Scavenger XOR lover, your heart never belonged to me, never could penetrate the thin wall behind the armour I wore it for thirty-five years, unknowingly calling it me, and my, and the ultimate I Your scythe of solemn truth, breaking as you joined the sisterhood, blessed I found myself heartless — paper thin
You watch me undress.
Our fingers covered in sick
& the stench lingers as we
embrace;
as our
touch disregard our
fattened shapes;
we
embrace &
let the world fade.You watch me undress; your mirror
like a bra too small, like
a growl too loud, like an orgasm
faked: scattered
throughout infinity.
Our fingers touch, soiled and
wanting, stained andlonging.
Put all your eggs in a single basket, one basket, cushioned to handle the fall Worry not of unforeseen days, place all your chicken in the same pen; Leave the door open for the fox to venture, to find his partner Wanting Put your lighter in the air, then dream of two-stroke fumes igniting, dream of youth wanting of your wanting
These are the darkest days Shivers of yesteryears Unfathomed curls of red dreams Shades of eyes peering These are the darkest days Laughter from a clown’s face Spigots plugged up your … Shades of remorse flapping These are the darkest days We jig and I say no thing We hug and a Jay waves Shared blessings bouncing These are the darkest days Black on grey in humble rain Foulest smell of droppings Beneath eyes of dusk — wanting
Satan went shopping, online , with little knowledge of the state of affairs in the frozen fridge department. Satan went shopping, online, ticking most of the square boxes from previous perilous purchases, keeping the new snake suggestions an option for a later date. Satan went shopping, online, expecting a swift delivery but had to consent to dreary days of waiting, days without liquid fires bottled. Satan went shopping, online, and waited in anguish for the delivery man to arrive, to quench the thirst for every birth unexpected. Satan went shopping, online, only to find the delivery man delivering too much for the frozen fridge to swallow, too much for the fucking square peg to fit in the round hole, too much for the writer in anguish to cope with. Satan went shopping, online, while the writer sought peace among the vegetables not fitting, sought a piece of broccoli withering, then died.
Das Jahr neigt sich dem Anfang zu,
der Regen sich der Erde
und ich mich wieder einmal der
Frage, was draus werde.
~
Ein neues Jahr mit neuen Chancen,
dieselbe Sternenbahn
auf der wir dann am Neujahrstag
im Kreise weiterfahr’n.
~
Ein neues Jahr, dieselben Dinge,
die Probleme bringen –
können wir im neuen Jahr
uns’ren Schweinehund bezwingen?
~
Oder greift wie jedes Jahr
die Februarlethargie,
wir schwächeln und wir geben auf
und wir schaffen’s nie?
—
Doktor Disko (2020-12-28)
There’s something magical about not fully grasping every word… not seeing the whole picture… yet enough to say: yes, I get it, I am connected, there’s history here and I with you on your journey,
don’t worry, February is as short as ever 💜
Maybe life was not made for someone like me. After all, not all people have a home, a job, or a family. So why can’t this also apply to my life? Maybe life was not made for me…
Life’s not made, it is… take away a home , a job , a family, what’s left ? The thoughts within… a keyboard and a tumblr waiting for your writing.. a world waiting for your creations … just breathe in — then out, and keep on typing 💜
The resemblance uncanny; her face there in front of me like a mirror of my first love, the Sheila I once bedded, the jaws of the past here unveiled. The Lyra Silver-tongued, grasping, pulling at my heart string, as I search for the coordinates to the temple of stow, to the junction of departure, and the pool so cold
Farewell my dove / my rusty scythe in your trembling moonlight / rustic charm against innocent skin / the gentle strokes down the feathers / down the residual tensions until … / you snap / you crack / you waver / farewell my dove / farewell
Our lady of
daffodils,
the highs and the
lows,
we speak no longer
of
matters
born outside of reality;
of
matters
relating to cats &
gnomes;
of the beastly things
we did
back when the grass was
still green / still mowed
weekly by a
hired gun
uncapped•We rest on the sancta terra, firmly grounded
between life and the
calling.Our lady of
daffodils,She roams
between
the origins ofStorms & a seltered child
Crying
