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| Breed of Anger. 25 years and all that is left is an excuse to pass my way and into the livingroom where you settle into your comfortibility confusing the closeness of your hostess as a slave of mere one worded contact: distracted by the mindless way of tonguing not the maid, but the presence of the present - your satellite eyes contract. 25 years and vulnerability is a two sided word: vunerable and the ability to crack a neck and connect the loose pieces of a savage through your undeniable rage disguised in a mask. A better word? Abuse. through the use of your double edge sworded syllables, cacophony as a proof to hang the noose only to show you are unlovable. 25 years and breed of anger is a grand motif - a key phrase in the haze of blooded, shot-through gaze One you can no longer recognize so when you say wife Numb. Dumb. Young. Nolongernomore. | | |
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You couldn't stand up on your own two feet, ain't that horrid?
Burn it away from the eyes and letters become ashes in my anger
If you scream mercymercymercy, i'll cut my ears off so that I could do no wrong.
Pupils iris lens falling forwards sideways to wash away
The ink off the paper and scrubbing my arms
the places where you touched me
Incomplete, documentaries
it's where I rest
away from your stupid memories. |
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| Persistance.
Turned inside out
We break break break the beats,
thumping, a bump down to the jerk of your eardrum She said, "Fuck your pride." Turned inside out
A twirl, swirve drive 'round
to the gates of an enclosed flower She said, "Fuck your pride." Like licked paper, stuck together
My finger against her eyelash
Batting for a home, found within She said, "Come inside." | | |
| Let Me Spit on Your Trials and Tribulations
I need a break from your hurls of pearls, little beads - some words, keep your spitting spitting like venom on my skin, yeah I love that, I love that, ilovethat.
I need a break from this practice of fucking over patience with a father, a lover, and a world known, for it was not love that was shown. I need a break from my so-called arrogance, arrogance, my arrow glance. Excuse me, my incompetence of being perfectly perfect to fit myself in a box so that I am able to unwind my tangles, the locks I've kept myself in. Only to be reasonable. No wait...my arrow glance.
I need a break from my excitement of emotional tidal waves, hey love, wasn't it a roller coaster, you say? That's right, I'm going down that way. I need a break to travel back to when I was six and there was no such mistakes to fix. Where I split milk only to be covered in hugs, covered in blankets of silk, love was love was love and there was no reason for it. Just because. Because. Be the cause of your pain, that's what I am. With intentions clearer than the glass that held the milk, when what happens and words formed into a jam - a jam of pride, anger, love, understanding, misunderstanding. Here is where the target was planned, a missed landing. Excuse me, my arrow glance.
Apologies sent, for my current, it has gone too far and much farther can not be bent, for acceptance was a wonderful key, much younger it was me, but now I seek a no-reason love. Perfectly perfect...for my arrow glance. | | |
| In The Music Box
Sleeping within a frame of time, I've lied too many times
to recall the weight of my own regret
I've seen the shades flicker at night
to foreshadow affects of the morning
Vomiting love, seek me
underneath these piled sheets of forced kisses
and unlaboring love
I can not plow nor plant these wicked seeds anymore
Unwanting, I lay here naked
Yesterday I went through that chest you told me to never touch. I found diaries of old war stories and you wrote a letter to her. You told her you'd buy her a diamond necklace for Christmas. That was the same Christmas you forgot to call me. The same Christmas I was left to blood and glass and torn curtains. I waited by the telephone that whole day and I stared at the ceiling for hours. "Just a couple of more minutes and he'll speak words of desire, he'll whisper his love for me through electrical wires...."
March. Wednesday. March.
Years pass without warning; they seek no consent from our wants.
Wires were left unhooked, staring at unsettling clocks were enough
to let emotions sink in.
Calls were made in the afternoon, a soft whisper was.
No desire was spoken.
Apologies are nothing when the taste of alcohol
can be inhaled through the fingertips of luscious greed.
She is left with nothing...
THIS IS WHAT IT HAS COME TO BE... | | |
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