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It's not me...
It's my phone that keeps calling your name

If you happen to be...
Looking for someone to blame

If you think that you hear heavy breathing
On the other end of the line
Want you to know that me and my phone
Were no where near each other at the time

You have my word...
It's my phone that keeps calling you up

It must have heard...
That at one time we were two birds in love

It must not realize
That you and I are no longer an item
If it did, otherwise
It wouldn't be spending all of it's dimes

What can I say...
It's my phone that loves the sound of your name

Since you left that day...
Things around here have not been the same

As my phone sits in its cradle alone
It doesn't seem to have much of a choice
To tell the truth I really think that
My phone misses the sound of your voice
Hope
is like a rope
To cling to,
Almost out of reach.

Hope
is like a turtle
Stranded,
lost upon the beach.

Hope
Is like a stranger
That for seconds,
Could be you.

Hope
is like electric shocks
That pierce me
Through and through.

I cannot cope
With all that hope.
 Oct 2013 Alastur Berit
Anais Nin
"Why one writes is a question I can never answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me – the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.
...
"We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely … When I don’t write, feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing."
('The New Woman', 1974)
 Oct 2013 Alastur Berit
Scott T
There was human hair
On the floor of the metro
How did it get there?
 Oct 2013 Alastur Berit
Hervi
Halo
 Oct 2013 Alastur Berit
Hervi
I’m outside and the air is so crisp it’s turned brittle
When I move, my hair cracks with electricity
As if with each step I take, I displace
And crinkle the wafer oxygen.
My hair, it is poised like a snapping electric halo,
And I think how many angels have also had feet
Which knew this frozen, frosty soil like mine do.
What a shame we could not have met and compared notes.
Above is a ceiling, nearer than people credit to be.
There is no navy shroud tonight,
Seasoned with the universe.
It is not even a black curtain,
But instead a piece of smoke fogged glass, graying.
Above the briery penthouses of the evergreen boundaries,
Against which the glass rests,
Is a blush of light, to the North, tattle of a city.
They call it light pollution, a lightening of the sky
Due to artificial, phosphorescent, perpetual pantomimes of noon: streetlights
And I see two electric halos,
One belonging to me
One the heavens,
And I think how funny that
Without the dry, horrid winter air,
or the residue of a wasteful city of men,
No halos would exist.
 Oct 2013 Alastur Berit
soma
another
 Oct 2013 Alastur Berit
soma
This track
And all of its people
This scene
And all of its pictures

Not again, no
The time
will go on no
matter
who or
what
you are.
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