truth

seems appropriate right about now.

forget to breathe.

Is it quite possible it's a lack of human...engagement?
an itching of the skin to be wrapped in someone else's?
There is this urge.. to strip. take everything off and proclaim loudly why exactly
the universe twists in the way it does
while mimicking, of course.
Just a desperate wish for lights off, curtains drawn.
a secret world, somewhere
where the only thing that matters is how loudly [she] breathes,
how hysterically [she] laughs
how [her] hands move under blankets, in dreams.
Heat.
Fingers interlaced.
and [she] has whiskey on [her] breath.
When the mind forgets to whir and [she] begins to settle,
to relax, to act without thought,
windows steam up, time slows down.
pure
fantasy.

That
is what's missing tonight.

re-inspire

take two.

latin.

burning.
twisting.
loose hips.
exposed flesh.
moves like sex on the dance floor.

nothing
is sexier than confidence.

precipitation

drops of

rain

in her hair.

make it hang heavier,

in the way, 

in the puddles.

dancing with the atmosphere

breathe into it.
it gets easier
as you swing, hanging miles above any sort of ground you've ever known
feel the air rush through your body
in one ear and out your big toe.
imagine you are dying
imagine you are craving the most delicious thing you have ever thought of
and then
imagine
you
get
it.
that is where you are standing.
at the top of everything.
the place reserved for those people
who truly, honestly feel it.
who get it like that's what they were born to do.
embrace it.
admire it from afar.
reach out and grab it - wrap yourself in it.
it feels silky, no?
fall into it.
plunge, headfirst into the icy depths of it
and twirl as though you have nowhere else you will ever need to be.
imagine it soaking into every exposed part of flesh you give it
and then give it more.
because for this moment, this second, this instant.
it's you.
it's you and all you and pure you and clothed you and naked you and smiling you and devastated you.

it's in the air you have crawled out of and the oxygen you will breathe in.
breathe into it.
(it gets easier.)
and then continue on.

god.

Well can we change the background?
She whispered
a voice, floating somewhere above the water. ripples if you touch it, even for a second
leaving an everlasting echo of "ohhhh," somewhere on the bottom of delicious, smooth skin.
But that's not the problem here.
Vintage covers covering potholes fallen into by stray animals, people parading the streets as though they were God
"I am God," they yell
and they are not, is whispered, silently back
words that hang in the air like crystals
frozen, about to fall.
an escaped breath, just not quite far enough.

black.

Long, underground
tunnels to nowhere
to daydreams
to nightmares.
Followed around by men
wearing ill-fitted suits singing
ill-timed tunes no one's
listened to, seriously, before.
Violins chasing pathways
eating holes exactly the size of
mothballs, through pillows
that litter the ground,
underneath,
remnants of the night before.
A pillow fight.
A brick.
and red tints the floor.
Treading through the mess,
these neverending pathways
in their mouldy green
distress
cry out suddenly from
somewhere one must assume
is deep inside their cracked
cores
grown weary with the
weight of hopes and dreams
and unfinished masturbation
that is the public transit
system
powerless to help the victims,
the unanswered, under-
appreciated, forgotten, straight
shot -
where caving roofs are just something
else to get used to,
figures stepping in and out
of oblivion,
some choosing never to resurface
again.
It is in these cracks, in these
broken, water-filled,
feathered, seaweed-drowned
areas of longing
that my pace quickens,
paying attention to something,
anything besides the call of
the violins
beckoning, promising to keep me
away from the sun
for good.

a thing of beauty

forgotten

 because then we saw that it was all an act
take two, fast forward to her standing ovation.
let's screw the rest of this first?
he whispers.
a dark theatre.
cell phones off.
breaths held in anticipation,
or in attempts to make abs look like abs exist.
all too busy, anyway.
and lights, but not before
someone somewhere up ahead
coughs,
a slow, practiced cough made to sound exactly like what she remembers.
throws her off balance.
what? he whispers.
a dark theatre.
as she loses her balance and
just as the curtains begin to rise,

she falls.

21.01.12

arms raised in victory.
do you remember the first time?
lights down, sunset on.
because it was that day
i knew it would never change.
arms raised in victory
do you feel like you've won?

Simple.

The Barefoot Boy With Shoes On [b.Asa Martin]

It was midnight on the ocean 
Not a streetcar was in sight 
The sun was shining brightly 
And it rained all day that night 
It was a summer's day in winter 
And the rain was snowing fast 
And a barefoot boy with shoes on 
Stood sitting in the grass 

And the cows were making cowslips 
And the bells were ringing wet 
The bumble bees were making bums 
And smoking cigarettes 
A man went in a stable 
And came out a little hoarse 
He jumped upon his golfstick 
And rode all around the course 

While the organ peeled potatoes 
Lard was rendered by the choir 
The sexton rang a dish-rag 
Someone set the church on fire 
Holy smokes the preacher shouted 
In the rain he lost his hair 
Now his head resembles heaven 
Cause there sin't no partin' there. 

it was midnight on the ocean 
Not a horsecart was in sight 
I went into a drugstore 
To get myself a light 
The man behind the counter 
Was a lady old and gray 
Who used to peddle shoestrings 
On the road to Mandalay 

My husband's dead the lady said 
Her eyes were dry with tears 
She put her head between her feet 
And stood that way for years 
Her children six were orphans
Except one tiny tot 
Who lived in a house across the street 
Above a vacant lot 

It was evening and the sunrise 
was just setting in the west;
And the fishes in the treetops 
were all cuddled in their nests.
As the wind was blowing bubbles, 
lightning shot from left to right;
Everything that you could see 
had been hidden out of sight

As I gazed through the oaken door
A whale went drifting by
It's six legs hanging in the air
So I kissed her goodbye.
This story has a moral
As you can plainly see
Don't mix your gin with whiskey
On the deep and dark blue sea.

An overwhelming sense of anxiety rises up into her throat, and she is stunned into silence. A familiar feeling that grips her in the worst way, anyway. She should probably just be used to it, right? But there's that sinking realization that she can't get out of it this time.

look closer.

Colour.

Rain.

Would it be lying, said she, if I danced? said he.
And she nodded, in exasperation.
Dancing, said she, is atune to romancing, said she.
And you sir, are no artist at that.
But he looked in her direction, eyes sparkling in perfection,
And not for the first time she was lost for words.

It would be lying, said he, if I began denying, said he,
I am not curious at this that you mention.
But for the moment, said he, I'd rather dance with you, said he.
While you glare at me like I'm a fool in the making.

to start.

I begin with a backwards cartwheel, into the open rain. 
As it lashes fury that we know has nothing to do with me, 
My dress flares, bounces up around my waist
and I am exposed.
The rain abruptly halts
and I am embarrassed.

Inspire.