childish neutrality

the wind which crumples in my fingers flutters into the dust of centuries after its fatal touch to skin. i wonder why it dies so motionless. breathless by definition, it lacks the schemes and dreams promising restrictive freedom,
flaws edgelessly relentless,
magnificent,
unlike the children
within whose lungs it dwells.

they snap in sequence, crisply crippled by an airless winter scratching at the concrete in their bones until glass shells rupture, splinter circulating in synchrony to open bloody little smiles in their veins,
laughter leaking from nubile wrists
pressed against a merry-go-round.

but i just watch,
resigned to passive irony inside;
i can see from icy windows that they're falling from bare apple trees and winter rooftops so pristine into the juicy dry of unripe asphalt clinging to milk pale hips
fruitlessly youthful.

they criticize my dissonance with nursery rhyme ears
so accustomed to mellifluous fairytales ending in happily ever afters,
unaware that i can't care beyond my doubts
vining up into a thick mind
fraught with compromise.

there are going away people and there are left behind people, but everybody's secrets are the same.

they're to join my obsolescence someday.

penchant

wait for me while i slip into (the dress called decadence) something more comfortable(and not confidence). the atmosphere is sticky with commingled misery...i think it will combust from the pressures of unjustified guilt.

we always burn the same bridges,it seems.

talk to me, convince me of (my unwavering ego) my purpose in life (but do not flatter me).

maybe you have shamed me with my own clumsiness, but the truth is:
we all commit the same crimes, the same mistakes; the difference lies in the ones that are forgiven.

i'll make you a peace offering (another piece of my soul) to start the pattern again (same time next week?).

poison in a pretty pill

your tactile eyes running over glossy paper, printed on with tactile lies of glaze and gauze. they say: "forget yourself, adorn with this disguise, this womanhood of smooth and tampered whores."

let me warn you of their cold sensitivity, they'll have you gathered in a trap of glass. is your reflection all the you will recognize? that cruel lie will stare you in the face.

wrapped up in a haze and flow of bridal gown, they tell your lover he must hold a gun. you're the pornographic reassurance he's a man: they deal with flesh, incarcerate with rags.

red lips, shimmer-silk and body-bags, hairless legs against the blistered napalm burn, i want to rape the substance of your downy hair, in that mist a gutted child fights for air.

against the fragile, mashed and sweaty wound, your facile beauty has an outrageous sound. like a glamour billboard on a battlefield, at least the blood red poppy was of natures will. that flower perfecting by the barbed wire fence must be insulted by your scented poor pretense, just as i, who finds it hard to touch you now,

you traumatize my love with needle doubts.

i want so gently to remove your mask. it's hard enough to find water here in this barrenness of dishonesty and fear, without you accepting poison in a pretty pill.

your bondages of silk robes and lace are the bandages on a bullet punctured corpse. the layers of precious imitation worn are the layers of history that suffocates the unborn.

-- crass

whitebread suburbia

they called us sunshine, an inconsiderate default they couldn't touch.

we were too far, too old;

within the walls of their homes, change was desperate, the road endless, a berlin wall blocking their dreams. your imagination, poisoning us, cradling us, whispering stories on top of broken beds.

our own evil, always changing,

never us.

#1 crush

a few weeks ago i had encountered someone absolutely beautiful, fascinating, unique from the rest of the world... which is a rarity beyond words, because i despise mediocrity with all my heart and soul and i'm already bored with most of the world. there is nothing worse than being ordinary.

despite the fact that i don't make mistakes in understanding my personal affection, it is still astonishing and baffling to myself, of how quickly and mercilessly i have become...smitten. since those particular hours i've been infatuated, but most of all, confused to why i am fading into oblivion.

i mock myself for possessing qualities of both the intuitive, hopeless romantic and the rationalizing, unforgiving cynic, yet unable to identify with either one alone. maybe i shouldn't have confessed, honesty sometimes can inspire nonexistent doubts. maybe i've already evolved into something of the past, an event that only once was.

the dynamics of emotions (and human relationships) is a funny thing, isn't it? it's a tragedy that sometimes, these splendid moments of clarity will never come.

_metropolis

this is ecstasy.

through the keyhole is a brand new day (that’s always been there), outside of this sterile, barren, boxed-in hospital room (where i reside), urban stars will shine, electric, as i'm enamored with the lights.

and i'm delirious when you infect me with the blare of a thousand digital suns, when you tune my heartbeats to the rhythm of your clock, when you exhale the smoke that pollutes my lungs, when you spin into my ears the euphoric, pornographic melody of both the music and the machine,

when you swallow me with seas of the faceless and render me safe as a cadavar in bloom.

your stimuli stem from the remains of tall trees, old gardens of factories, and the men, women and children snake through the underworld and above your urban jungle vertigo, hectic and proud, spray painting the giant screen with technicolored fantasies.

i'm fascinated, infatuated, obsessed, disoriented, liberated. pierce my pores, for the one millionth time, you build me up to the sky.

we’ll touch the sun and fly off this rock.

this fruit fly is stalking me

on the first day i peeled open an orange, and he's been following me around since. i killed him a few times already, but he just won't quit.

i love gambling

there's an obsession that i cannot quit. every night the gamble comes to me dressed as black as the holocaust. in a sound that is both a raspy echo and a mournful whisper, his warm fingers glide down my face as he tells me that i have died a martyr, and he will weep for me and love me forever.

shuffle, cut, and deal. this is how i killed the others. he watches me from inches away in such deafening silence. when he breathed down my skin for the first time, my wining streak ended...for that i would never lose to him.