Sunday, November 29, 2009

In The Night- The Absence of Breathing

What do a paddy wagon, a police car, and an ambulance all have in common?


Actual physical fights aren't as glamourous as they look in movies, faces get all swollen, and look funny the next day.2

It is the hunter’s honour that he
Protects and preserves his game,
Hunts sportsmanlike, honours the
Creator in His creatures. 1&2 mostly 2 last night


Deer blood doesn't digest very easily.2

I'm lucky.2

Luck has nothing to do with it.2


It is also commonly used in small quantities around the home as an insect trap because flies and wasps are drawn to it...2

I have been thinking with my final brain cell, how time traps you sliding in it's spell.2

"I'm sorry not for what I've done, but for the reaction of others."1

Stupid stuff.1&2

Consideration for the feelings of others.1

Consideration for your body, it's a temple, don't defile it.2

Happier elsewhere, obviously.1

This is all over the place.

Decisions. Decisions.

I know that this post may be a bit confusing... almost to the point where you could become "sick of it".... Sickened by it.

If someone stops breathing....rubbing mentholatum on their chest doesn't really help, and then they walk around the next day smelling like it. Reeking of it.

Oh, no, it's half past eleven, and it makes good sense things are fine in the beginning. I can't remember a worse time, but I swear I've changed so much since then. Oh, no, it's already daybreak. And there are so many things contained in this world that are truly repulsive to me, but only things that hurt me intentionally. I don't want to see it, especially not in this light, so I squint my eyes under someone else's giant sunglasses for the remainder of the day, set out to kill everybody's joy, with everything to lose. Take a breathe, push the pain away, nothing lasts, it's better that way.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Sickness and Waste

The tipping pearls are gone.
The memories of the twirling paradise remain with me. (to put it bluntly)
My world of possibilities have vanished with the tides inside my head.
A foamy sea of fluid, drowns me. (too soon?)
The more I put in, the more I am drained (and nearly drowning.)
I'd like to be someone you could finally learn to love again.
We've put up walls on all sides (thick barriers of clay and wood.)
Leading a life, which picks up all of the little pebbles and carries them inside a shoe. (it's a size too small)
In my mind, I'm the lucky one.

Where will I find you again, Stranger? (roaming alone again?)
In this hopeless bulb, I'll find the strength to see that it won't ever happen anyway. (because I gave up)
It's as though I've never seen you before, but I have and I want to forget. When I can't drown it with anything else. anceieierussithdsw. I'm cool because I can be weird and write things small. Weirdness is in.

I am scarred by the rough edges, I'm taken over by fragility. (Please)

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Everyone Has Classic Moments

The poet is a faker
Who's so good at his act
He even fakes the pain
Of pain he feels in fact. -This is a Classic Kerrie Moment

by Eric Ekstrand
The spine is a slide of human marvels; it is a hierarchy of white florets; it is a cult of secret brothers; it is a deliberate list; so look how the spineless relax in their unblushing banality.
I lose my patience in Greensboro where no discoveries are ever made and the only inner lavishment is the bar, occasionally.
The spineless aspire to incessant interludes that never arrive anywhere and that can’t remember wherefrom they came.
Mary is slightly spineless, for instance: her dress is cream her skin is cream her creamy mind is fine and her life will end finely—how sad is that to think of, the finery of a cream life?
It is the saddest of all truths that can be read on a person’s face in a decorous garden that person has planted themselves and of which they are explaining to you the intricacies and expense:
“notice how in the light”; “three pallets shipped last week”; “have complementary attitudes when it comes to soil-type and moisture.” She isn’t wicked; but, also, she destroys the art of her life.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Why kill pretty things?

I have to say, it's a beautiful day.

Delicately Wild.
Beautifully chaotic.

My arms open, but my ankles are planted in the ground, still you won't catch me anyhow.