It reminds me that a new day has come,
It reminds me of the atrophied one,
It reminds me of the unfamiliar times,
It reminds me of a deep coma.

When the light leaves my mouth,
And you know my name is Eternity,
I shall be waiting for the day.
And I will be new and clean,
Like an innocent child, sliding on the afterbirth of creation.

Yes, burn my irises!
Yes, carbonize this frail and weak body!
Yes, make me slag and flesh!
Yes, fill me with a new and profound purpose!
Yes, I am your whore!
Yes! Yes! Yes!
Beneath the shallow
Winter Moon
i watch lowly
from distant hill

pallets colors of
muted light
paints the
landscape
in shades
of
grays


lifeless trees
guard
lifeless hills
reaching up
like
bony limbs

fingers
forearms
stretching forth
to pull the moon
from high aloft

bitter cold
gropes winter's
night
still as death
beneath a grave

snow and ice
shackles earth
in cold
shadows pale
from orbs
dim light

creeping slowly
overhead
disc it arches
through
blackened sky

shadows shrink
elongating
again
sphere retreats
or' yonder ridge

once more
moon
finds a place
to rest it's head
'til darkness
awakes
Before, every object had a word
Every action had a verb
I could see it printed in my head like the dots on a crinkled newspaper

The sky wasn't just a sky
It was a robin's egg blue canvas painted on with wisps and spirals and flecks of the most vibrant white
Expanding, curving, fluctuating into a sphere that covered the earth

The ground wasn't just a ground
It was emerald green whistles, strands bending in the air, speckled with white and dotted with lavender
Floating and coursing with the wind

This was before
This was when someone said something I'd see the words, ",he declared"
This was when someone looked annoyed, I'd peg, "He raised his eyebrows"
This was before
When I had words
Every word was a colour
It would ache if the colour wasn't the right hue
And refresh if it was
Now, all I see is reality
And it turns out it's all in black and white
in my native tongue:

croat...

    is transliterated

  as...

        horwat:

       (not whore,
similis of how, with an R,

and V.A.T. -

          vat):

   harking H,
   passing omicron,
trilled R:

and sharpened upsilon:
via, exactly: vat -

    horvat.

and if they do fail:
we can finally attain
the english asking
for the post-modernist
french bellowing
of defining a ball,
a sphere, an earth,

a "something".
Every day we send another million
Letters to the stars
Meaning them for one another
Always so surprised how far

All our light and sound can travel
Our radio and TV
Every day we throw another million
Bottles in the sea

Will the others read our messages
And learn about our ways?
Will they know us in the night?
Will they seek us in the day?

Do they go about their lives
Without curiosity
Never looking in the bottles they find
Floating in the sea?

Or perhaps they have already found
Our pretty little sphere
Maybe they already know
Maybe they're already here

For sometimes we send out letters
Hoping they will find and read
We have shown them the whole world
In a dandelion seed

Even if they never find us
Even if they cannot read
They will understand one thing about us:
Curiosity

Even if we never find them
Listening among the stars
We'll never stop sending messages
For that is who we are.
/                your supposedly free women,
  are like a bad idea of compensating with sports trophies;
can't lie, won't lie... allowing myself entertaining dating one of them, and then actually dating on of them... i'd rather... heat up a nibble of a pair of scissors with a cigarette lighter... and then... make a tattoo with the metal being given a quasi-metallurgy status; it's not even pedantry... it's just the fucking obvious;
  can't exactly love someone who slaps you in
      the face, when you can't punch them back; what?
relativism of mental tattoos?!
        

               i... really want to hear the feminist
excuses.... coinciding with
a women beating her son
with two: slit... belts
worthy of adorning the point
of fastening female trousers...

and then... listen to:
to that "woman" giving
me a slap in the face for
keeping visiting my
grandparents a private matter...
i! want! to!
  n'ah... fuck it... whatever...
a slap in the face is the usual
hello, when you go to russia,
esp. from siberian standards...
why bother... whatever
it is, that is, that actually isn't?!

bulgarian prostitutes
treated me better,
and i thanked them for it,
by treating them likewise;
a ukranian prostitute
with one gold tooth
treated me better,
called me a good man...

that one bulgarian prostitute?
called me a nice man...
it's not that compliments
are the shallow tongue...
but if you're normal,
and fathom deviancy?
   and are subject to a compliment?
unlucky you,

                for then, writing a book.
within the confines of
the woman in my life...
only prostitutes confined me
to embody anything good...
the others?

     hollywood 1950s translation
of transvestite politics...
       come to my childrens' christening
while i apply a cheese grater
to your face imitating cheese...

               oh and the persistent
"self-consciousness"
aspect of a mea culpa:

pontius pilate said: ecce homo!
         does that count?!

if we're going to play this sort
of game...

  why did they take
chikatilo into a prison cell,
and shot him in the back of the head
there?

           hmm?

my imagination is running wild
at this point...
  given that christine chubbuck

shot herself on air in a t.v. studio,
but subsequently died semi "braindead"
on a hospital bead?
    
it's a Bane quote:
why would you... shoot a man...
before throwing him
out of a plane?

  i.e. why would you shoot
a man, in the back of the head,
before putting him in a prison cell?!

doesn't the imagination
    just run wild?
can, or can't it?!
            
       you... execute a man...
in a prison cell...
              it's not the fucking guillotine
public spectacle...
   it's...
   a shot to the back of the head...
in a prison cell...

             problem?

  the supposedly instantaneous
death of "killing" the brain
in american myths and american cinema...

i want fear...
i am fear...

                      and i am anti-cinematic
censorship of realism:
        
  i(s)ch bin die großpfarrer -

i have been denied too many times...
to live a casual, ordinary life,
to subsequently...
deny myself, something,
akin to this!

like i already said:
   my mother tends to forget giving
me a lesson concerning Hubert,
Hubert, who's mother
commited suicide
by drinking white vinegar
to shrink her stomach
into a killing organ...

           i liked Hubert...
but then she... lashed out with two...
slit sized belts against me,
and then put me into a hot bath...

it's not like my girlfriend really minded
that giving me a slap on the face...

well...

          serves you right:
whatever your "problems" are
in the current sphere of affairs...

                         moths catching flame?
dogs meowing rather than barking?

      do i fucking look like i care?

the only kindness i've ever learned,
or was allowed to learn,
was in the medium of prostitution...
outside of this realm?
  whatever you deem as normal?

  that's taboo, and suspicious to me.
cher 7d
honey dippers.
just pretentious costumes,
pretending sticks have purpose.
those
grooves not to dance to a rhythm
but to capture processed nectar within,
bee vomit,
and i swear it's a ploy, this amber syrup is
merely viscous saccharine bullshit, i'll say;
fuck, man.
this sphere on your bottom, for what, friction
in my tea? so unnecessarily capitalised on,
money
wasted on useless instruments of delicacy.
why not a spork? such a versatile beauty,
she can
scoop and gauge, stab and seppuku,
that gorgeous beast at one with
gods! culinary nature!!
honey dippers.
all they do,
collect,
scoop,
collect,
drizzle,
collect,
scoop,
collect,
dr­izzle,
collect,
scoop,
collect,
drizzle,
collect,
scoop,
collect,­
drizzle,
collect,
scoop,
collect,
drizzle,
collect,
scoop,
collect,
drizzle,
collect,
scoop,
endlessly;
there's no other
purpose; showing
that we're too afraid
to touch the dirty shit
ourselves. hypocritical
behaviour, humans.
hypocritical.
idk my friend gave me the prompt 'those wooden things for honey' and i very obviously deviated from the subject matter. whoops. i'm sorry, sam.

— The End —