AftermathI handed my heart to youin terrible self-complacencyholding my last breathbetween pale fingersweaving this momentafter little deathwhile your scent lingersnow thoughtslike dead birdslie on the tombsof desires
Near Death ExperienceI still remember his kissthat urgent, hard kissinsistent and sensualand that moment I misshe still keeps on callingme in my dreams seductivelywith the rich timbre of his deep voicethe siren's songand in every step I make in my lifehe follows me invisiblybut I seehim in the children around mein autumn leavesand the snow that covers the branchesand the old woman that sweepsthe butts of cigarettes into the sewerit all feels unfinished, like hanging in the air
No name poemdeath will come for mein her green limousine -pink foams like glittering gloss on your lips,the smell of milk and blood,the absolute scent of yours,it makes me feel strangely peacefulbut this shake is mixed with repentance -I'm sorry you're leavingalong with the Laughing Priestessand won't come back -you will send me a piece of soap, won't you?I want to rub away your caresses,wash your tears and goodbyes off my skin,I want to be clean and cleansedafter your death -in a tiny box meant for shiny ringsI will send you gangrenous flakes of my skinso you can chew on them in the long early morningswhen everyone's still sleepinghidden under their soft-feathered wings
my ghost days ain't over -POEMfeels like I've losta pieceof something importanta thoughta glimpsea memoryof my mission or permissionto liveand not just keep on survivingthe undyingisn't that what they call the lifeof the ones who left and came backbut never really didstay on one sideof the mirror
Your paintings look more real life than Real Life. I’m half convinced you simply followed Hannibal and Will and Loki around taking snapshots at opportune moments. Whatever you've done, I’m full convinced your gallery is stunning.
I can take it all back if it’s too, too much. Would hate for you to feel uncomfortable.
(This is the part where, if I were given to emoji-ing, I’d slot one in to let you know I’m playing around. But in holding to the Gospel According to Chloe I don’t emoji, so instead you’re getting this over-lengthy parenthetical aside to let you know: I’m just funning!)
Really? I’m like that too, only I take sustenance from the tears of small woodland creatures. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve watched Bambi. I’m joking, I’m joking. Or am I? Without emoji-help it’s hard to tell . . . Whatever will you do?
(Honestly, it comes from bitterness. A few years back I went to start a movement of Emu-ticons, but those stupid birds—who can’t even fly—refused to pose for me. Instead they beaked my camera and strutted away, wrecking my dream to create an avian-based meme factory. We’ll see who’s laughing when I open my new restaurant: Emu 2 U.)
Yeah, I had to Google that, having heard of neither the song nor Gackt. Not what I was expecting. Certainly wasn’t expecting the story behind the song. I have no jokes to make. I wouldn’t dare.