To be a writer
Means to have yet another excuse for bad behavior.
It means that when I sit next to you and I am wrestling the
smoke from your cigarette like a bear I want to believe
we'll end up on the floor in gritty film rolls and beer cans
and start to choke.
Because I remember how the whiskey made her eyes
shine and her her hair a swimming pool. When she took
me aside and said
"You two are going to destroy each other," with a little
Parisian smile. Expecting one day to read great mythology
that we made with bread knives we stuck in each other's
So one day I felt like being more clever than
romantic and I caught you b
A Passion worth Regretting by Canescen, literature
A Passion worth Regretting
Dusk enshrouds paralyzed eyes
whose wretched haze chains down the light,
Holding it in bittersweet abeyance.
Could it be, that for all the moon's august gleams, it has suffocated?
Has it abandoned the foreboding sky?
How could it leave me to bow before waning silhouettes?
I cannot dream into an empty night.
Can't you tell me
why I steal endlessly through fields of cold shoulders,
Dismissing the leaden echoes of their billowing nails?
Is it just to experience, if only for a moment,
that lonely flower's feigned beauty as it arrests my nerves once again?
Hollow hands can only long for the taste of flesh,