you died yesterday when you heard about that 8 year
Yemen child who died at the mushroom clouds of her
You died the way the shape of a flame dies as it morphs
into something very very different.
The vacancy occupying your chest is now Rorschach.
Hydrogen empathetic and so involved it takes place
on the whims of it’s electrons.
The lies and deciet of light pretends to give you
hope in darkness.
Rather, It’s something you put there
and the light isn’t
to be anything,
It’s just light.
You died at wars masked under good and evil.
Syr Ian giving orders to
Rob children’s sleep.
Brackish precedence falsified it’s nobelity,
and wine with an
h are noises too loud for ears fixated on empty V.
Whose vendetta would pretend to paint pictures and instead show truth?
in spite of my clenched fist."
the walls opened up.
Roofs vanished. The walls turned
sideways. They were now flat platforms
floating on thick black ice.
No, try letting something out.
"I’ve been a monster."
Fuck, this only makes the window out of empty walls.
It’s sunrise. Birds are chirping. The
planes reach optimal speeds at optimal atmospheric heights.
Your ears pop.
The windows from the plane separate air pressure differences.
They hues are similar to the scarf you overpayed at the
village market. Sleep.
There is no darkness within. The walls
melt and fuse with the ice.
Free yourself into submission.
The windows and the walls.
Drag your eye lids closed.
Your sights are now trying to take you
to the dark again.
of a blindman
and his walking cane.
Sugar on windowsills,
salt mazes to mourn.
It’s not so much as the part that ends me that attracts me about jumping off of a building.
You see, I’ve flown before, in my dreams.
That feeling of flying was the best sensation I’ve ever had.
I want that feeling again.
maybe it’s a heroin spell.
He was 11 in a world of 18 year olds. Adaptation at its finest, manifested itself with a pocket knife and a small straw basket. He looked like he was used to being alone and pushed around when he wasn’t. His earring gave him an edge, something that clashed with his innocent face. His hazel eyes and dirty blond hair gave his white skin some contrast. His haircut would have looked clean if he had been taught how to clean-up. His sweat shorts were the color of dirty sand and didn’t look like it had been washed in about a week or so, it wasn’t grimy but it was noticeable. His shirt was a little too big and on the verge of being gaudy. Too much noise on a shirt that belonged to a kid that wasn’t trying to grab your attention. He was alone at 11:09 on a bus with his back facing the driver, essentially being propelled forward every time the driver accelerated. The green seat too green against his dirt blond hair, straw basket and shorts of earth tones. The only that that the green matched was his beat up trainers that were just as beat up as his exterior. The contrast of the dusty white socks were too big for him. He was always looking at something. He observed more for observation and mental notes than out of curiosity or interest. His first motive was survival, it seemed. His eyes focused most on the skin, hair, and face of the group of girls to his right, who were probably a birthday away from legally drinking in europe. They were facing the direction of the driver, but did not, once, notice him. He looked intently between the four of them, as if the more he looked the more he would know certainties. He paused every know and again to dig underneath his nails with his pocket knife, which was long enough to do more damage than he could intend. His straw basket was empty and still the whole ride. I had no idea if he was going back home or if he was going to do a darker part of the city. The basket was like a quiet companion that you know so well and is always around that you stop looking at them when you speak. I wonder how he’s tolerated his poverty in this historically religiously tolerant touristic city? I wonder how he’s used his knife before? how he’s used his small straw basket?
They’re chasing you. The large azure truck that pops around the corner is your friend, your foe. It’s neither and it’s both because you are not able to make out who it is. The two people that were interrogating you, are now gripping each other facing the truck. You turn around and head back towards the dangerous direction from where you came. A man afoot comes from behind you as you’re racing through thoughts of, “think, think, how the fuck do you get out of here…” The truck’s lights are pointing in your direction. You turn around, wondering where the other two are, facing the light of the truck…
You find yourself with the person who rented you the room for 3 days. Moby looks at the book intently with a slight frown. The tension you both shared is now clear and crystal. You look at Moby with mixed attraction, frustration and some mild shame. You open your mouth and start to say…
You have your sister on your back. You’re running east and you finally come across the bridge. Not just any bridge, the bridge that can protect you if you make it to the other side. The pursuers are coming in fast, maybe in armored tanks fast or maybe on foot, you forget. Your sister is your priority, especially when you have to jump to make it to the other side of the broken bridge. You forget who you’re pursuers are because you’re frantically thinking about the seed of hope on the other side. You run with your tired limbs, you jump…
You reunite with whom you’ve hurt before. This time it’s right and you’re smarter. It’s been a year, and you’ve been enchanted. You are the king cobra made belly dancer with the tune that’s been exuded by the enchanter’s flute. You reach towards them slowly…
you fall asleep.
I desire your desire. So, I'm hungry for it all... Imma put up my writing maybe some of my painting and definitely my desire. S'well as other words/works/worlds that are not my own that reflects movement.
Who knows though, I just want your desire.
I'm just asking you to give it to me.
Theme by Monique Tendencia