the science of silence.your arms form a barrier, blocking out all sound,the science of silence.6 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
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 More Like This
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 More Like This
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.
napoleon at sevenan old guitarist sittingnapoleon at seven9 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
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.
winter footnoteswinter footnoteswinter footnotes5 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
your elbows were anchors
in a softly-lit parking lot,
where you sang to glass and paper:
and your visions are quiet hills
your visions are shy sounds
your visions are sheep covered in frost.
like an old shoe-
that dry rasp
that leaves me covered in skin flakes,
brushed onto the wall .
I am the raised bumps in spackle-
ripped off with the sound of a poor phonograph:
in my chain link home,
a residual ghost.
The Vampire and His Servant I The Vampire and his ServantThe Vampire and His Servant I6 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
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
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 had5 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
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 More Like This
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
satan threw me a slumber partyim tiredsatan threw me a slumber party5 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
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 Outlines9 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
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.
.- Blood Lust -.His hand, cool against my skin..- Blood Lust -.9 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
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.
Degrees Warped By FragmentsDegrees Do Worse Warped By FragmentsDegrees Warped By Fragments9 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
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 animalsbus9 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
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."
Despair under moonlightMy little darling,Despair under moonlight6 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
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.
BataklikBataklik6 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
Gümüş külçe pabuçlarım var
Ayaklarımın altında soluksuz yaralar,
Koşuyorum aklımın erdiği yere kadar.
Bir kör nokta büyüyor, büyüyor
Çorak toprak oluyor her yanım.
Hadi yeşert! diyor,
Kalbimde bir yorgun ses var.
Ama bozguna uğramış şövalyelerin naif kalkanlarından
Küçük ateş kuşlarının ışıklı gölgesinde sonsuzluğa sızan
Ve çaresizce kavrulmakta olan
Son damla cesur kandır şimdi kalbim.
Belki külleri tanrı tozlarıdır
Harabeleri yeni mabetlerim
Yeni paslı jilet mahzenlerim
Kıran kıtlık savaşlardan çıkıp bir türlü
Varamadığım ören yerleri
NudeI took off layer afterNude7 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
I stripped myself of my sticky c n.
Wild briar b
SynesthesiaSynesthesia6 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
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.
Haunting ShadowsTime slips away,Haunting Shadows5 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
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...
1 This is Acheron, Arachne, and alulae;16 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
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
I was Hercules in a past life,Set the clocks four years back?I was Hercules in a past life,5 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
Turn the fucking television off?
Adjust the volume on the radio?
Know what it's like to be you?
Well, let's not get carried away...
I invented English;
I discovered Spain
in a hot air balloon
and drove to clinics
to patent electricity.
I channel surfed the English channel
and developed an allergy to royalty.
And even though I had everything,
I still went bankrupt over medicine
you told my pharmacist I deserved.
I am the King of Clovers
and the Emperor of China.
I am the laziest kind of poet
and the worst liar since Socrates.
I am the son of two virgins,
neither one qualified to adopt,
for I died in a vagrant's womb.
I've hatched from misconception,
yet I was aborted when I was six.
I will wrap the moon around your right clavicle,
and teach myself languages that don't exist yet.
my tongue will foxtrot in Hellenistic alphabets;
my body will scream sans circadian frequencies
EL RELOJEL RELOJ6 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
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.
OblivionMy eyes are crystal;Oblivion7 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
scraping against the howling wind;
it moves and speaks to me
about the tree angels,
the tree angels
that will grant me wings
above the screeching ocean
that opens its mouth wide
to swallow me up;
to pull me down deeper
KATAKOMPKATAKOMP6 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
Bir sürü ayakkabısı olanlar
Bir müze beslerler etlerinin altında
Çünkü gidenler ayakkabılarını yanlarında taşır
Ve gömer bilmedikleri bir şehrin tren garına
Herkesin içinde herkes kadar yatan
O büyük cenazeye.
Sokakların kara kedileridir
Geceyle gündüzün arasına girerler
Bazen de senle benim
Çünkü ben geceleri uyuyamadığımda yosmaları düşünürüm
Çünkü onlar da beni düşünür
Senin gibi bir adamın yanında uzanmış hayal ederler beni
Tiril tirildir bacaklarım
Sıradağlar gibidir ardı ardına kalçalarım
Ve yalınayaktır o an koca başım
Kirpiklerimden otomobiller geçer
Kirpiklerimde otomobiller park eder
Her birinden sen inersin
Eteklerinde kara kediler
returning my body to its owneri'm taping these wordsreturning my body to its owner5 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
on the back of my finger;
i'll wear them like a bandage,
and superglue them to brick walls
vandalized with spraypaint tattoos.
i'm stapling my ears behind my head
and cracking every bone in my body
at least seven times not stopping
until graffiti pours out my skin
in hemophilic hues vivid colors,
which are nothing more than light.
i'm writing with the arm of a lunatic;
i'm loving with the heart of a savage.
i'm deauthorizing the public opinion,
and auctioning my tongue off on ebay.
i'm but a crescent moon on a zit of the world's ass
i'm seeing through other people's eyes,
lying with other people's rotting teeth,
screaming with other people's lungs,
and swimming in the populace's tears.
i'm breathing through
other people's noses,
inhaling their parables
and sneezing out their poetry
in the form of journal entries
in the form of wannabe prose
in the form of futile verses.
i'm fucking a demographic of dictionaries
and conceiving mutated verse-ch