b thang.
operator
[newest]
recent morsels
- seriously what the fuck some people are making out...
- cardiovascular exercises
- can you feel the warmth of my sincerity.
- turn up the immune system in the monitor
- LIGHTSABRE COCKSUCKING BLUES
- how to be confused in one easy step.
- clouds and lovers
- im just here to hold your hand when you die
- i feel sick.
- sad songs freezing rain and laughter.
my other links.
old morsels.
- September 2004
- October 2004
- November 2004
- December 2004
- January 2005
- February 2005
- March 2005
- April 2005
- May 2005
- June 2005
- July 2005
- August 2005
- September 2005
- October 2005
- November 2005
- December 2005
- January 2006
- February 2006
- March 2006
- April 2006
- May 2006
- June 2006
- July 2006
- September 2006
- October 2006
- November 2006
- December 2006
- February 2007
- March 2007
- April 2007
- June 2007
- July 2007
- August 2007
- January 2008
- March 2008
- April 2008
- June 2008
- July 2008
- October 2008
- November 2008
- December 2008
- February 2009
- March 2009
- June 2009
- October 2009
- December 2009
- May 2010
- January 2011
- September 2011
- September 2012
- April 2013
- March 2015
- March 2016
22.5.05
lost symphonic papers
my back hurts across my ribs today. it feels like they need to be broken open, like the chocolate of an easter egg. they should crack when i breathe out.
i hate the burning smell of buses sometimes.
i have ginger coming through the dark of my hair, cocoa powder orange.
willow wax leaves weep and writhe into rivers green, green, chartreuse.
is you is or aint you aint. gingerbread. pink smarties, dusty floors, broken glass, scars and then bruises. showerheads. cold water smell, peppers, salsa.
watch the leaves teeter in the evening and the cutlery draw in the sky shakes, the handle is pulled. the smell of cars interrupts the sinew roads like a black sick tongue and i match, we're painted the same. smell nothing on the skin of people, birds leaving wire, walk away from coloured festidious awenings, walk, walk away from ambulating oil suspended in silken puddles. walk. walk faster, walk in black and white with long hair, follow people on the streets, taste money from your city-blackened fingers, squeeze the rain from a tired shoelace, the bench is made from tarmac. hear the people and the cars yawn and dance in your ears, your tired ears, walk, walk, walk on and away, walk past trees, new leaves stained with the blood and mucus of autumn passed, wet grass emblazon your shoes, imagine the people's bones and joints as spinning paper plates, first soaked, drying and freezing, fissile and shattering, keep spinning keep spinning, black chartered wetness, ghosts loom over the percentages, cobbles, wolves and suits, walk, walk faster away from those instructing the songs playing forever and echoing from highrise buildings, from the straw and blue poppies, swirling under an enamoured ethereal sky that belongs in a photograph from above a gate when i was six. remember the colours of handkerchiefs, recall the rows of cigars in a shop window, the eyebrows of a shopclerk, walk, walk, walk away from teastains on reams of paper and grey buttons which line your brain amongst green nerves, crackling with raw and spitting in the haze of the rain, walk, walk, walk, and walk.
whispered by killa b at 11:28 AM |
0 answerphone msgs
commentz