Sense MemoryI developed taste.We lost touch.
Decree AbsoluteWe married.Exchanged rings.Fools' gold.
Do the MathsL O V EP L U SE N V Y-------Z E R O
Breaking Through□□□ T E A R □□□□□□□□□□□□□ D O W N □□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□ E A C H □□□□□□□□□□□□□W A L L □□□□
Christmas Spent AloneEndlessLights;EmptyHome.
His Big BreakAssigned a non-speaking role.I'm speechless.
Over Before You Know ItCaught stealing.(Just a short sentence.)
1 Across (4 Letters)Adding tea to oil.Hard work.
pizza, sex, tvit starts with hearbreak, always heartbreak, always the same.the same boy, the same underwear, the same habits, the same history - lather
the journey."What if he stops?""Keep going."
Rotten BlossomsShe just needs to say something of consequence.She just needs assurance that reality existsBeyond the restless lines of her visionAnd that entropy is a myth invented by a sadist.Thoughts strangle,Ruthless hands dictating reasonTo a broken girl curled into the foetal positionOn the coldest floor in the world.A series of mirrors, reflecting each facet infinitely,Until it is clear that no one has been breathing for a while now.She likes to think of it as a dream.(furious technicolour, a red fireworks display, emptiness)Someone whispers that she is irrelevant;Oh, how these collapsible bodies laugh!Her face is smiling;It conceals the screaming madness beneath the skin,Like snow on bodies,Or denial.And they'll tear and twist and crush and ruinWhat she was trying to convey about love or apathyAnd pretend she'd the one whoMissed the last train home.(the bated breath of Tuesday afternoons, a lullaby she never heard)And she wants so bad.To understand how they work and why
my propeller1. this is for the fat girls, and the douchebags, and the fake bitches.this is for the middle children, the unattractive older brother, the coddled Jewish boys.this is for those who suffer from once-requited and unrequited love, for the kids who sit in the back;for the bus-drivers hauling dead dreams, singing hymns that stem from their hollowed-out stomachs.this is for the 3 year old poet, who speaks half-english/half-God;for the girl who loves somebody else, for the girl who cannot love somebody else, for the hard-working man who wants love but can't see past his 20-year-old regrets,for the boy who is fucking someone else, for me, the girl, and the words i cannot say:before this attraction ferments, fuck me properly and pull me apartso i bury them.something along the likes of heartache sits in my throatand something along the likes of regret seethes through my teethand something along the likes of pain slow dances around the edges of my eyesand you say you're sorry
Alone, at night, in my flat, watching sad filmsI swear I heard you.Odd.
HoboThe snow dampened your cardboard requests,So you decided to slip between bookshelvesUntil they turned all the lights out.There wasn't any room left at the zoo,And you crawled under the dead shrubberiesClutching your cargo like a child.Invisible to the world,You hid in the corners of their eyesAnd ambushed them with guitar strings.
...the last strawIn that picture of me, I'm 15, but that's not exactly me; that's someone else who looks like me, but it isn't me and I'm just standing behind her telling her what to do with her lips, with her eyes - only so that she will look like me to someone else who doesn't know me very welland my God,do I look different with my eyes wide open and my mouth tinted that color and my head tilted in that directionand my God,I am not that girl anymoreand my God,I wasn't even 15 then - I was 14, turning 15 on the 23rd but it was the 10th, and then I turned 15and my God,just imagine when I'm 25.WhowillIbethen?I know what it feels like to waitto kill minutesto waste hoursto write songs that no one listens toto sing someone else's and pretend I was that brilliant at 19.I know what it feels like.I know something.AndI did something today, and ate something, and drank something, and smoked something and thought something but the sum of these things amounts to almost nothing, and the sum
The Gods' LamentIt's been so long sinceMortals have known usWorshiped us,Praised us.The offering smoke reaches us rarely, with its billowingPlumes of ashIt makes no senseWhy they leftWhere they wentOur followers betrayed usLeft usAnd the rocky shores whereThey used to prayStand littered with crossesCrosses displaying their dead menDead men who mock usSay to us:"Your believers have goneThey are mineThey think of youNo more"But just a few who know we are hereJust a few,Among a world of souls lost to usAnd they say"we believe, in you gods. We believe."
ConstellationHey, in the twilight of the summer,With the insects buzzing lazilyAnd meandering like drunken dancers,Let's grab a hold of cloud-cattleAnd lead our steeds across the sky.Pegasus with his mane of starsSprings from the head of a monster.Born from decapitation,He speaks of the night as his homeAnd of the day as his murdererHe says that he sees or remembersThe Greeks in their ancient happinessAnd Archimedes leaping through his thoughts.The streets are scarred by circles and circumstanceFor such is the life of a mathematician.They had no Christianity, neither does the Southern CrossThough it's a saviour like the Virgin Mary.The Catholics that speak quickly and think deeplyCan use it as a fabled compassBut the saint of crosses and murder is apatheticAnd by the scorpion's tailRests the Orion of old,Each chasing the other and lighting the sky.Let's grab a cup of burning hydrogenAnd laugh ourselves to death.