I Can't Lie
I still remember being that girl.
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@jinspage
I Can't Lie
I still remember being that girl.
You ever hear life and it's all
Delete! Delete! Delete! ?
How is it with you?
I am not what
I was certainly but I am more or less
exactly that.
I
remember when you moved in me. I am so foreign, my nude not blue but anachronistic. The paths are all changed, the words all sewn down. Every breath is no more than
the one that came before it.
Actively Nill
What more is there to say?
This is my fight exactly, placed in terms better than I've yet formulated.
Landslides
Eve felt like clawing up, just that. She wanted to see over Adam's head. His head was always in her way. The rest is all Jack and Jill, which we know, but damn if I don't want to make precisely the same mistakes as these over and over. It's just hard to imagine that any one being can stop the disaster after disaster I'm always entangled in. Not that I don't think God is that powerful, just sometimes I'm sure that I'm just that fucked up.
This is what it feels like
Song of Soren
Pondering Typeface
When does typeface become just another default response, like what's your favorite color? With nothing stable in our existence, how can importance be placed on such a nominally important and transient concept like typeface choices. On the other hand how can choices such as how we represent our words when written not be a monstrously significant tell? Even if only signifying the state of a person's psyche in that one moment? I've wondered about this far too much. God, I'm such a late bloomer.
Book List 1 - The Pure Novelty Works
Bellocq's Ophelia
Conversation Pieces
Blacked Out
Stop Pretending
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Bukowski? Vastly overrated or sadly underrated...I can't decide, at the moment.
I believe the woman sleeping beside me doesn’t care about what’s going on outside, and her body is warm with trust which is a great beginning.
Matthew Rohrer (via rarararambles)
Poem
by Matthew Rohrer
You called, you're on the train, on Sunday, I have just taken a shower and await you. Clouds are slipping in off the ocean, but the room is gently lit by the green shirt you gave me. I have been practicing a new way to say hello and it is fantastic. You were so sad: goodbye. I was so sad. All the shops were closed but the sky was high and blue. I tried to walk it off but I must have walked in the wrong direction.
I have been practicing
a new way to say hello and it is fantastic.
If I put it all away
it would stay mine not yours
in no sway theirs but
I am Echo awhile until
I want above all
to be the thing
that casts shadows
against the wall. So if
I tack myself on the 8in
signature space
of the world in vivid aware
it is only
because I tried
I can't
not be there.
includes fascinating portrayals of casual drug use at house parties, how the author/protagonist had conversations about post-punk while seeing his mate’s band perform at some shitty small venue, internal monologues about consumerism while observing people in a mall and that time when the protagonist had an epiphany about living in the moment while walking in the rain
Apparently, this Great Man also never sleeps. He believes that he will not die.
In Mourning of The Incomplete and Non-Compelled
I'm dead at 34 in much the way that I was at 33 Considering, I am no longer 33 and will not be 34 tomorrow. The issue isn't the death however tough the consideration of the birth of today, more the gravid body preparing for another laborious night. It becomes hard, walking the floors with impending dues, deadlines and the like, to bury properly the sandbagged the sad the sickled 24 year old who simplistically felt some sense of genuine precious grandiosity at having lived Really lived to see one year per hour. As if. And the similarity between self and the average one year old lost in egoism in Braggadocio. The body rots beside the Between plans and ignored largess and lost here.
Wherefore Art
is my bread and butter all of a sudden. I'm a writer, somewhere, I know this. Lately, it feels more like I am nothing. Isn't this what I want to be anyway? A shell, void of ambition and therefore void of worry, void of care.
And Good Night
Today is new but plenty
old. Yesterday shook me
awake again. You promised,
but you are only a man.
We cannot keep our
fragile bodies from failing
and so promises must die
too. They fade at the end
of the day as light slips
through cupped fingers
to the stream; just words
with icy hands wearing
rocks smooth over a string
of today's laying end
to end as continuances
crowded and touching each
and all of the tomorrows.
Even they cannot escape
the days before lying
here in this bed all too quiet
where nothing comes to
lay beside me but
wraith yesterdays,
indifferent tomorrows,
neither knowing
the words to Brahms Lullaby.