I am kiss-ass-able. And lemme say, Im a pompous bit of shit. So I like what I hear.

And then the day before yesterday I was sitting with a pencil in my hand waiting for my mind pictures to flow out. Its a beautiful thing, these fragments. I think I learned to put them to abstract sense. Nothing. I mean, nothing. I'm thinking of a stupid joke I made up. Saying that if I found a guy he would replace my hand-as in I'd stop writing. Total pun or what?! To think I had no clue what pun really meant.

And then when I was almost sleepy, there out of the blue, a picture. I drew. So perfect. OOO so lovely. I drew it till 1 and spend the rest of the night staring at it. I think I made a baby, there. My own, very own, lovely child. You know whats wrong? Now I cant paint it cuz I think I'll screw up. I'm so scared. Watching out the corner for them to look at me and tell me what colours they would like. They are twins. Much like I wanted it. Beautiful twins. Wait till tonight. Im going to get into your uncoloured womb and caress your featureless faces. No abstractness, thats what they are. Unformed foetuses, so beautiful stuck in the process of birth.