lord have mercy

a thought PRIDE recognition PRIDE, DESPAIR. tracing, lots of little shining epiphanies, SAD SMILE, DULL EYES. this is a period of distance, of particles becoming sensations becoming the whispers of coming dust. when I was young I prayed for ignorance and the will to live by the force of my own vision.

and it came to me. DESPAIR. I sigh at the folly of mankind, sweetly. it all came to me. I stole it for myself, and it came to me. I mastered my own deception and now the world is open to me to use as I would. what need have I for a future? HORROR. I turn myself inward, then outward, then outward still.

how soft is the air. how intangible the bonds of unconditional love, yet they must hold. I perish if they do not hold. yet I cannot hold onto them. PRIDE.  honesty and truth are not the same thing; the former will not save you. will not save me.

my bickering is as the knife that used to slice my skin; an agitation, powerless beyond its empty, cyclic permanence. coming, ending. PROOF OF WILL. proof of despair. marks of pride.

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I faked out my philosophy professor

somehow I had forgotten that this was our last day living side by side, and that you’d return to the substance of pensive thoughts and late nights. A couple notes in a song that carried me to a place neither of us really inhabited. You know, as it was.

You don’t know, do you? But I promise, we had good moments together. Your presence, and I.

Still more real than what you’ve been to me recently. I blame myself.

I always blame myself.

I try to blame myself.

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this will end up fragmented someday

and what would you ask of me – that I not betray myself?

that I not reject the eternal froth of illness and woe that bites at the back of my throat – that I not seek to rend the wiry veins of a pitiless, passionless creature back from the tips of my fingers and the whites of my eyes?

courageous, congenial summer triumph, your feet will soon become snared, for the outskirts of my vision are a mire of traps, and nothing which I behold retains the shape with which it was conceived.

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meme war

and I only like to talk about the sad shit when my world is suspiciously quiet, bolstered by cotton or unmarked hours or the heavy scent of lime;

I only talk about the sad shit when I can touch it like a rope of pearls spread across a satin pillow reflecting a thousand melancholy whispers in each sphere – each sphere, taking up a certain amount of space in each eye with a certain amount of weight in each hand

I yammer on about the fucking spherical shit that I want to put in my mouth and crush into my skin and make some sort of surface that is no longer reflective but potent and makes your irises adjust

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embarrassing love/hate song

I like you pressed like this, compressed, oppressed –

(I know you protest the word, but we know her, love)

You don’t become geometric, refined(able); for all your sting there is no chance of slicing a finger with a playful stroke. Instead, you seem to grow more non-corporeal.

(Your dream, I know. That’s why you enjoy it. The feeling that your words will phase through their targets and your fists through the tops of your own thighs. Keep up the violence.)

But you imagine you can finally be seen.

A torrent. Two eyes fixated ahead to direct a deluge of hopes and dreams. Call them what you will; they will always be sweet, tender little things to me. You don’t want to be weak anymore. You don’t want to be afraid.

You want to kiss my foul words away.

 

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this counts as a social experiment

talking pages;
words are printed there, and i know them. i know their meaning. ‘ball’, ‘dog’, ‘run’, ‘gone’, never coming back again.
yet sometimes words are nothing more than black and white spaces. empty. waiting to be filled.
sometimes there is too much room in the margins. and faces begin to appear, because they were never made up of space but of life and vibrancy and pain.
and when they spoke they used more than words.
their names were more than words.
‘are’ or ‘were’;
death is more than a word

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making plans to drink too much

you read yourself in the gold-crusted words of narcissists; humming their benedictions with innocent submission to their cosmic missions of suicide; I can feel the world growing wide in your eyes; sense the way each bone in your body becomes a conductor for the will of the child’s mind; they taught you to seek a sanctuary in low lights and racing hearts, but they never thought you’d make it so far without a single word; now their words belong to you – you take them for yourself – you wear them like perfume; they cling to you, and you cling to me

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