If you were looking
Our kitchen was oaken, golden honey-brown and it glistened. Sun clung and sprang off the clean shines of aluminum appliances, like dew. The windows have split cross panes, they’re rectangular, and built in knotted wooden frames. They open at full arm’s breadth, and the gleam is soft off the floorboards. It’s that floor for Prince sons and Queen daughters to run around on. A...
Of those who’ve taught me, successfully, your lesson was quicker, sharper, and fashioned from finer materials - than any parent, professor, or friend figure I’ve known yet. I explained to you that I was learning to believe and operate from the premise that people may and do function on fundamentally differing dimensions. It sounds simple, but what it Really is - is hugely large in its...
April 30th & Having Moved Home.
This place is regal, but we don’t live like princes. We are neither magnificent nor dignified. This family, this house — is brimmed over by stagnancy. We don’t fill the walls with pictures - or anything else. The taupe will kill us.
i got this feeling
that I won’t be around forever. I got this feeling, this feeling — you see, that, I might be around for less than forever. Much, much less than that - even! I got this feelin, and - it might be soon - that I have to get goin. I feel like I might not make it off this planet alive, y’know? And what’s worse — what’s just the worst thing — is that I got a...
I’ve met many great writers on tumblr. Maybe they’ll empathize with this. . I feel sad when I see other people. Not that I notice it usually, and not that it’s ever been a face-value, surface plain idea until right this moment. But it’s there, nice and deep seated like something right between your eyes not even your peripherals can pick up. So the question becomes why, if...
road to zion stimulated
Strapped for time on the gymnasium and boiling the faucets in every muscle facet, cranking anti-gravity and trying to be languid about it. Fists into a punching bag, wailing away at it as a body - dead weight mass. Dirt under fingernails, sun-burnt shoulder Man - prying the elusive dedication out of himself. Battered soul syndrome won’t be innocuous, but contemptuous limited — provided...
I heard a theory once from someone whose mind was quite sharp. She told me there was a breed of child, a cosmic one - a generation of the universe. She said that they would be the igniters of things, of peace and gratitude. She said they were called indigos. Do you think that’s true?
If only all the words and all their meanings were given to us exactly as they...
I thought about buying
my brother a car. I swelled with relief and its absence of anything else. Such a potent exhaust, relief is. I saw his smile, in my head. I saw his disbelief. I smiled, for a while.
my arm on fire.
I don’t want the faculty ran by procreation, I don’t want to feel cheap sideline attraction. I don’t want to fuck anyone unless I can tell you what colour their heart is, what shades of decibels they use when they’re most happy, how tall they grow when they feel pride in their heart. I don’t know of any kind of thing that could matter more.
my living room spectator.
The prowess of feeling will take us far indeed, but limit us in scope. I promise, this summer will be nothing short of the aesthetic revolution of My time. And I will not return. Someone a little like me, Will.
search for cymbals.
The thimble-sized hourglass sand is paused. The pounding of a blue wave on the grey rock is ubiquitous in the hurt. Inhale and exhale, inhale — exhale — and look, and nothing happens. What happens is: nothing. Nothing: happens. Let the flurries of still-caught-up entanglement whip at your bangs and flit the lashes nearly squeezed shut by the furious winding. I can see the...
the fortunes of soul
Something about the Fibonacci sequence. One dandelion, particularly pretty, prettier than the rest. Ocular expansion and the excitement of drugs in loud music. Bass like amphetamines, prismatic synths. That eluding orgasm leaving pink in the oxygen, as you move about your tongue tells you its there, somewhere. I was silt in the Mediterranean, once, many eras ago. Before the bombardment of...
Pretend you’re just an eye, floating an inch off the floors. The red, rippled mahogany floors. See the baroness, olive balled heels in half-waltz cross, on the varnish. Like nude friction brushes. Darkly classical modern urban home. Soul-suckingly beautiful legs, ankles, turning - turning - turning. See the baroness. See?
“Come here. And exhale some frost.” “HHhhhhhhhhhh..” “Watch, I’ll draw your lips in the glass, in the world. I’ll draw you in the frost. I’ll draw you a hot bath. Come’ere.” “HHHhhhhhhhh … “
I need a moment. A moment on a dock, with better cigarettes and a glass of Disaronno on ice. I need that lake to be clean and somber, awake but nothing more. The planks of wood naked beneath the balls of my feet and distilled ankles, taking their own bit of peace. I want the harshness of priorities to be across my back, at least, and not talking to me. So long as what’s in front of me is...
Okay. That dripping lotus smile of hope. I won’t say faith, it couldn’t be naked enough - just to have faith. A twig she snapped in whispy passing, smouldering Tower of that subjective aesthetic decibel. Wholesome tufts of cigarette smoke. Truffles of delicate porcelain, so. My fumes on the door in my forehead, like the ill opaque.
Come on, skinny love - Just last the year.. Pour a little salt, We were never here.. - Bon Iver (as heard by Birdy)
i said she said you said fuck.
You know what, Fuck you. Let’s go fight with Sex.
idunno, a daffodil?
snap shit fuck dick.
I want. I’m sitting at this mostly empty table in the main hub of campus, doing just that. Wanting. Not in a dire strain, not with total whimsical irrationality. Just a vague tugging like a fishing bob on the lake’s rhythmic insistence. “Okay, okay - I’ll hear you.” And I never do. Not really. I’m starting to feel ugly like old misshapen Maple trunks, bark...
An incomplete idea might as well be utter nonsense. But you must never let it...– Camelights
Don’t worry about anything.. Just peer in the curvature of the Earth at the spinnings. Look carefully, like a storybook’s wise man, and have those tiny golden-rimmed eye glasses, resting short of the bridge and vastly above the beard. Like grand telescopic travel, between the mountains of your bearded chin and those hand-carvings, lips and nostrils and zygomatic structure, settled in...
Skinny Love - Birdy
The December in April, Two
I smoke to remember you. The blazen’ cherry and paper cindering away, taking my time from me. So many six minute deaths. (Like no cancer could be.)
The December in April, One.
A doctor may say, “You have been chosen to die sooner.” And as I sit in a frolic with Winter’s dash, I question aloud in the mind’s eye, “Is my theory really what I want to impose on this life..? It would, after all, no longer be this life; and perhaps there is much to learn [ ? ]
Flux Pavilion - Haunt You →
The music video’s worth watching - its cliche and corny, but I think, overall, worth the watch.
April - thirteen (Children)
The cooled swelling of your full belly, I would have dabbed my lips across until the kisses did permeate you everywhere. Tickling the edges of your grin a little more, kissing your cheek bones under-eyes so that they peak awake with warm smile’s brilliance. Hearing intently, the kicks of joy, I press, press, and press my lips against you again. My little rascal might have been yours also....
the ransacked Magnolia.
Did you step barefoot through a shadow, on the Autumn’s maple-kindling ground? When my sparrow fell out of the sparsely fed Magnolia, without a petal beneath to sort through the gravity, was it your Wintry secrets on the chandelier that froze its tiny lungs? Little prisms born of the changing ocean tides must have echoed every twinge to you… In the twittering of fluttered happiness,...
Tycho - A Walk
Watch more Bill Cosby stand-up.
April - twelve (walking.)
I didn’t think, in the light cadence of loose-shoe foot falls all the way along the rivers of puddles to the bus stop. I didn’t think, I didn’t think. And, oh, it was blissful. I was the colour navy blue for a minute, or two, or even three you might say. But not for longer, no. Not for longer than two, even three minutes - because just then I was swept up into the bed of angular...
April - eleven (Porch Rain)
Finer than the sharp end of a skewer do the bits of dew particulate along the wooden firmament of the stair rail. One white, picket esq cabana, open face and solemn in the moist greenery. When the meds kick out I can’t think of you. Too much fearful inceptions of public life. When they kick in, I see you more raw than the searing of a burn, one like the palm across the boiling pot. I’m...
April - ten (Outside of the Train)
I don’t listen to the clattering of rails, but I do. The golden barley sticks lining scores of greening slopes, marked by fencing. My face nearly pressed against the plexiglass, nearly eating Fruit Roll-Ups again and wearing my favourite Batman T-shirt — nearly 6 years old again. The atmosphere was like a minty exhale, neither cold but certainly not entirely warm either, and the...
April - nine
Drank blue Powerade today, and suddenly was transported through my memories to the hockey rinks of my youth. Suddenly I miss some of the best days I’ve ever had, like being in arenas. Smelling the turf and concrete of the floors and walls, the cold rink air, searching the steel bleachers from the bench for a friend or family member or beautiful girl who might be watching you. Thinking about...
April - eight
Every definition falters in love’s presence.
April - seven
I am jealous of that tree that lives much longer than me.
April - six ("Lag Fyrir Ommu")
I love it more than I am able to.
April - five (To Myself, in April)
You have not even begun to make You. That is the awkward, intangible lacking you feel in between interactions and of them.