Let’s talk about something. A house with a staircase facing East/West, front to back so that the sun will always shine through big exterior windows. There will also be one or two interior ones. The floors could be dark red rippled mahogany in the living room. One of the more magical things money can buy. The hallways will be interlocking, but wide bright planks nonetheless. I think...
light light light.
feel like plasma now mystical and encouraging vacant, too. in the bone is a coal that smiles at ceilings when they run this programming. . Camelights
tumblr overhaul. ya like?
a narrative of now. (VIII)
i’m with the supreme Joseph my friend o’way from T. talking about Stupid Hoe and the ever delicious candy : arguing. . Camelights
your healing will heal. just as your pain pained. . Camelights
but before i go on imagine us listening to Bon Iver’s Holocene, dancing like slow motion indians barefoot in a living room we moved the furniture out of the way for; maybe high, and ill wear my orange tank you’ll wear whatever the hell you like, and i like that about you. light will break the sepia glass and steep us in its glory as this turning, churning spectacle devours us whole...
Who loves arguing the ideas of subjective and objective ethics? This guy. Oh,...
If you have time. And you'd like to witness a... →
an old wound.
i’ll do something small close my palm and then fingers around the knob, to turn slowly. and pull open the door. . you’ll be angry. i’ll point my eyes at you long enough to feel the full extent and then i’ll start before you do. i’ll say: you will never know how sorry i have been. so i will sit, and you will do whatever you need to. . Camelights
my dog came back from the kennel with some puncture marks. must have gotten into some scraps while he was there. probably over his girlfriend, Bella.
he's got a girlfriend?
yep. looks like a golden retriever almost, but is pure, pure white. and Talon is stark black. too bad he's got no junk.
he's got a stick but no pucks.
i slip on the floor a lot. thin little water lens pools corrupt my naked feet heel balls slowly, in tiny ways my elbows extend at nothing intending to grasp furious nothing back inclined back reversed and slanted vertical gravity tapering falling legs shoot out from under . Camelights
good lord these drugs seep through me skrillex blAres into my existence my beating picks up the pace bang bang BANG. [ friends with axes, lets fucking go. ] . Camelights
Noel Gallagher does it better.
tigress doesn’t mean ferocious though it could, but further does precocious goes if you, fearless i’ll tally ‘long. lead the sunlight. and be joy. my september birthstone is blue too. toddling with the glimmer of hope in a tattered armrest at home it is frustrating. you know that the same as i; what the inferno ought could be who knows? i’ll implore on the streets....
When the NewYork Times said God is dead!– Elton John
omniscient glare of instinct.
i want to meet a panther. noir and sleek and muscular. see that his breath is hot. see the teeth are yawning, and languidly brawny. a panther. just to feel the awe. of his eyes, readily bore through me readily available to kill me, he is all dignity. all majesty. nod respectfully. the omniscient glare of instinct. . Camelights
[ also from earlier today, on a bus, on my phone. ] . the tail pipes of a cop car smoulder as my shuttle rumbles by. what do you see, static and badge? you see nothing. the flawless leather grace of my jacket is my shine; the flip-cover authority clearing rooms like swat teams moving precision into the human error. flashing bulbs into big boxes to darken their inhabitants. my jacket is your...
Like a Nutter.
[ earlier today in a train station, on my phone ] . i could bet wagers on how fucked up you are. unkempt hair, greasy almost, “normal” looking jeans. brown shoes, brown jacket, boring outdated white ball cap pulled low over your brow. unshaven. shoulder bag and backpack. talking, laughing, shifting stance next to: pretty young girl. extremely younger than you, and nervous. you seem...
I pictured the Russians in Afghanistan. The Soviets. The dark native peoples of Afghanistan, mocha and dusted with skin familiar to the dryness of desserts and sparse fields. I fanned the flames of imagination, wondering how the soldiers would simply trot down the streets of foreign cities, absent minded almost. As if there wasn’t a war going on around them. I thought of a soldier. Any soldier,...
LOVE the new dashboard
i really don’t want to sleep yet. i want to taste something. i want to taste you. . Camelights
so Contraband was a really good movie, as per ush with Mark Wahlberg.
“Do you know how to create a disturbed personality? Constant criticism, and lack of affection.” - Cal Lightman. . you have this fucking tool. resembling paternal affection and it rips from me, it steals smiles not meant for you. and you’re not welcome. you lean in, like a mountain peaking over the car-window ledge, suddenly. brashly and unexpectedly, behaving like...
we should create alter- characters, to hold alter-conver -sations with us, so that we can say what we’d like to say on top of what we’d actually say. like strawberry, upside down cake. . Camelights
what kind of soul can not be overwhelmed in joy at late-day showers? . Camelights
dead posies outside my door wind flailing them about as if they were all shouting FUCK@!?@## . Camelights
i am a ball of ecstatic at our similarities. . har kala Rasha, with your thoughts, like the same style marbles, i learned to speak with as well, but Sthare Mashe i wish you — as i know these roads too well. life-fumblings and our bumblings - as someone else will say. but Inshalllah, the funny idea i don’t believe in, that we will surmise with our own tools, our own toils and live...
my dog is asleep on the floor. grungy snarling yawns in the black fur coat. he looks like a great killer. if he wasn’t a colossal fruit-fly-sitter. lazily happily snack’d and oblivion’d. . Camelights
“i don’t believe in any of that.” trickling like an illness into my dukes’ foreboding ears. poisoning their charisma and building knots in their irises, “i win, i win, i win!” . Camelights
my friend calls me zen. my homie, Yoda, i say is better than that and then. . Camelights
oatmeal, i guess. little pot of boiling water. mint chip ice cream and pizza. i wish. basmati rice instead. . Camelights
you made my smile caught like a limping balloon on the tip of a knife don’t pull — . Camelights
would very much like to eat breakfast naked now.
tennis with old habits. please take them away. Inshallah, maybe Khaled-willing i can stow them, stay. sitting in a stupid chair in the morning of my dawn a friend is frantically messaging me sobbing that she bombed. c’est la vie, i say. she hates when i get logic. “there’s nothing you can do today just breathe on and be stoic. “ still i smell vague hints of relapse, my...
if i’m proud of the height of my shoulder or the curve in my abdomen or the flex in my arm or the stiffness of my spine or the firmness in my calf it’s none of your business. unless i’m feeling slutty. or halved. . Camelights
ode to strength.
full-rimmed wooden eyes, tasking thoughts and hunched-overs. logic and calculations are neither comparable musts together. but rhythm, sometimes and logic are inseparable. it is the returned volley that aghast’s you. wrongfullness, plain as 40 feet tall, inclothed, white shank between felt and known. what is owed to strength is an ode to strength. and you must never acquit the burning...
irish, scottish, maltese, one.
i found a beautiful book today and i felt awash with relief and the relief ran through me in spasms, unlocking the stiffened and rusted cogs in my shoulders and spine. i sat to flip through eventual-fading-yellow pages of a brand new soft-back by an author i already was a whimsical mess for. his romance isn’t romance but for the love of well-worn trials and tribulations and the absolute...
groggy, yes gym?…. fine.