Red

I was sitting on the couch
the day it happened. It was easy,
not difficult or complicated
the way it had been
back in the dark ages.

I lived in and through them
and emerged out of their ashes
like a painted bird painted on
some bright girl’s bright
shoulder but not the shoulder

the girl with no birds
used to smack and play blame
games with back

when she only had shadows to paint.

I was sitting on the couch
dreaming up birds and painting
my sky red
because it was not grey
that I wanted.

Unstuck

For a minute, I was stuck. You know that familiar funk with its mild indifference that grips you every now and then. And you resort to your usual allies. In my case vampires and self-helpers, but I put them down just the same. Their magic gone. So you pick up articles here and there. You inhale poetry and short stories. You skim and you skim. But what you want is to dive in. You crave something that will swallow you whole and consume you. But nothing does.

Nothing hurts quite like the pain of a bad reading funk. You search and you search. But nothing grips you.

_____________________________

Now I have a new lover. His name is Carlos Ruiz Zafon and he fascinates me.
On Sunday, we spent ten hours on the couch together. It was thrilling!

Ministry - Dream Song

And these were once scribbled over little singed stains on my journal...

The Mind Is A Terrible Thing To Taste
Ministry
Dream Song

girl:
When you're dreaming you're alive..

voice:
The dreams are back once more and infinite and our thin reasoning gives way to the ground. This has always been. There I was over me as I ran for cover, the lines forming in. But I was already there.

girl:
Well I had this dream last night, I was like, I was lying on my like, stupid uncomfortable bed that um, it was like really hot, like, start of summer and hot. It’s really hot, and I had like, like no fan, or anything. You know fine, and I had this weirdest, weirdest, weirdest, like nightmare; you know how you have some nightmares when they’re like, they’re like dreams; but they’re not dreams, they’re like real? You know and, like you feel, it felt alive. When you’re dreaming you feel alive, when you’re dreaming. And I had this dream when this angel came up, just like, up my fire escape. ‘Cause I don't have bars on my windows, cause I don't believe in bars on windows. And she was there in my room, just lying there. She came and she kissed me, and I woke up, and I must have come.
Do you believe in angels?

voice:
No.





Happy Friday!
xoxo

Air

The world needs more poetry.
There is no cure. Just air.

Atoms only pretend to believe you when you say
sure, but no one understands abstractions.

Nerve receptors were dancing
on my skin when it freaked out. News
came at me, called itself
information. I prefer out-
formation. Truthfully, I care
little for truth.

Among other things, I suffer
from asphyxiaphobia sensitivity.
Perhaps you’ve heard of it?

There is no cure.
Just air.