versailles (gori_gori_bayan) wrote,

  • Music:

This is My Voice, Rising.

oh, this is a beautiful side of somewhere, lost elsewhere, underneath the terse crunch of crowding footsteps, all eager, and golden in the faces, for the moon to toss its reflection in the glowing well; and to show them. The earth, and the moon, and the salvation that blankets them are all old friends. And I, by the sweet rings of maple, ancient with them... oh the glorious tambourine blasts the palms, with a song and a wandering ‘how-do?’Some jingle to make me warm or lucky. How I feel here, amongst the secrets wrapped in walls and what balm of love eludes. I’m sure they’ve love for the martyr, but I, hehe - just a poet, among thieves, spitting the luxuries of warfare - uh-huh... Sit and clap the hands in the corner dust. And fog to cover your face from their faces. Their hands from your faces. Their slaps From your faces. Every one of them. Redemption knows no dirty, no clean. I am open to the blisters of the Holy Spirit, the mutes and mighty warriors. Bite me.


Is this Isis? here on the gravel pelt,
My face, from this gravel, finds gems
To cool the blood that flows from the cheeks
What they say of my head is what they say
Of a turnip,
Dried and used up
And the moon knows all my poems
And the earth knows my footsteps
All my friends are dead – and
Their rest knows my haunting memory
What I’m sayin’ is I feel... old,
But I’m just getting started.

A crumple of blankets situated at the edge of the bed. It is your feet, and I take care not to disturb them. I miss the romance in my life. The more instructional my reading gets, the less inspiring I become. Inuition is a force all its own. I am thankful for the period of my life which suggested seerity, in the most austere of doses. It affectually touched my music, my reading, and obviously, my writing. But I’m through with that. I want to enjoy the passion of each undirected moment, and live in an attestment of living, not detested states. I want to be free of Saturn’s nail-driving influences and learn the art of rejoicing. I peer into irises and feel whole ocean swims there.

hips writhing, flexing in my palms
liberated but barely
burised, bad touch
blazened sylph
braises the young and infantile wood
tourmaline ciabbata
strip bark, promises and I love you’s souvered in sap and questionable summation
nubile and trustive
the red rimmed eye
lucent shotglass
question angling in the corner
cognizant drip
avocado, splintered and browning
walk like a silver illuminate of beauty
red apologeticand hot steer of breath
knowb of stubborn academics at her disposal
knuckles and acorns
weightless vale; when mornings are free of guilt
a good drink, plump lips staining crystal, to receive it
lids twitch pupils press, lessening spaces of sought for and ascertained knowledge
hoping to gulp down some information
I suppose if I were to describe the enjoyment of her nudity, finely beckoning beneath the mauve volly of dress. our lovemaking a lantern entangling every good sense.
a secret carousel of colours the moonlight washes in with the amberness of the streetlights
her lips bearded with blood
I’ll send your invitation later.

I am walking through the cunt of the city. Sweet enjoyment… His chestnut stomach a matter of eclectic vituperance. Granite entreats teethingly Underskin of plethora dying in the whorls of a conceptual soul, freed from the moral restraint of ethics; and right and easy

I Wrote Haikus About Cannibalism in your yearbook

the fear with the soft-focused lens… the feast of past educations will come back to nourish the pallete
the fear and grace slips through the emerald wind songs the moss canes and dead grass

possum head rush AT the gorgeous opera

assuasive, indigenous, miswritten, mantic, numina

This is my guitar covered in salt
This is me getting what I want
These are the open doors to the
music of my room,
as I sleep in my shadow,
pass by pass by pass by.

One day I'm going to be the champion of the world.
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