You feed off the kindness of others Suck the souls of the compassionate Your lies, they bleed sugar and sweetness Tainted with vinegar and unseen by the eyes Which lay upon your facades so easily Each one crafted for it's victim Another heart in your Pandora's box The worlds you wish to them to embrace Corrupted in their civility and void of function Lightly phosphorescent, teaming with deceitful notions Footfalls click loudly on empty brown bricks Streets that are filled with dirty rain And you, the poseur mayor In a cheap knock off suit Polyester and smelling of rewrites The neon signs broken and without power Should have served as a warning, and yet Foolishly, I bought your vial of snake oil Sold my soul for the moment to save you Because you begged me to do it, set the trap And burned the lies like a beacon to the heartfelt Now I sit, front row center and am mute The play goes on, the same leads but new players Night after pitiful night, they play their part Lying shattered at your feet come curtain call You bow, retreat to your dressing room Midst the flowers and the well wishes You paint new backdrops, change the costumes But the show is sadly still the same The critics are writing, dear actor Your time is near, the show is CANCELED
Barbie Speaks Barbie Speaks I get lost sometimes, left, laying there, somewhere wedged between heavy layers of substance pressing me flat, till I am as thin as skin, wide eyed with the terror of being unable to move. Becoming mere object, form without volition, like a catatonic, grossly posed and placed, staring endlessly the parts of me manipulated accordingly, by others having the propensity for movement, for momentum. Beneath things, vision is confined, weighted, focused on the bottom of whatever is on top of you, the seemingly mundane outlines of everyday holding you down. It is not being stuck here, feeling unable to breathe that scares me. When could I ever, really, breathe without pretending? It is how they will uncover me eventually, pry me out by the head, someone stumbling across me and deciding what is best for everyone, is best for me to be put away. It is how they will examine me, label me, and put me in a box, up there safe with all of the other dolls with all of their missing parts, with their shorn short hair, shorn short by a toddler's shears, along with all of our perfectly painted lips, that someone else sealed shut, long ago. Oh, how I envy the living, in my plastic way. When there is always someone else who speaks for you, How you long to have a voice all of your own. -Cordelia or AKA Ivan Osokin
The old ghost When I reach the hut, my friend is still asleep, but the old man is waiting, and I sit by the small fire opposite him "No", he says, "Come and sit on this side", I oblige and sit in his quarter of the fire-circle. "Do not tell me what the Spirit showed you, nor where the guide led you, and do not tell this to any other, nor that I have warned you not to speak of it. Are you well?" "Yes"; I wait expectantly for his reply, but he sighs and quickly makes the signs of guarding over our fire, sprinkling something in the flames. He chants some of the old words for a while, then stops, looking at me impassively. He stands as if to leave and walks slowly to the entrance. At last, he turns and says: "Do not trouble this guide with more questioning, until at least three moons have passed over the Great Water. The time of the third moon will be your greatest chance, and also your greatest risk. Only ask again at this time, he will remember and offer you his help again, but don't trouble or pester him." He smiles, turns and leaves me with my thoughts. I think I will find the home of the Spirit, I will go to where it goes. The next time I find the guide, he will tell me.
Synthetic Telepathy Synthetic Telepathy Soft as the murmuring breeze, mouthing silent insinuations into the flesh, their tonal entrance varied, vibrating. A long high pitch that heightens, sets off a fine silhouette of rising hair along a lengthening nape of neck. Waves traversing up the smoothest curvature of spine, violation resounding off of the walls, flesh, and what was once the sacred space, inside.
The Push and the Pull A day begins My soul weary Frail and fragile Broken by the sunrise A simple touch to shatter The light becomes too frequent All too enduring, seeping into me It slowly tears me in strips Weakening my resolve Wearing me thin My little fractures Become fissures at dusk A growing stain darkens my heart Reaches desperately for hope Finding only broken conclusions Continues to grasp at the light Just out of its reach The night implodes Dawn begins And I bleed dry Drip by drop pulses Until I am ghostly pale A visage of my former self As thin as a veil Translucent Wilted Nearly gone Held only by a thread Bustled by the breeze I shall meet the winter When I can let go
New people in an old place "I met some people in a dream once," the old one had said, "I knew them, but did not recognise any face. I spoke to one of their kind in words I had no memory of then, nor can I now recall them. We spoke together as men, who had known each other from a beginning, who came from the same place, and so his face, and his words, were new to me."
"I would be true, for there are those who trust me; I would be pure, for there are those who care; I would be strong, for there is much to suffer; I would be brave, for there is much to dare; I would be friend of all—the foe—the friendless; I would be giving and forget the gift; I would be humble, for I know my weakness; I would look up and laugh—and love—and lift." Howard Arnold Walter
Under A Maroon Moonlight Underneath a Surreal Maroon Moonlight “…and two bodies stretched out.” – Octavio Paz …and two bodies stretched out each toward the other, touch seems so simple at the time, Bare-naked bodies lose their seriousness when side by side and laughing, two are found lying, laughing, joined at the hips, bellies slackened into the bed. they have faced one another in touch, laughter lighting the still dark corners of a stranger’s room, enough to peer into. laughter mistaken for ease when what was felt was a stranger’s embrace, the candlelight playing tricks of illumination words share only what we wanted to hear the other’s voice that we thought had answered still lingered there for days, back within their throat. asked for, the words appear belligerent, a stranger’s experience of regret Bare-naked bodies become so serious when side by side and laughing, two were once lying joined at the hips bellies slackened into the bed. two bodies stretched out, each toward the other, touching, relieved to know they are again facing no one. -Cordelia_2_PNIsuiter
"We don' smoke marywanna, down in th' Skogee We don' take no trips, on El Ess Dee We still wave ol' Glory, down at th' Kourthaus An' whaht-lahtnin' still th' biggest thrill, of all"
nebo v ogne stalnoy parochnyu nebo v zare tak ne parochno Осада стального града. Месть и принципы Заставили объединиться вместе Двести лет, открытой лжи и лести Оставили свой след на доблести и чести Плёвое дело, разбить веру одним махом Похоть содержит тело, как ремень носит бляху Вспахан огород с раздорным маком Те, чьи имена все знали, стонали в осаде Рвали мясо клыками из стали Но мы опоздали, и похоть обернулась Обратной стороной медали Стопы судьбы повернули механизма педали Кого к стенке, а кого в пленных Дней бренных, циферблат перемолол Количество N-ных Смывая пепел победы с кожи военных
A Sailor's Requiem A SAILOR'S REQUIEM How I once loved the geography, So exacting, so conditional, Limited to and confined within Longitudinal lines which only I could justify In crossing, each of us attempting to explore, navigating the boundaries of a love. Yet age is such an educational journey, Waves of tears felt now to pound The growing tides' confining shores. Stranded here, Grounded, beneath the weight of so much empty sky above, yet Still knowing the possibility of sailing, a life no longer free. Shipwrecked, sailing unknown and even well known ports possibly will be forever lost to me.
Verily, life is but a ship That sails, alone upon the blue Be strong and brave in what you seek Yet to thyself be true And my son, be not afraid Of your dominion's keep Do not throw back so far your head You sink upon its deep
Legche razrushity chem sozdaty v nochy pererezaty vse konczi na vechno sumrochniy deny poteryaty lish priobresti pustuyu beskonechnosty V tvoey apathii glaz cherez konecz nashey druzhbi serdcze rastaet lish raz a bolshe ne nuzhno :bawl::bawl:Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!
long lost long nights last week held tight now gone some still have more no will be mine stay near love lost still here
Wearing windows At times we all wear windows To let each other in And parrots scream in protest For diamonds have no kin But windows are also trouble For them who have no faith In glass fused in marriage To face’s truthful base For when one wears a window One must wisely don And figure for him just which side Of the looking glass he’s on.
Color The thing about color Is that it is completely ours to pervert Completely our perversion The other thing about color Is that it tells us we are capable Completely capable But this is mostly in a corporeal sense Because color is our instinct Shade our capacity Just pigments of our imagination
Dew When hazy green meets hazy blue Maybe under the falling ground that drips its pixels Hazy sheets of dew are sewn The thing about dew, though, is that it is most beautiful preserved As with all things too fine for us physically If we aren’t content with the thought of dew It may as well not be dew, and maybe not even be at all Because then we would name it And that is dew’s undoing Because then we would touch it And that is ours.
