the science of silence.your arms form a barrier, blocking out all sound,the science of silence.7 years ago in Surrealism
there is nothing but you.
you are the only thing that
can make a buzzing fan
sound like a butterfly;
a creaking house
like a lullaby.
moaning wind and soft footsteps,
tickings of clocks, downstairs.
but you made it feel like a soft cocoon;
a weightless wall of something golden:
"silence is good in its absolution,"
The stormCartilage-smooth azure extendsThe storm6 years ago in Surrealism
above bent heads.
Furrows s t r e t c h b e y o
the edge n
My WinterCardinals willMy Winter7 years ago in Surrealism
from the branches like
and the sky will turn to smoke.
The ground crunches under your feet and its
Almost as if you could
across the ice.
Brandished behind screens of glass
are fists of ivory
They are covered in scratches and
from the dark like magnolia blossoms.
The Vampire and His Servant I The Vampire and his ServantThe Vampire and His Servant I7 years ago in Surrealism
As I fall on the withered ground,
I stare up at the darkening sky,
Tears pouring from my pleading eyes.
I want to be free from this hell
Light footsteps sound, stepping toward me.
I turn my head, slowly, the fear sending chills down my spine
Making my heart cold.
He walks towards me, his graceful legs carrying him closer.
His long black hair whips against his pale face
As a sudden wind makes contact with his slender body
As he reaches me, he kneels down in front of my crumbled body.
I flinch visibly and turn my head a
napoleon at sevenan old guitarist sittingnapoleon at seven10 years ago in Surrealism
on a watercolor hill,
plucking on six strings absent.
two halves of breasts running near
under van gogh's starry night,
under black-white guernica.
everything in all jigsaws,
everything in trepid cubes.
a girl before a mirror
with violin and guitar,
sitting with three musicians
and a woman with her book,
stippling all realities
of intangible maternity.
hours yielding from dalí's clock,
minutes sub-the alchemist
like rain, like raining, like rained—
portraits wilt with abstract smiles.
clear sfumato, oh still life,
napoleon at seven.
losing everything i never hadit's an early morning as the sun is rising, stepping into my mother's room and moving towards her bed, careful not to disturb the dark shadows on the walls, or the lulling silence that's filling the steps between us, i ask her when she wearily opens her eyes, "why was i born?"losing everything i never had6 years ago in Surrealism
her face held no expression, and she didn't reply
she didn't reply
i might as well not have gotten out of bed today.
i might as well be -
and sometimes as i'm sitting in the passenger seat, i lose track of where i'm headed. i lose track of the fact that i'm moving, i'm moving somewhere slowly across a map. i'm moving with the world, and i'm just one person out of so many. so fucking many. i watch the rode beneath the tires blur passed us. i watch the clouds drift along with us, the trees look like ghosts. i feel the time move along with us, as the sun falls to the floor and gives up letting the stars take it's place. the moon has painted my skin white, just as i sputter out my words and let them fade
You UnderneathYou Underneath9 years ago in Surrealism
brushing the willow,
swallow many branches, while
brushing the willow
they hear the
scratch, the bark
at the back of your throat.
Scratch the bark,
they hear the
brushing the willow,
They hear the
scratch, the bark
at the back of your throat;
scratch the bark
they hear the
brushing the willow
.- Blood Lust -.His hand, cool against my skin..- Blood Lust -.10 years ago in Surrealism
My warm breath carresses his neck as he leans back.
I hold my body close to his, pressing our warmth together.
Is this love?
I pull him towards me, and open my mouth wider.
His eyes flash towards me, shock showing in them.
I move closer to the warm flesh on his neck, my mouth aching to taste the blood running in the veins underneath...
Is this lust?
My teeth sink into the skin on his neck.
I hear him groan in pain, watch his eyes roll back.
His blood trickles down my chin, and it flows downmy throat.
This is bloodlust.
satan threw me a slumber partyim tiredsatan threw me a slumber party6 years ago in Surrealism
of you, and
im tired of
im tired of OCD,
im tired of poetry,
im tired of counting
and miscounting sheep,
im tired of losing my mind
to cosmetic con artists who make
more money than banks,
who make more sense
than a vending machine;
who make their mind up,
not minding their dirty,
oh, how i envy those poisoned Disney Princesses
im tired of blitzkrieg alarm clocks that snooze louder than me,
im tired of vinyl pinups (un)dressing up my hypnophobic lids
im tired of the poltergeist who keeps fucking up cushion clouds
im tired of my revolving eyelash nightmares opening too soon;
and im most certainly tired of the technicolor monsters
living six feet under my bed
the ones that scream me caffeinated lullabies,
beneath bedlam bedbugs, to scare me awake,
so i can daydream of dormancy
the next morning.
the crows have risen,
and the roosters snore
until i wake u
Chalk OutlinesChalk Outlines10 years ago in Surrealism
Hold my hand.
and together we'll walk into darkness. side by side.
not to be torn a part.
our dreams trying to lead us into different directions.
We let them die.
like our stories. our friends. our hopes. our wishes.
they got old and worn out. We'd do anything to be together.
(We are a puzzle.)
the 2 of us.
leaving the world around us incomplete
like a big puzzle that's lost it's pieces.
(We were a puzzle.)
we outlined ourselves in chalk. again.
to keep us safe. to stop the outside world from drawing us back.
drawing us a part from each other.
To belong to something that didn't rightfully deserve to
so we came back
and killed it.
everything was alright.
at least for a while.
then he came.
Degrees Warped By FragmentsDegrees Do Worse Warped By FragmentsDegrees Warped By Fragments10 years ago in Surrealism
I sit among a contingent of fresh-faced athletes doing mostly
Reading a book on the crosses of cosmogony when I feel a hand
On my shoulder. I turn around like a toddler's wind-up toy and
No face to match the arm suspended in space by something unseen
Faces of clocks abound on every wall I sit across from, next to or
It makes no sense to me. Half an hour will pass before I have slept
Hours, and yet exhaustion always accompanies me, even during the
Rush of excitement I feel when the clocks cease ticking.
Library books are beginning to pile up, most of them long overdue
On shelves read less than twice, ones never even cracked open for a
At their lively entrails, innards I normally would be happy to gorge on.
I sit in the dark and wait for hunger to take me somewhere new.
Game shows are on and I have to buy a vowel to finish the conversation
Are having at the dinner table.
busdust animalsbus10 years ago in Surrealism
loll and swirl against
fake forest leather
(around sable beaststrands,
sun-sullied to pyrite)
at a garbled missive
scratched and misconstrued,
its stories unvoiced-
"warm is uncomfortable;
cold is far worse."
SynesthesiaSynesthesia7 years ago in Surrealism
God forbid they find out. I never understood how they couldn't hear them talking, their voices buzz like radios in my head, with static between outbursts.
Can't they, can't they?
Can't they hear Wednesday crying? How she aches with the weight of it all?
How Thursday laughs, callous, and Tuesday tries to sooth?
Tuesday's a sweet thing. Like boiled candy on my tongue.
Monday never listens and if he does it's only to lecture. He is black, unsweetened coffee in the sticky, early hours of the morning.
Sunday is so wrapped up in his own troubles to think about others. He never sleeps, so he never stops. He yawns like a baby bird for his mother.
Thursday blinks her orange eyes and tries to get Friday's attention, but all he wants is Tuesday. He's always wanted Tuesday. But he is so unattainable she doesn't even see him, eyes slide over like glass.
Saturday could solve it all, if she wasn't so damn lazy.
This could all be over. Tomorrow. I believe in tomorrow.
I ache on Wednesdays too.
EL RELOJEL RELOJ7 years ago in Surrealism
Estaba encima del minutero
Cuál pasos son crujientes
Y mi niñez, mi infancia
Era el pasado lo mismo
La ciudad hermosa lo que nunca puedo volver
El sueño lo que nunca he visto
La pesadilla lo que nunca puedo sentir
Lo que nunca puedo dormir
Ya no sabes que es dormir las pesadillas
Ahora yo tampoco
Y ya no sé tampoco cuantas veces
Mi caballo negro caminó al galope
Alrededor del círculo
Aunque estaba encima del minutero, mi caballo
Que es un erudito frágil y esclavo
¡Paciencia! La noche es corta me dije
Tan la vida
La vida es más corta que una noche
Y mi vida es una cuerda
Rodeando al cuello de mi caballo
En cada viaje
Alrededor del círculo
Estaba encima del minutero, mi caballo
Y mi vida era solomente un recuerdo
Alrededor mi cuello.
O esta noche
Y mi reloj ya no es círculo.
Despair under moonlightMy little darling,Despair under moonlight7 years ago in Surrealism
blackened by the moonlight night;
somehow your skin is
falling into shadows, into shadows.
Little pieces of the moon
fall into your eyes;
the stars escape
into the curls of your hair.
The sunlight flowers of your irises
have gone out.
Haunting ShadowsTime slips away,Haunting Shadows6 years ago in Surrealism
Like some sort of sand,
Its colours fade between,
The forming gaps in my hand...
The clock ticks on,
And I just have to glance,
At the shadow behind me,
To know I don't have a chance...
I turn to face it,
"My soul?" I ask,
and the shadow nods,
And moves on past...
It takes me to the rooftops,
To see from the sky,
To see everyone I have hurt,
And have made to cry...
I ask, with sadness in my tone,
He turns to look into my heart,
And shatters every bone...
HypnosisRevery and business leave you grasping at sleepHypnosis9 years ago in Surrealism
Mind is slow, friends all know, conversation isn't deep
Close your eyes and let it come
Lack of sleep will leave you dumb
Knowledge leaves your mind's steel trap
Fall asleep to the tap... tap... tap...
Relax your mind and body, shoulders
Eyelids become the weight of boulders
Into an easy state of mind
Relax let go asleep unwind
Off to pleasant slumber you go
It's more rewarding than you can know
Hush, don't fight twill be your delight
When you leave consciousness and leave the fight
Hush away let go you're gone
Wake up! Now your sleep is done
1 This is Acheron, Arachne, and alulae;17 years ago in Surrealism
charon navigates your veins, your annals, your bloodchambers, your stems and streams. he loses his river-drawing pole in your waters, and afterwards he closes his eyes and pretends that his arms could unpaint the stillness, could remove the ripples, pretends that he could bend down and over and pretends his cock could pierce the water and pretends he could let loose and the entire world of you could be poised
2. THESE ARE MERELY LYRICS, and I hope your eyes, your soul,
I hope your hands, your lid-fingers, your dream-nails, your
blinking outpouring palms can craft a tune for them to rest on,
(but there are so many notes
3. "I know about you."
I could not help you along. My tongue could do nothing. Pray, Sister Mary, pray, in your white-cloth robe. Change your n
g-rain evident-sYour subtle curvesg-rain evident-s9 years ago in Surrealism
a river's spills
until we reach
beach and banded
sands of brine deltas
near as nothing else
what dwells seaside
to real waves
this place we
me with a
Tragedy's MuseBlame me not, for I am a disillusioned soul that's lost their way,Tragedy's Muse6 years ago in Surrealism
midst many a broken promise and shattered dreams
I see, before me, an enveloping darkness that is threatening
my sanity, akin to tempests of somber misconception
Tears fill these clouds to bursting and droplets of their pain fall like
rivulets on unsuspecting passersby with no purpose in their stride
Surprise is etched on their faces as hands wipe the wetness
from their skin, in a hurried fashion, seemingly alike a scalding heat
Sensitivity being an emotion hidden behind forgotten trysts and the
never-ending confusion that to care is the ultimate betrayal
I smell the scent of fear emitting from anguished chameleons trapped
behind locked doors in relationships going no-where
Burnt offerings sealed in heart-shaped lockets tied around the necks
of wanton women and sadistic men with no place to hide
They walk the streets, looking down, their eyes never resting upon
anything of beauty, just the cracks in the mottled pavement
chicagoin chicago, i dug my teeth into my knees and prayed for the backs of your eyelids to stay dark and empty, prayed for the fresh scabs on your thighs.chicago6 years ago in Surrealism
so i kissed a girl with teeth like indian arrows, and whose knuckles stuck
out like weapons, a girl with a body like a war, trenches between her
shoulder blades and the scars of teenage sorrow scattered over her chest.
in illinois, my chest sunk down and the songs i sung into your telephone box get
heavier until it
InsanityThe darkness begins to consume me,Insanity7 years ago in Surrealism
pushing me further away from reality.
Eating away at my very soul,
making me question my sanity.
The rage bubbles up inside me,
burning like scalding drops of acid rain.
Fighting to be unleashed from within,
feeding off of my fear and pain.
The depression threatens to suffrocate me,
taking the very air I need to survive.
The hysteria comes flooding in,
giving a place for my insanity to thrive.
ConvulsiveLet me be the day whenConvulsive6 years ago in Surrealism
day breaks into reality.
And let me be motion,
stirring your stream.
Let me be dream
and let me be future
Let me take sunlight
where there is none to shine.
And let me draw galaxies
into your skin,
and let me be all that I dream.
Nerves and pictures.
let me be abstraction,
depend on me.
And when daylight
refuses to take me
Let me thrive on insanity;
I bury my sanctity
with the words on your chains.
Black doves be my ravens,
flying into my pins,
my nerves all a jitter,
collapsing into the stream.
And when you draw circles
into my hand,
That's when I dream
of carving galaxies
into your skin.
the carnival of ash.If in time of flowers there should come a waltzing hour whenthe carnival of ash.9 years ago in Surrealism
a watercolor caravan breaks through a grove of charcoal trees and from the boughs you see some tiny wizened fingers flash the secret skies a sign at morning,
then take care to bend the sunbeams, shush the bed springs, dust me from the dirty corner, sweep my bones, cajole my feet, for the king has called off melancholy.
It's a carnival of ash.
If in time of needles you are dancing with black beetles and you hear a velvet beating from the heart within the ground
get away from torpid thinking pay no mind to time or cost
move your mouth to sound the call
this is the carnival of ash.
Hear the wicked little nettles pine for places in processions. Here the mandarin orange doctors scrape lapels and scrub their noses. They sell potions disproportioned with a disease for every cure, and little more, their pockets lined with plastic, for that bit you buy but never see, so equable and agreeable they are. Here too mu